Chrislyn D'Sylva Pires

Transcript

You create your future. Chryslin Dilva Paris. I don't believe in miracles. Imagine hearing that from a hospital chaplain, a former nun. It's 1989 and we're in the chapel at Sick Kids Hospital. Our newborn has just been transferred to the neonatal ICU. We're there to arrange her baptism because doctors have just told us she might not live through her first weekend. I turn to my husband and say it's a good thing I believe in miracles. Around seven months into my pregnancy, I told my doctor I wasn't feeling the baby move much.

He didn't seem concerned and talked about his golf game instead. Two weeks before my due date, I went into labor. I was in the hospital maternity ward all night, but my doctor didn't show up until the next morning. He looks at me and says, "Your doctor isn't here right now, so I'm delivering your baby." Wow. He doesn't even recognize that I'm his patient. You've been in labor a while now, so I'm going to give you something to speed things up. Suddenly, everything escalates.

I feel like the baby's ready to pop out, and I can't hold back. They rush me to the delivery room just as she's crowning. One last push, and there she was. I listen for that first cry, but I don't hear it. The doctor's face looks worried. They call for an pediatrician to come immediately. They rush our baby away, blue, floppy, and full of mucus. After what seemed like forever, we hear a soft cry. They put her on oxygen and rush her to intensive care.

After that, we have a series of close calls. The hospital isn't equipped to handle a critically ill baby. One night, I have a feeling that something is very wrong. I felt our baby was going to die. The next morning, the hospital discharges me and I fight to have her move to Sick Kids Hospital. A day later, she goes into cardiac arrest. sick kids doctors saved her life. As the weeks progressed, I became something I'd never been before, a mama bear. I didn't know the medical terms, but I found my voice.

Doctors couldn't diagnose her and were careful not to give us hope. Would our baby live? Have you ever been told that something you desperately want was unlikely? Not impossible, but just improbable enough to make you doubt. But what if the odds don't tell the whole story? What if the odds only measure what's visible and not what's inside us? One day, I'm sitting beside her incubator holding a rock from a holy site known for healing. I ask God for a sign that she'll live.

For emotionless baby to open her eyes. Seconds later, she does this. She looked me straight in the eyes, and in that moment, I knew in my heart she would make it. Our girl was determined. After almost three months on feeding tubes, she pulled them out herself and started bottlefeeding just a day before surgery was scheduled for a stomach tube. I gave my job up to care for her to help her reach her fullest potential. 20 years later, we finally got a diagnosis of a rare neuromuscular disorder.

In that time, the baby that doctors thought wouldn't live learned to dance, drive, and graduated university. 36 years ago this month, we brought baby Lauren home from the hospital. She's in the audience tonight. Going through this experience taught me about hope. Hope is what you choose when you don't know how the story will end. Hope isn't defying odds. Isn't denying reality. It's choosing to show up when you're exhausted. It's finding your voice when you feel powerless. It's refusing to accept the limits placed on you by others opinions.

Hope doesn't guarantee outcomes, but it gives us the courage and strength to persevere because the odds don't measure heart or determination. They're predictions, not verdicts. Winning against the odds rarely looks dramatic at first. It looks like continuing when giving up would make total sense. Because winning against the odds is rarely about one big moment. It's making hundreds of small decisions not to give up, to choose, no matter the odds, to create your future.

Transcript generated from the recording and lightly cleaned. Some names and wording may differ from the spoken speech.