Mackenzie was only two weeks old when the first scary shadows crept into her family’s life.
She was a much-wanted baby—first child for Ally and Jacob, first grandchild on both sides. (Ally had worked as a midwife; she believed she knew how pregnancies go. She believed she knew how to spot trouble.)
The pregnancy was smooth, the birth seemed good. But after Mackenzie came home, things felt off.
She seemed jaundiced. Lethargic. Breastfeeding was harder than it should be.
Her belly started to balloon oddly. In just days, it looked distended, veiny, almost purplish.
All these are small things—gas, babies sometimes are slow feeders, yellow skin fades—but Ally noticed something more: the swelling got worse, fast. Weight gain far beyond what a baby should gain. Pictures were sent to their GP. The GP was cautious, called the children’s hospital.
Despite her midwife’s instincts, they were unprepared for what came.
At the hospital, Mackenzie was taken into emergency. They suspected obstruction. X-rays. Ultrasound.
When the doctors closed the door to a small room, Ally felt everything stop. She heard the word “tumour.” She heard “oncology.” She heard her own heart shattering.
Tests confirmed: Mackenzie had neuroblastoma. It had not only started in her adrenal gland but already spread—throughout her liver and into her bone marrow. Yet, because she was so young, under six months, survival chances were much better than older children. They quoted ~97% survival odds.
Even so, the treatment was sudden and brutal. Chemotherapy would begin immediately.
Mackenzie had a central line inserted. A catheter. She was no longer held comfortably like newborns usually are. There were cords everywhere. Fluids in. Fluids out.
Days of pain. Nights of monitors beeping. Shots, infusions. The parents at the bedside, holding her, whispering prayers.
They joined the ZERO Childhood Cancer program. Genomic testing would help refine her treatment—less risk, more precision. When the results came back, Mackenzie did not have the dangerous genetic markers common in high-risk cases. That meant her treatment plan could remain more standard—and less aggressive.
But chemo was still rough.
Round after round. Hospital stays. Waiting for scans. Fear of results.
One scan found no change after a round—devastating. But then, after further rounds, the tumour shrank. Half its size. The liver cleared. The bone marrow cleared.
Her primary tumour in the adrenal gland still remained visible, but smaller. Not threatening the organs anymore. No more chemo required—for now.
Right before her first birthday, they celebrated ringing the end-of-treatment bell. A milestone few newborns get to reach so soon.
Now, Mackenzie is a busy little bee. Her checkups come every three months. She eats, plays, babbles. She moves her arms, kicks tiny feet.
Her parents sometimes mourn the newborn bubble they missed—those first weeks when they could have just held her without medication, hospital smells, fear.
But they also say this: she has given them resilience. She’s taught them love that pushes them beyond fear. She’s given them a future they almost lost.
Every day, they watch her, in awe.