Through Wires and Tears — The Unbreakable Love Keeping Baby Leo Alive.2130
Nothing prepares you for it.
For the sight of your baby lying so small, so still, surrounded by wires and machines that breathe for them, that keep their heart beating when it can’t do it alone.
Nothing prepares you for the sound — the steady beeping of monitors that become your new lullaby, the hum of machines that fill the silence where laughter should be.
When you imagine bringing your child into the world, you think of soft blankets, sleepy cuddles, midnight feedings, the warmth of tiny fingers wrapped around yours.
You don’t imagine sterile rooms, whispered prayers, or doctors saying the words “critical” and “monitor closely.”
You don’t imagine living your days in the rhythm of beeps, alarms, and heart rate numbers that suddenly mean more than anything in the world.
That is the life of a parent in the ICU.
A life where love and fear live side by side.
Where hope is fragile — but never gone.
Every day becomes a war between courage and despair.
You learn what every number means, what every sound might signal.
You read the nurses’ faces before they speak — their small smiles, their pauses, their quick glances at the screen.
You start to celebrate what others might never notice.
A stable night.
A drop in oxygen support.
A feeding tube that finally stays down.
These are victories now.
Tiny, fragile, monumental victories.
And then there are the moments when fear takes over — when alarms sound, when doctors rush in, when your baby’s chest rises slower than it should.
You freeze.
You pray.
You hold your breath until they breathe again.
You sit in the same chair for hours, hands trembling but steady on their tiny fingers, whispering words of love they can’t yet understand — but you hope, somehow, they can feel.
You tell them stories of home.
You promise them there will be sunlight again.
You promise them they are safe, even when your heart feels like it’s breaking.
CHD — Congenital Heart Disease
It strips you down to the rawest parts of love and fear.
It teaches you that every heartbeat is a miracle.
Every sigh, every flutter of eyelids, every small movement — a gift you’ll never take for granted again.
You become stronger than you ever thought you could be — not because you want to be, but because your baby needs you to be.
You learn to live hour by hour.
To hold onto faith even when you’re too tired to pray.
To trust in miracles, because sometimes, they are all you have left.
And in the middle of it all — through the wires, the tears, the exhaustion — there is love.
A fierce, unbreakable, breathless kind of love.
The kind that hurts and heals at the same time.
The kind that rebuilds you every single day.
For every parent sitting beside their baby’s bed in PICU — staring at the monitors, whispering through tears — you are not alone.
Your strength, your love, your hope — they matter.
They are the heartbeat your child feels, even through the noise.
For Leo’s family, this has been the hardest journey of their lives.
But love has been their anchor.
Faith their refuge.
And Leo — brave, beautiful Leo — has been their light.
He continues to fight, his small body battling every breath, every heartbeat a testament to courage.
Right now, Leo is still in intensive care.
Still on the ventilator.
Still fighting.
But he is not fighting alone.
His parents are there — holding his hand, whispering hope into every heartbeat.
And around them stands a world of love — friends, family, strangers — all praying for one more miracle.
❤️ For Leo. For every child with CHD.
For every parent who learns to love fiercely through fear.
There is hope — in every single beat. ❤️
Grady John’s Story: A Short Life, An Endless Impact.1763
Their pregnancy had seemed so normal.
Labs showed nothing concerning.
Ultrasounds looked perfect.
Fetal movement and heart sounds were always strong.
The baby was growing right on track.
After their 34-week appointment, she became more focused on counting kicks.
Tuesday’s appointment reassured them everything was fine.
But by Wednesday, unease crept in.
She felt less movement, and panic rose inside her.
That night, she went to work.
On Thursday, she slept poorly and woke with an emptiness that filled her whole body.
She picked up the phone to call the doctor, but hung up, afraid she was overreacting.
She told her husband she couldn’t feel the baby, but they both tried to brush it off.
Everything had been fine just days before.
On her way to work that night, she thought she felt movement again.
A sigh of relief swept over her.
But deep inside, she knew the movements didn’t feel the same.
It was as though the baby was pushing, but not alive in the same way.
She was a pediatric cardiology nurse.
She had spent years watching families endure unimaginable heartbreak.
She had seen patients take their last breaths.
She had seen families walk out of hospitals with only their belongings.
But she never thought she would one day live this same pain.
On June 9, 2021, she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Grady John, who was born without a heartbeat.
The day before, she had allowed a fetal ECHO fellow to practice scanning on her.
The moment she sat at the table, her heart sank.
The fellow struggled to find the heartbeat.
She kept scanning, insisting sometimes it was just the position.
But then they all saw it — four chambers of the heart, perfectly visible, perfectly still.
A fetal cardiologist was called in.
He confirmed there was no heartbeat.
Tears filled the room.
Her colleagues, her friends, cried with her.
She was taken to a private room to call her husband.
A social worker came to help her process the unbearable news.
Another sonographer scanned her once more, confirming the truth.
By the look of things, Grady had been gone for one to two weeks.
The emptiness she had felt at 34 weeks had been a mother’s intuition.
She had known deep down something was terribly wrong.
But she didn’t want to face it.
She had clung to hope that maybe she was just overthinking.
Her body already knew the truth.
On June 9, when she arrived at the hospital, she was already in labor.
Her cervix was dilated.
Her body was preparing to deliver a baby it knew was no longer alive.
They told her it could take up to two days.
Grady was born within ten hours.
Their nurse that day was extraordinary.
She cried with them.
She answered every question with honesty.
She stayed long past her shift to make sure they were cared for.
The hospital wrapped them in support.
The chaplain came.
Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep came.
They provided footprints, clay molds, photos, and a lock of his hair.
Another group, Walk With Me, arrived to talk with them and offer support.
They took photos — moments the family didn’t know they needed until later.
They held Grady for hours that night.
They said goodbye the next day.
Then, they became the family that walked out of the hospital with nothing but belongings and broken hearts.
Life was never the same.
Grady had changed them forever.
Even though they never heard him cry, never fed him, never saw him take a breath, he had transformed their lives.
He made them parents.
He made them see the fragility of life, and the depth of love.
They vowed to take tragedy and make it a mission.
Every year, around his birthday, they hosted a golf tournament.
The money raised would go to NILMDTS and Walk With Me, organizations that had carried them in their darkest hours.
Over the years, their tournaments raised nearly $75,000.
They spoke openly about their loss, determined to break the silence around stillbirth.
They wanted other parents to know they were not alone.
They did not choose this community of grieving parents, but if they had to belong, they would share and grow together.
In time, new life came.
They had a daughter, Lainey, and a son, Dawson.
There was another miscarriage in between.
Before they knew Lainey was a girl, her mother just knew.
She wanted to name her Lainey.
Later, she discovered Lainey meant “bright light.”
It was the perfect name for a rainbow baby.
Each day, they talk about Grady.
They tell Lainey and Dawson they have a brother in heaven.
A guardian angel watching over them.
They may never know why Grady was born still.
The answers will never come.
But his impact will always remain.
He continues to shape their lives, their mission, their love.
He is their son.
He is their angel.
And he will never be forgotten.
