A Stranger Told Me What I Needed to Hear When My Baby Was in the NICU

When I was five months pregnant with my fourth child, I found out I was having a boy — my first after three daughters. I was elated. But that moment of joy quickly blurred into fear when doctors also told me he had only one functioning kidney and a life-threatening heart defect called aortic stenosis. His heart wasn’t pumping blood properly. The outlook wasn’t good.

Every specialist I saw repeated the same idea: That’s a big surgery for such a tiny body. As the pregnancy progressed, the condition worsened. They told me they would try to keep him inside for as long as possible to let him grow stronger, but at 38 weeks, they decided to induce me.

They said if he cried at birth, I’d get to hold him briefly. He let out a cry — a strong one — but I only saw his face for about a second before they whisked him away. He was transported to another hospital where they’d prepare him for open-heart surgery. I was too weak to sit up, so I asked a nurse to take a photo so I could see what he looked like after they cleaned him up and were about to load him into the ambulance. He was beautiful.

I didn’t get to hold him for 55 days after that.

On day 5, he had open-heart surgery

Levi was born on October 18, 2023. His surgery took place five days later, on October 23. That was, without question, the most stressful day of my life.

At the time, I was freelancing. In theory, I had the freedom to work on my own schedule. But there was no schedule anymore — just fear, doctor’s updates, and daily NICU visits. I couldn’t focus. I could barely reply to emails. I eventually reached out to my editor and explained that I was emotionally unavailable and needed to step back. I expected silence and maybe a well wish or two. Instead, she told the CEO of the company about what was going on.

And he did something I’ll never forget — he started a fundraiser to help us through that time. He didn’t share my name, just a picture of Levi and a short version of our story. Donations started pouring in. Strangers left messages of encouragement, prayers, and hope. Within a week, over $10,000 had been raised.

It was humbling. I remember sitting with tears in my eyes, grateful that someone — many people — cared. I emailed some of the donors to thank them. One woman responded kindly, and I sent her a photo of Levi in return. She replied with a message that would become a lifeline for me in the months to come:

“Levi will be home, and he will heal well, and you will be loving him up soon. Of that I am sure.”

I didn’t know how much I needed those words until they became my anchor

What stood out wasn’t just the sentiment — it was the certainty. That confidence from a stranger, spoken without hesitation, felt like a warm blanket wrapped around a shivering soul. It reminded me that sometimes, even when things are falling apart, someone else’s belief can keep you stitched together.

Because things did fall apart.

Levi didn’t wake up a few days after surgery like many babies do. He was hooked up to tubes and surrounded by machines for weeks. The left side of his heart, which had been compromised from the start, remained weak. Then the right side began failing. He developed two blood infections, then thrombosis in his groin and neck. Fluid built up around his heart and lungs. The complications were relentless. Every step forward was followed by another setback. I began to fear that maybe we wouldn’t get the storybook ending.

And yet, that stranger’s words echoed in my mind.

I repeated them to myself like a mantra on long rides to the hospital, on tear-streaked days when doctors couldn’t give answers, on quiet nights when I’d sit with my girls and pretend everything was normal. Her assurance carried me when I had nothing left to hold onto. That confidence became mine.

He came home

The first time I held him — really held him — was 55 days after he was born. I had dreamt of that moment, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the wave of emotion that hit. I didn’t want to let go. I finally had my son in my arms. He smelled like hospital soap and baby lotion and something uniquely his. I cried, and I smiled, and I told him I was proud of how strong he was.

As the weeks passed and Levi slowly began to heal, I stayed close. I held him through setbacks and celebrated every little win: a removed tube, a better scan, a good day with no new alarms. And then, one day, it was over. No more timed visits. No more sterile gowns and masks. Just me, my baby boy, and the chance to love him freely, just like she said I would.

When we were finally discharged, I wrote that stranger again: “He made it. He’s coming home.”

She responded with joy, and we still exchange messages now and then. I send her updates, photos, and a small window into the life she had faith he would eventually have.

In a world that can often feel indifferent or rushed, her words were a stillness. They were a pause, a gift, even. She didn’t have to say anything at all, but she did. And what she said mattered more than she’ll ever know.