“Your Wings Were Ready”: A Mother’s Account of Love, Loss, and a Call for Change at the KHMH

A Belizean mother is sharing the story of her newborn daughter, Joy, whose short life was defined by extraordinary resilience, deep parental love, and devastating gaps in neonatal care. Through her personal account, she sheds light on the realities inside the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), the heartbreak of losing a child, and a plea for systemic change to ensure that no family endures a similar loss due to shortages in life-saving resources.

“Joy, mommy is here… Joy, mommy and daddy are here…” — words that now have nowhere to land. Words that once brought a smile through our tears.

Many people have heard the word “NICU,” but only those who have lived inside it know the truth behind the smiles we force onto our faces — smiles meant to shield us from the unbearable pain of not being able to hold someone we were once one with. Someone we carried under our heart, shared one body with. Now, we need permission just to see them.

Our daughter Joy was born on Sunday, January 4, 2026, at 5:36 in the morning. Shortly after, we were moved to the maternity ward, where we shared our first embrace. Our bodies reconnected in a way only a mother can understand. As I breastfed her, I felt whole. My purpose was complete, and I was excited to begin life with the little girl I already loved beyond words.

As we prepared to be discharged and take Joy home, I noticed green vomit on her onesie. I called the nurse and asked for her to be checked. The nurse spoke to the doctor and returned to tell me that while I could go home, my baby would be taken to the NICU. We were told we could check on our bill every three days.

Every three days?

My heart froze. How long would she be there?

That was how we entered the world of the NICU.

Later that evening, I received a call telling me to come back immediately with my partner. My hands shook as I asked if my baby was alive. The only response I received was, “The doctor will speak to you.” We rushed to the hospital, tears streaming down my face.

Joy was diagnosed with duodenal atresia — a blockage in her intestines that would not allow her to digest breast milk. She needed surgery as soon as possible. The doctors also referred to her as a baby “with a syndrome.” When I questioned this, I was told her ears and facial features “looked like Down syndrome.” No tests had been done. No diagnosis was confirmed.

The concern was that babies with Down syndrome often have heart defects. However, there was no pediatric cardiologist available to examine her heart. The only pediatric surgeon was scheduled to leave on Friday. We were told Joy would not survive without surgery.

So, we signed.

On Tuesday, Joy underwent surgery. Later that evening, we received the call that the operation, performed by Dr. Castello, was successful. She remained sedated and needed time to recover. The waiting was filled with prayers, silence, anxiety, and waves of tears.

Updates were given once a day, between 11:30 a.m. and 12:30 p.m., and briefly on Saturdays.

Joy survived. She woke up. She was no longer sedated. Though still on a ventilator and surrounded by tubes, the sight that once shattered me now gave me hope. I could see my baby alive. I believed the day would come when I could take her home.

Over the following days, she was taken off the ventilator, oxygen, and heart medications.

On January 12, an echocardiogram was done by an adult cardiologist, as there was no pediatric cardiologist available. That day’s update broke my heart. I was told Joy had sepsis. They did not know the source of the infection. Blood culture results would take 7–10 days, but they could not wait, so antibiotics were changed. She had a fever, and her hands and feet turned blue. The echocardiogram showed two small holes in her heart.

We were told she had a 50/50 chance of survival.

At that moment, my sense of reality disappeared. Not my baby. This could not be happening. To survive surgery only to face sepsis?

Joy was placed back on the ventilator. Her face was taped, her arms restrained. My heart was bleeding.

A urine test later confirmed a urinary tract infection. When I asked how this happened, I was told it was common — that the longer a baby stays in the NICU, the higher the risk of infection.

On Friday, January 16, during my daily update, I was told Joy’s platelet count had dropped to 27,000. Normal levels are between 150,000 and 400,000. Her blood could not clot properly, and she was bleeding from her nose.

I panicked. I called friends. I searched for answers. I reached out to someone with influence at the hospital, begging to know if there was anything that could be done to help my daughter. I was told there was nothing that could be done at that time.

That afternoon, my partner called and asked me to get blood-giving sets for Joy. I purchased them and returned to the hospital, only to find that she was already receiving a blood transfusion.

No one asked for my consent.

No one informed me.

No one told me they were out of platelets.

On Saturday, we were told she needed more platelets — but none were available.

The blood bank was closed.

The most critical days of her life — the days that would determine whether she lived or died — and the blood bank was closed.

On Sunday, her platelet count dropped to 19,000. She was placed on seizure medication. I had noticed abnormal eye movements since Friday and repeatedly raised concerns, but due to language barriers, I was reassured that everything was “okay.” Eventually, doctors confirmed that Joy had been having seizures.

How long had my baby been seizing before her mother — with no medical background — noticed something was wrong?

That night, an English-speaking doctor told us plainly: Joy needed platelets urgently and had needed them since Friday.

We made a public appeal. Within hours, people responded — family, friends, strangers, and people we had never met — asking how they could donate. For the first time in days, I felt hope.

I sang to Joy. I held her tiny hands as they tried to pull away the tubes confining her. I begged her to wait.

“I am proud of you,” I whispered. “You are an amazing fighter. Mommy loves you.”

Josh prayed, and her little face responded to his voice — a voice she had known long before she was born.

We kissed her goodnight and told her we would see her in the morning.

At 6 a.m. on Monday, the phone rang.

“Muy mal… muy, muy mal.”

I ran through the familiar corridors, turning left, then right, then right again. I reached the door — it was locked. I went around and looked through the glass. Medical staff surrounded my baby. Her monitor showed no green light.

My world ended — but I was still breathing.

When they finally let me in, her body no longer responded. Her hands did not squeeze mine. Her feet did not move.

“Joy, mommy is here…”

They disconnected the machines and gave us one final hour to hold her.

From the first moment I held you, I loved you deeply. Your scent, your tiny body — you completed me. It was a privilege to be chosen by you. I hope you knew how loved you were, how many people prayed for you around the world.

I am your mommy. I always will be.

Your wings were ready, but our hearts never will be.

The pain is immeasurable. Ugly. Nauseating. Why is the blood bank not open 24/7? Aren’t our children worth saving? Emergencies do not wait until Monday.

I believe more could have been done. I believe Joy could have lived. I believe I should have been informed that the NICU had no platelets for my daughter — and for other babies still fighting for their lives.

My fight is over.

But in Joy’s name, I want change.

No mother should leave the hospital shattered like this. There must be adequate blood, platelets, and transfusion supplies for all NICU babies. If the future is in our children’s hands, why aren’t we doing more?

Lord, save our children — and hold them when our hands no longer can.

The family thanks everyone who stood with them during this unimaginable time — relatives, friends, compassionate medical staff, donors, organizations, and strangers who answered calls for blood, prayers, and support. Your kindness ensured that Joy’s life, though brief, was surrounded by love.