A Second Breath, A New Beginning

Four months ago, our world stood still and then slowly began to move again. This is the story of how one terrifying night changed everything, and how our little girl Imani fought her way back with more strength than I ever thought possible.

Four Months Ago, A Night That Changed Everything

When Imani finally came home after her hospital stay, our hearts were filled with relief and gratitude. She was doing so well. Her energy returned, her smile came back, and she began to grow stronger every day.

Still, something kept worrying us. Imani often fell ill. In the past, we already knew she was vulnerable to lung infections because of the stent in her esophagus. She needed frequent medication to recover each time.

When it was finally time to remove the stent, her surgery was suddenly postponed for two weeks because the surgeon was called away for an emergency. My husband and I were disappointed, but we decided to wait. We trusted her surgeon, someone who knew her well.

The week her surgery was rescheduled, Imani became very sick. Her breathing sounded heavy and strained. At night, she could hardly sleep because her nose was so congested. Imani always sleeps with her pacifier, but since she could not breathe properly, she could not use it. Watching her struggle like that was heartbreaking.

My mother’s instinct told me something was wrong, so I took her to the pediatrician. I had recorded a short video of her breathing, especially during sleep. Sometimes she stopped breathing for a few seconds and woke up gasping in panic. It was terrifying to watch.

The pediatrician advised me to continue her aerosol treatments and give her some pain relief. During the examination, he noticed her nasal tissue was badly swollen and referred us to the ENT (Ear, nose and throat) specialist at UZ Gent. I immediately made an appointment, and we were lucky to be seen the very next day.

The ENT confirmed that Imani’s nasal polyps had to be removed and that she would also need ear tubes. The surgery was scheduled for three weeks later. The day before the operation, the doctor called to confirm everything was still on track. I mentioned that Imani was still a bit unwell and asked if it was safe to proceed. He reassured me that it was fine. She would only need light anesthesia, and the procedure would be short.

On the morning of the operation, Imani seemed a little better. Her breathing was calmer, and I tried not to worry too much. They came to take her to the operating room, and I waited, anxious but hopeful.

The surgery took longer than expected. When the surgeon finally came to speak with me, she said everything had gone well, but it had been difficult to remove Imani from the breathing tube. They had also struggled to place the tube in the first place and had to use a thinner one than usual. Still, they managed to wake her up safely. A little later, Imani was brought back to recovery with some extra oxygen. She looked so small and fragile, but she was breathing on her own again. Everything seemed stable, and soon we were back at the day clinic.

Imani drank a little from her bottle, though it was still hard for her because her nose was blocked. Since she still needed oxygen, the doctors advised us to stay overnight for observation. She was doing well, playful, smiling and full of life. When bedtime came, she fell asleep easily.

But that night… everything changed.

The Night That Stopped My Heart

I woke up because Imani moved restlessly. Her oxygen tube had slipped off her nose. I gently tried to put it back, but she did not like it. She started crying, deeply and desperately. Something felt wrong. I knew it immediately.

I called the night nurse and told her I was worried about how Imani was crying and breathing. Then, within seconds, everything spiraled.

I was holding her in my arms, trying to calm her, but her breathing grew weaker. I turned her oxygen up from 1% to 100%, panicking, thinking maybe mucus was blocking her airway. The nurse went to get the suction equipment, but before she returned, Imani stopped breathing. She went limp in my arms.

I screamed that she was not breathing. The nurse froze in shock. My heart pounded, I kept shouting, but panic took over. Luckily, our room was near the doctors’ station, and they heard me calling. Within moments, the room filled with people, masks, equipment, urgency everywhere.

They took Imani from my arms and began resuscitating her. I stood there, trembling, helpless, watching. It felt like time stopped. They tried to place an IV, but it failed. Her tiny veins had collapsed. They finally gave her an intraosseous line. After less than a minute, she was breathing again with the help of a tube.

Imani was rushed to intensive care.

I called my husband, crying uncontrollably. We were both shattered, empty, numb. Everything we had just rebuilt seemed to crumble again. Fear, grief, disbelief, all at once. We were terrified. Terrified of what this might have done to her brain. Terrified of losing her again.

Two Weeks of Waiting and Praying

Imani stayed intubated for two weeks in intensive care. Two long weeks where I never left her side. I slept by her bed every night, listening to the steady hum of machines, praying she would keep breathing.

The doctors ran more tests to find out why she had stopped breathing so suddenly. The results were confronting. Her airways were severely narrowed.

Children with esophageal atresia often have a naturally weaker trachea. In Imani’s case, years of medical interventions made it worse. She had already undergone more than thirty surgeries under anesthesia. Over time, scar tissue had formed inside her airway from all the breathing tubes, making it tighter. And because she was sick during that last operation, swelling closed it even further.

It was simply too much.

The doctors decided to postpone all future, non urgent surgeries to give her airways time to heal and strengthen. While she was still under anesthesia, they removed her nasal polyps and placed ear tubes, steps to help her breathe better once she woke up.

Every day in that hospital broke my heart again. The images from that night would not leave my mind, her going still in my arms, the panic, the helplessness. I kept asking myself if I could have done something, if I should have acted differently.

But deep down, I knew I had done everything I could. I was there. I held her. Maybe that made all the difference.

Still, one thought haunted me. What if we had gone home that night? What if she had stopped breathing in her own bed, without doctors nearby, without those few seconds that saved her life?

I cannot bear to imagine it. Maybe she would not be here today.

That thought leaves me silent, and endlessly grateful. Grateful that we stayed. Grateful that she is still here. Our little fighter. Our Imani.

The Moment She Opened Her Eyes

In the third week, the doctors decided it was time to slowly wake Imani up. She had been given so much medication and muscle relaxants that they had to do it gradually to avoid withdrawal symptoms.

It was such a tense, emotional moment. I had been waiting for days, caught between fear and hope. And then, finally, it happened. Imani opened her eyes. She looked at us, and she knew us.

Tears filled my eyes. Relief, gratitude, love, everything came at once. I finally got to hold her again. Soon after, she was transferred back to the children’s ward. Every day, she grew a little stronger. She still had some withdrawal symptoms, but she was alert, cheerful and full of energy. She started physiotherapy again and amazed everyone with her strength. She was doing better than ever.

We saw a little girl who shone, laughing, playing, enjoying every small step forward.

We had never seen her like this before.

After more than three weeks in the hospital, we were finally allowed to go home. Coming home felt like breathing again. She adjusted so quickly. Her breathing was calm, her sleep peaceful. It almost felt unreal.

A New Beginning

From that moment on, everything started moving in the right direction. Imani flourished. She did amazing in her therapies, started talking more and was visibly happy. She did not get sick as often anymore, which only confirmed what we had long suspected, she probably had not truly felt well before.

A healthy child is a happy child. And that is exactly what we see now, every day.

Today, months later, Imani is still doing great. She is curious, eager to learn and full of life. Her esophagus remains open, and she tolerates her tube feeding well.

She recently started attending a developmental center, where she receives all her therapies in one place. Soon, she will begin at the daycare connected to the center, another big and exciting step.

To prepare her, she received all her necessary vaccinations so she is well protected. And for me, this will also be a big step. After two intense years of caring for her full time, I will slowly return to work.

It will take some getting used to, but it feels right. We made it. Together.

Our Little Fighter continues to grow, stronger, brighter and braver than ever.