Hello everyone, my name is Stella. Nigeria has been tough on me since childhood, but I kept pushing forward, and by God’s grace, I’ve made it this far. I am a Christian, and prayer has always been my strength.
This is the story of how I almost lost my faith in Christ—and my hope in my country.
At 26, I married the love of my life. He loved me deeply, and we shared the same Christian faith. Two years into our marriage, we welcomed our first child, a beautiful baby boy. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. My husband wasn’t rich, but he worked hard to make life comfortable for us, and I was also working.
I had always wanted a baby girl, so we decided to try again. I got pregnant, but due to the stress of work and the harsh realities of living in Nigeria, I lost the baby at seven months. It felt like the end of the world. I was shattered. But with prayer and the encouragement of my pastor and church members, I pushed through the pain and tried again.
I became pregnant once more, and this time, everything seemed to be going well. I had a scan, and it was another baby boy. My husband was overjoyed. We prayed constantly, asking God to protect this child. I took a long leave from work and got plenty of rest. I even registered at a private hospital, and at every visit, they assured me that everything was fine.
As my due date approached, we made all the necessary preparations. My loving husband and family ensured we had everything we needed for the baby’s arrival. Two days before delivery, I went to the hospital, and everything seemed perfect. I gave birth smoothly, without complications. The hospital monitored my baby for two days, and then we were discharged.
Seven days later, we named him Oluwatise—God Has Done It.
But then, two weeks later, everything changed.
The Nightmare Begins
One night, my baby started crying uncontrollably. No matter what we did, he wouldn’t stop. Panic set in, and we rushed him to the hospital in the middle of the night. He kept crying, and the hospital referred us to LASUTH. My husband wasn’t home at the time—he had traveled—but he rushed back as soon as he heard. The moment I arrived at LASUTH, the first person I saw was him. I felt a small sense of relief, but my fear remained—our baby was struggling to breathe.
After examining him, the doctor called us into his office and asked, “Were you not informed of your baby’s condition before birth?”
My husband and I looked at each other in shock. I immediately broke down in tears. What condition?
The doctor told us our baby had Atrial Septal Defect (ASD)—a heart condition. We had never heard of it before. Why didn’t the hospital tell us? Before the doctor could explain further, my baby had an emergency, and he had to rush out.
That was the beginning of our nightmare.
We started running around, spending money we didn’t have. We begged for help from friends, family, and strangers. The doctors and nurses kept saying, “God will give you another one.” I was shattered. I prayed, I cried, I broke down. But whenever I was close to giving up, my pastor and church leaders would call, encouraging me to hold on.
A Faint Ray of Hope
Finally, we were told there was a solution. My heart leaped with joy—until I heard the details.
The doctor said our baby needed surgery before he turned six months old. But there were only two doctors in Nigeriawho could perform the operation.
The first doctor had relocated out of Nigeria.
My heart sank. I felt like I had been stabbed. My husband, though visibly shaken, kept telling me to stay calm.
We tried to reach the second doctor, but he was booked and could only add us to his waiting list—for eight months.
Eight months?! My baby had less than six months.
At that moment, hope left me. My faith faded. My baby’s condition worsened. He could no longer breathe on his own. Anytime we left the hospital, we would be back by nightfall.
We started pleading for help online.
The Fight for Survival
Finally, an NGO called Save a Heart, based in Israel, offered to help. We started processing everything, and things went smoothly—until we had to book a flight.
The airline refused to let us board unless a doctor or medical personnel traveled with us.
For two months, we begged and searched for a doctor to sign the papers. None agreed. Eventually, the airline told us to sign a waiver stating that if anything happened to our baby on the flight, it was on us.
We had no other choice. We signed.
On the flight, I prayed nonstop. We had a stopover in Ethiopia, where a doctor from Israel was already waiting for us. She checked my baby and said, “If this child makes it to Israel, it will be a miracle.”
My heart stopped.
Back on the plane, the doctor kept monitoring my baby. By the grace of God, we made it to Israel.
We didn’t even go through immigration. From the airport, we were rushed straight to the hospital—directly to the operating room.
God’s Intervention
While my baby was in surgery, I prayed and cried nonstop. After what felt like a lifetime, the doctor came out and said, “The surgery was successful.”
They planned to monitor my baby for seven months, but after just three months, they said he was perfectly fine.
We returned to Nigeria, and my baby was healed.
Hallelujah!
But I Have Questions
How many families have lost their babies because of this?
Why didn’t the hospital detect my baby’s condition during pregnancy?
Why do Nigerians have to beg and fight for medical care that should be a basic right?
Nigeria failed me. But God saved me.
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