Ivy’s Story | Pt. 1

A Brave Beginning in the NICU

11.28.2025
09 — A Personal Blog

Every story has a beginning.

For Ivy, hers began with a tiny cry, a room full of people waiting to meet her, and a journey I never could have imagined.

Ivy’s Early Journey

On September 11, 2023, at 37 weeks gestation, Ivy entered the world weighing 6 pounds, 10 ounces.

Before she was born, we already knew that Ivy had been diagnosed with Trisomy 21 (Down syndrome) and a congenital heart defect called an atrioventricular septal defect (AVSD). Because of her known heart condition and chromosomal diagnosis, both the Labor & Delivery team and the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) team were present for her arrival.

The moment she was born, Ivy cried softly—her first brave sound. Her delivery was smooth and without immediate complications. But within minutes, things began to change. Ivy began showing signs of respiratory distress and required oxygen support.

She was admitted to the NICU with a diagnosis of Respiratory Distress Syndrome (RDS). For the first 48 hours, she required only minimal oxygen through a nasal cannula. By her third day of life, she was breathing entirely on her own.

Then came jaundice.

Ivy spent a brief period underneath phototherapy lights—her first tiny sunbeams. Within 24 hours, her bilirubin levels had normalized, and she was back in my arms.

For a moment, it felt like we had turned a corner.

But at just ten days old, another challenge was discovered.

Her care team identified Tetralogy of Fallot (TOF), a complex congenital heart condition involving four structural abnormalities of the heart.

Ivy now had two significant congenital heart diagnoses: AVSD and TOF.

The plan was to manage her medically while allowing her to grow stronger, with surgical repair anticipated around four to six months of age.

To help support her heart and manage fluid levels, Ivy was started on furosemide (Lasix), a medication that helps the body remove excess fluid and can reduce the workload on the heart.

Our NICU journey was becoming more complicated than I ever imagined.

A Month Into Our NICU Journey

On October 12, 2023, at just one month old, Ivy underwent her first surgical procedure: placement of a gastrostomy tube, or G-tube.

Feeding had become a challenge, and the G-tube would provide Ivy with a more reliable way to receive the nutrition she needed to grow. She came through the procedure bravely. But only days later, we faced another frightening setback.

Ivy developed Stage 1 necrotizing enterocolitis (NEC)—a serious intestinal condition that can occur in medically fragile newborns.

Once again, our tiny girl faced something we never expected.

Through prompt treatment, close monitoring, and the compassionate care of her medical team, Ivy responded well. Over the following two weeks, we watched her recover.

Those days were filled with uncertainty.

There were more conversations with doctors. More numbers to watch. More questions. More waiting.

And more praying.

Seven Weeks in the NICU

Ivy spent the first 46 days of her life in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Woman’s Hospital in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

During those seven weeks, her tiny body was supported in so many ways—oxygen therapy, cardiac monitoring, phototherapy, nutritional support, medications, and countless hours of nursing care.

Every intervention had a purpose.

Every monitor had a number I learned to watch.

Every milestone felt enormous.

A stable oxygen level.

A successful feeding.

An ounce gained.

A good night.

A quiet day.

Things that might seem small to someone outside the NICU became reasons for celebration.

The NICU changed my understanding of time.

A day could feel incredibly long, yet somehow the weeks passed quickly. We measured progress in grams, feedings, lab results, and tiny victories that most people would never notice.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I learned that being Ivy’s mother meant learning to celebrate things I once would have taken for granted.

The Nurse and the Mom

Before Ivy, I knew healthcare from the bedside as a nurse.

I understood the terminology.

I knew what the monitors meant.

I knew why the nurses were checking certain numbers and why the doctors were ordering certain tests.

I understood the language of the NICU.

But being Ivy’s mom taught me something completely different.

I learned what it feels like to sit beside the bed of the person you love most while watching numbers rise and fall on a monitor.

I learned how an alarm can make your heart stop for a second.

I learned how a single lab result could change the feeling of an entire day.

