On 17th July 2015, at 4:48 a.m., we welcomed our second baby boy, Zaki, into the world. Everything seemed normal at first. He attempted his first feed, but it was small — hardly anything at all. When I tried again an hour later, Zaki wouldn’t wake, wouldn’t drink. I called the midwife, who suggested using a syringe to encourage him. That’s when a doctor, who happened to be nearby, rushed over. Within moments, he shouted for urgent help. Zaki’s oxygen levels were dangerously low, and he needed to be moved to special care immediately. Panic gripped my heart.
Zaki had been born with a congenital heart defect called Transposition of the Great Arteries (TGA). His two main arteries were in the wrong positions, pumping blood to the wrong parts of his body. Without intervention within 24 hours, Zaki’s life was at risk. He was immediately put into an induced coma and onto a ventilator. An air ambulance was called, and he was flown to Leeds General Infirmary. We couldn’t accompany him; saying goodbye to our newborn, not knowing if we’d see him again, shattered our hearts. We could only trust the doctors and nurses with our son’s tiny life.
In those first hours, I desperately searched for information about TGA. I found some comfort in reading that the majority of babies born with this condition survive successful surgery. But Zaki’s case was more complicated. He needed a balloon septostomy — a procedure to create a hole in the heart to allow oxygenated blood to circulate — to buy time until surgery. Yet even this did not fully improve his oxygen levels. We didn’t understand why, and the fear was suffocating.
By day two, the reality hit harder. A consultant informed us that Zaki might not survive. Hearing those words made the world feel unreal, yet my mind refused to accept them. Hours later, we were told emergency surgery could be required. We clung to hope, though the uncertainty gnawed at every moment.
Day three brought further complications. Zaki’s body and face were swollen from the fluids pumped into him. We signed consent forms, and the surgeon explained the immense risks: death, brain damage, organ failure. Through tears, I begged him to keep our baby alive. The nine-hour surgery felt endless. When it ended, I learned that the cause of Zaki’s severe illness was a coronary artery far too narrow — a quarter of its normal size. The surgeon had skillfully enlarged it, yet the outcome remained uncertain. At times, survival odds were as low as 25-50%, but I clung to hope, flipping statistics to focus on the possibility of life.
The first ten days were agonizing. Zaki was on an ECMO machine, a heart-lung bypass device, while doctors monitored every heartbeat and breath. Each morning, I prayed for improvement on his ECHO scans. Some days, the consultants warned us to prepare for the worst. Yet Zaki always bounced back, his strength giving us strength in return. After five days on ECMO, he was finally able to come off it, his heart and lungs beginning to function on their own.
Recovery was gradual. He endured blood transfusions, medication adjustments, and careful monitoring. By day 11, Zaki opened his eyes for the first time post-surgery. On day 42, after weeks in intensive and high-dependency care, he came home — no oxygen, no feeding tubes, thriving despite everything.
At home, challenges continued. Zaki had a cow’s milk protein allergy, and every feed brought difficulties. My older son, Omar, struggled with attention and jealousy. Yet over time, routines settled, Zaki’s medicines reduced, and he began gaining weight steadily. Regular cardiologist checks confirmed his heart function was excellent.
Looking back, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Zaki survived against staggering odds, thanks to an army of doctors, surgeons, nurses, and the NHS. I will never stop counting my blessings. I will never stop advocating for prenatal detection. Zaki’s TGA was not detected during the 20-week scan — a common occurrence, as roughly half of cases are missed. If it had been found, he would have been born in a specialist center, avoiding the perilous early air ambulance transfer.
Tiny Tickers’ work is vital. By training sonographers to spot congenital heart defects before birth, countless families can be spared trauma, and lives can be saved. Prenatal detection could have made our story less harrowing, yet it could not have diminished the miracle that is Zaki — our little fighter, our joy, our daily reminder of hope, courage, and resilience.