Malia Autumn Rose: A Heart That Found Hope.481
At my 20-week scan, I was overwhelmed with joy when the sonographer told us we were having a little girl. Silent tears streamed down my face as I imagined her tiny hands, her first giggle, and the life we were about to share. I was deciding how to tell my partner when the sonographer paused, her expression shifting.
“I’m looking at the heart,” she said, “but I can’t see a shape I’m looking for.”
Time seemed to stop. I couldn’t breathe. My heart sank as her words hung in the air. “I don’t know if it’s because I just can’t see it, or if it’s not there. You might need to go to Bristol for another scan,” she added gently.
An hour later, we were driving from Plymouth to stay overnight, our minds racing with fear and uncertainty. The next morning, we arrived at the fetal cardiology unit, where our daughter’s heart would be examined in detail. I lay on the table, my belly scanned once more, while the consultant and sonographer whispered back and forth in terms I barely understood. Blue and red lights flickered across the screen — the lifeblood of our unborn daughter, magnified and exposed.
We were ushered into another small room. On the table sat a model of a heart and a thick medical book. I opened it briefly, then quickly closed it. My partner looked at me, eyes wide.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A scary book,” I whispered, trying to mask my fear. “We won’t need to look at that.”
The consultant arrived and delivered the words no parent ever wants to hear. “There is a heart problem,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “But we can fix it. The outcome should be good.”
She drew a picture, mapping out our daughter’s tiny heart, and explained that she had TGA — transposition of the great arteries. The left and right arteries were switched, meaning oxygenated blood could not flow properly to her body. “If you continue with the pregnancy, she will need induction in Bristol. She will most likely need keyhole surgery immediately after birth, and open-heart surgery within the first two weeks of life,” the consultant said.
Information packets, hospital contacts, and a Tiny Tickers booklet were placed in our hands. The car journey home was silent. Tears fell freely as our minds raced with questions: How would her recovery go? How would we manage living in Bristol for weeks on end? Would she make it?
But amidst the fear, there was clarity. The consultant’s words stayed with us: “There is nothing you have done to cause this, and nothing you could have done to prevent it.” That knowledge, though small, was a lifeline.
The reality of our situation was overwhelming. But because the sonographer had spotted the defect early, we had time — precious time — to process, to plan, to prepare. Not all families are given this gift. Without this early detection, Malia’s life could have been in immediate danger the moment she was born.
On 9th September 2022, our heart warrior, Malia Autumn Rose, came into the world. She was strong and alert, a tiny bundle with a fighting spirit already written into her DNA. Ten days later, she underwent the switch operation that her life depended on. We held our breath as she went under anesthesia, our hearts full of fear and hope intertwined. The surgery was a success. On 30th September, Malia was discharged, leaving the hospital as a testament to resilience, skill, and courage.
Since then, her follow-ups have been positive. She has come off some medications and continues to grow and thrive. Watching her smile, hearing her laugh, and feeling her tiny hand clutch mine, I am reminded daily of how precious life truly is.
Tiny Tickers was a lifeline during those darkest days. Their support, guidance, and the stories of other families navigating congenital heart defects gave us hope when hope felt impossible. Knowing we were not alone softened the fear and gave us strength to face each challenge.
If sharing Malia’s story can offer comfort to another family, raise awareness about congenital heart defects, or inspire hope, then every tear and every anxious moment was worth it.
Malia Autumn Rose, our tiny heart warrior, reminds us that even in the face of fear and uncertainty, courage can be found. Love, preparation, and the incredible skill of medical teams gave her a chance — and she took it with all the spirit of a fighter who was born to beat the odds.
The Bravery of Teddy: The Little Boy Who Refused to Lose His Light.1822
Teddy was only four when the world around him began to shift in ways no one could explain. Colors didn’t look the same. Shapes blurred at the edges. His parents noticed a strange glimmer in his eye — a reflection that didn’t belong. At first, it seemed harmless, maybe just a trick of the light. But that tiny shimmer was the first whisper of a storm none of them were prepared to face.
Doctors ran test after test, searching for answers. And then came the moment that split their lives into “before” and “after.”
Retinoblastoma.
A word so heavy it seemed to steal the air from the room.
His parents listened, numb, as doctors spoke of tumors, risks, and urgent decisions. The cancer had grown too fast, too quietly. There was no choice left. To save Teddy’s life, they would have to remove his eye.
The night before surgery, his mother held him close, tracing the curve of his cheek as he slept. His father sat by the door, praying that somehow this wasn’t real — that their little boy would wake up healthy, whole, untouched by anything so cruel. But dawn came, and with it, the truth they could not escape.
When Teddy opened his eyes after surgery, one side was covered in white bandages. He reached up with a small, tentative hand, feeling the emptiness where his eye used to be. His voice was soft, fragile, trembling with innocence.
“Will my eye come back?”
No parent is ever ready for a question like that. His mother’s heart broke in a hundred silent ways. She cupped his tiny fingers in hers and whispered, “You’re still our Teddy. You’re still perfect.”
That moment became the beginning of a new chapter — one filled with hospital hallways, MRIs, anesthesia masks, and the gentle clink of prosthetic eyes being fitted and refitted as he grew. Teddy learned to sit still for tests most adults dread. He learned how to balance differently, how to turn his head fully to see, how to be brave in ways no four-year-old should ever have to be.
But here is what cancer could not take:
His laughter.
His wild, contagious joy.
His sparkle — the one no tumor could dim.
Even now, with one eye made of glass and one full of life, Teddy runs without hesitation. He climbs, he explores, he dances in the living room like nothing in the world has ever tried to hurt him. He giggles at silly jokes, builds towers taller than himself, and chases butterflies like he has all the vision in the world.
To strangers, he is the boy with the brave smile.
To his parents, he is the miracle they almost lost — a reminder of how fragile and powerful a child’s spirit can be.
The prosthetic eye doesn’t define him.
The scar doesn’t define him.
The diagnosis doesn’t define him.
What defines Teddy is the way he meets every morning with excitement, the way he falls and gets back up, the way he laughs from the belly as if life is still the beautiful adventure it always was.
Some people say children are resilient.
Teddy proves it every day.
He lost an eye, yes — but he never lost his courage. He never lost his fire. He never lost the bright, boundless joy that makes him who he is.
His parents still have moments of fear — the quiet nights before another scan, the waiting rooms filled with memories of what happened and worry about what could happen again. But then Teddy runs into their arms, smiling that big, unbreakable smile, and for a moment, everything feels possible.
Teddy’s story is not just about loss.
It is about light.
The light of a little boy who refused to let cancer steal the glow inside him.
The light that reminds everyone who meets him that even in the darkest places, hope can shine fiercely.
He may have only one eye now — but he sees the world with a heart far bigger than most people ever will.
