For the last nine months, my wife, Brooklyn, has been carrying our baby boy, and each day of that journey has been filled with a combination of anticipation, joy, and at times, unbearable worry. From the moment we learned that we were expecting, we were overwhelmed with emotions, dreams of the future, and plans for how we would bring our child into the world. But what we did not anticipate, what we never could have prepared for, was the storm that would soon come crashing into our lives.
Early in Brooklyn’s pregnancy, during one of our routine ultrasounds, we were informed that our baby was not well. The joy of expecting a new life was quickly overshadowed by uncertainty. The doctor informed us that our baby had been diagnosed with severe hydrocephalus — a condition in which cerebrospinal fluid builds up in the brain, creating pressure that can cause brain damage and developmental delays. It was a term we had heard of, but had never really understood. The moment those words left the doctor’s mouth, everything in our world stopped.
As the days passed and we navigated through doctor’s appointments, tests, and discussions with specialists, we came to understand the severity of our baby’s condition. By the time we reached the three- to four-month mark of Brooklyn’s pregnancy, we were given the gut-wrenching news that our son’s hydrocephalus was not just a mild case, but one that was “off the charts” in terms of severity. Doctors explained that they had stopped measuring the fluid levels because the numbers no longer mattered — the damage had already been done. It was no longer about the fluid, but about the irreversible pressure it had caused on our son’s brain.
We were referred to Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, where some of the top fetal specialists in the country were waiting to give us more information. As parents, we knew that we were doing everything we could to find answers, but nothing could prepare us for what came next. The specialists confirmed the worst — that our baby had a less than ten percent chance of survival, and even if he did survive, he would likely have severe cognitive impairments that would prevent him from ever having any quality of life. The chances of him surviving without significant brain damage seemed impossible.
The news felt like a punch to the gut. Every conversation we had with the doctors became more and more difficult. They spoke of palliative care, of making decisions about when to remove life support, and of the unthinkable decisions that we might have to face. Every step of this journey became harder. Brooklyn and I were faced with making decisions no parent should ever have to make. To make things even more challenging, Brooklyn had to relocate to Cincinnati to be close to the hospital, while I continued to work and take care of our other children, Sophie and Lily, back at home. We were separated, doing our best to juggle work, family, and the weight of the world that seemed to be pressing down on us.
Despite the heartache, we held on to hope. We prayed — for strength, for peace, and for a miracle. But as the days turned into weeks, our hope began to waver. We knew that the chances were slim, and yet, we found ourselves clinging to the faintest glimmer of faith that somehow, things could change.
On July 8th, Brooklyn went into labor. It was the day we had been dreading, but also the day we had been waiting for. The day our son would be born — a day filled with both fear and anticipation. Just fifteen minutes before the scheduled C-section, we sat with the doctors once again. The conversation was still the same — they were preparing us for the worst. We were talking about when we might have to remove life support and let our baby go peacefully. The doctors spoke with such certainty, and yet, there was a part of me that refused to believe this would be our reality.
And then something extraordinary happened.
Charlie Edward Schnarr came into the world. His cry — oh, that cry — was the sweetest sound I have ever heard. In that moment, time seemed to stop. The air around us seemed to shift. That little cry, that tiny voice, was proof of life — a sign that our son was here, against all odds, and that he was fighting with everything he had. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.
Charlie was immediately rushed to the NICU, where the doctors and nurses began their work. The hours turned into days, and the days into weeks, as we sat by his side, watching him grow stronger, but still uncertain of what the future would hold. Every day brought new challenges, new fears, and new reasons to hold our breath. But then, slowly, the impossible began to happen. Charlie started to show signs of improvement. He was breathing on his own, feeding, and developing the way any healthy baby should. The doctors were stunned. They had never seen anything like it.
They couldn’t explain it. They kept using words like “miracle” and “divine intervention.” They spoke in awe of our son’s resilience, his strength, and how his brain had somehow managed to clear the blockage, rerouting the fluid on its own. It was nothing short of a miracle. The MRI images that once showed severe damage now looked completely different. Our son had defied every expectation. The doctors and nurses were in disbelief, but we weren’t. We knew that our prayers had been answered.
Charlie stayed in the NICU until yesterday. He is now finally home with us. Our beautiful baby boy is thriving. He is doing all the things babies should do — he’s eating, he’s growing, and he’s bringing so much joy to our family. The doctors continue to monitor him, and while there is mild ventricular enlargement, they are optimistic about his future. For the first time in months, we are able to breathe. We are able to hope. We are able to dream about the future.
There are no words to describe the gratitude we feel. We know that we did not go through this journey alone. We were lifted up by the love and prayers of so many people. Our family, our friends, our colleagues, and even strangers — all of you prayed for us, supported us, and walked with us through this difficult time. Your kindness, your love, and your faith gave us strength when we thought we couldn’t go on. We believe with all our hearts that God heard those prayers. We believe He stepped in, in ways we cannot fully understand, and gave us this gift. He gave us Charlie.
We are forever grateful for the miracle that is Charlie Edward Schnarr. He is a living testament to the power of prayer, to the strength of faith, and to the miracles that happen when we least expect them. Prayer is powerful. God is real. And He still performs miracles.
As we move forward with Charlie, we carry this experience with us every single day. Our son’s life is a constant reminder of hope, of resilience, and of the love that surrounds us. The doctors may not have had the answers, but we knew that we had something greater — we had faith, and we had each other.
Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, to everyone who prayed for us, who reached out, who offered love and support, and who believed in the power of miracles. We will never forget your kindness. We will never forget the love you showed us during this journey.
Charlie is here. He is thriving. And for that, we are forever thankful.
God is good. Miracles are real. And we are living proof.
