Since leaving the ICU, little Ailyn’s life has revolved around needles, bruises, and courage.
Twice a day, every day, she receives Lovenox injections — the medicine that keeps her fragile heart alive.
Doctors had discovered something unusual — a “vegetation” forming near the part of her aorta that surgeons had built from scratch.
No one could say exactly what it was.
It could be bacteria.
It could be a clot.
It could even be a fragment of the artificial material her aorta was made from.
To make sure they didn’t miss anything, the medical team fought the problem from every angle.
They treated her for endocarditis — a dangerous infection of the heart.
And they treated her for thrombosis — a blood clot that could steal everything in an instant.
That meant infusions several times a day through her PICC line, and two Lovenox shots into her small belly every morning and every night.
At first, Ailyn seemed to take it with quiet bravery.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t complain.
But after four long weeks, her body began to tell a different story.
Her tiny stomach, once soft and pale, was now covered in purple and yellow bruises — like storm clouds scattered across her skin.
Every new shot left another mark.
Every new day added another layer of pain.
Her mother said she looked like she’d gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson — and in a way, she had.
Because this fight was brutal, and it never stopped.
Adding to the heartbreak, Ailyn is autistic.
When overwhelmed or frustrated, she copes by stimming — tapping her chin or hitting her cheeks lightly, a way of grounding herself when the world becomes too much.
But now, with her body sore and bruised, even that simple act brought tears.
Her mother has learned to read her daughter’s silence — the way her eyes dart away when she’s in pain, the tiny flinches when another injection comes, the soft whimpers when a nurse cleans her PICC line.
Every day, she whispers encouragements that only a mother’s voice could carry:
“You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”
“One more, baby. Then we rest.”
Each word is a lifeline, a thread of comfort woven through the beeping machines and the smell of antiseptic.
Today, they are on their way to Milwaukee for another round of blood work and a PICC dressing change.
The drive feels heavy — not just with worry, but with memories.
For Ailyn’s mother, that road holds ghosts of the past.
It’s the same drive she made week after week with her son during the final six months of his life.
Back then, those long car rides became sacred.
They talked about everything — about life, faith, love, and the small things that made the days bearable.
She calls those drives “a gift from God.”
Because even as she watched her son fade, she also saw his strength, his humor, and his grace in the face of pain.
Now, every mile toward Milwaukee brings back his voice.
Every turn on the highway replays those conversations.
And though her heart aches with loss, she holds on to the quiet gratitude of having had those moments at all.
“I miss him so, so much,” she whispers, hands gripping the steering wheel, as Ailyn rests in the back seat.
The road stretches endlessly ahead, but she keeps driving — because this is what mothers do.
They carry the weight of love and grief at the same time.
They smile through exhaustion.
They learn to live in the space between fear and faith.
And though the bruises on Ailyn’s belly tell a story of pain, the sparkle in her eyes tells another — one of fight, of resilience, of a child who refuses to give up.
The injections will continue for now.
The doctors will keep testing, searching for answers, hoping that the vegetation in her aorta will fade, that her blood will stay clear and her heart will stay strong.
But no matter what happens next, her mother knows this truth deep in her bones:
They have already witnessed miracles.
Because survival — day after day, shot after shot — is its own kind of miracle.