I learned how much hope can fit inside something as simple as a successful feeding or a few extra grams on the scale.

And I learned that nursing experience does not prepare you for watching your own child go through it.

The nurses and doctors quickly became part of Ivy’s extended village. They cared for her, taught me, answered my endless questions, celebrated her progress, and helped carry us through the harder days.

I will always be grateful for the people who cared for Ivy when I couldn’t do everything for her myself.

Finding Our Rhythm

The NICU eventually became a strange kind of normal.

I learned Ivy’s schedule.

I learned her cues.

I learned which numbers mattered and which ones didn’t need my attention.

I learned how to participate in her care and how to advocate for her.

And I learned that progress in the NICU isn’t always linear.

Some days felt like enormous victories. Other days felt like we had taken a step backward.

But Ivy kept showing us who she was.

She was strong.

She was resilient.

She was determined.

And she kept moving forward in her own time.

Bringing Ivy Home

Then, after 46 days, the day we had been waiting for finally came.

October 27, 2023.

I brought my daughter home.

After weeks of watching monitors, hearing alarms, learning medical terminology, and counting the days until discharge, we were finally leaving the hospital.

That morning, I buckled Ivy into her car seat. She was still so small, wrapped in the softest blanket. I remember holding my breath as we wheeled through the hospital doors—not out of fear this time, but disbelief. We were really going home.

When we pulled into the driveway, the world felt still. Her nursery—the room that had waited patiently for her since before she was born—finally came to life.

She saw it for the first time.

The gentle colors.

The books lined neatly on the shelves.

The little toys arranged just so.

Everything I had dreamed for her was right there, waiting.

That evening, I held her in the rocking chair that had sat empty for months, untouched since I first placed it in the corner by the window.

For the first time, she slept in her own crib.

We spent hours in her nursery reading books, singing songs, and simply taking in the peace that only home could bring.

She met our puppy, Baker—curious, gentle, and instantly devoted.

And together, the three of us rocked as the world outside seemed to disappear.

Time felt sacred that night.

Quiet.

Slow.

Full.

I remember tracing Ivy’s tiny fingers, memorizing the sound of her breathing, and thanking God for every second.

It wasn’t a grand moment. But it was holy.

It was the kind of moment that reminded me that love doesn’t always need a heartbeat monitor or a number on a screen to be measured.

Sometimes love is simply a baby sleeping peacefully in her own crib.

Sometimes it is a quiet nursery.

Sometimes it is a mother finally exhaling.

That night, life didn’t feel perfect.

But it felt whole.

It felt like home.

Carrying Ivy’s Light Forward

Ivy’s NICU journey was only the beginning of the story she would write with me.

Her life would continue to take us through hospital rooms, procedures, diagnoses, uncertainty, and moments I never could have prepared for. But those first 46 days taught me something I would carry with me forever.

I learned that medicine is more than numbers, procedures, and diagnoses.

It is people.

It is compassion.

It is communication.

It is a nurse sitting beside a frightened mother.

It is a physician taking the time to explain something one more time.

It is a team working together when a child needs them most.

And sometimes, it is simply someone saying, “You’re doing a good job.”

Ivy’s story will always be at the heart of my purpose. Through her, I experienced healthcare from both sides of the bedside. I saw the fragility of life, but I also saw its incredible strength.

I learned that advocacy begins with asking questions.

It begins with listening.

It begins with trusting your instincts.

And sometimes, it begins with a parent simply refusing to stop showing up.

The Ivy Branch was created in Ivy’s honor—a place where love lives on, stories connect us, and awareness can grow into action. I hope that by sharing her story, other families feel less alone.

I hope parents sitting beside a NICU bed know that they don’t have to understand everything all at once.

They can take it one day at a time.

One question at a time.

One milestone at a time.

And one breath at a time.

Ivy taught me that our voices matter.

She taught me that even the smallest life can leave an immeasurable mark. And she taught me that a beginning does not have to be easy to be brave.

Her story began in the NICU.

And this is only the beginning.