I Believe in Miracles
"I believe in miracles. As long as Xavier wants to fight, I will continue fighting with him."
I remember saying those words to the doctor while my twenty-year-old son lay unconscious in the Intensive Care Unit at the National University Hospital in Singapore.
Xavier was connected to a ventilator. Tubes and wires surrounded his bed. Machines monitored his heartbeat, blood pressure, and oxygen levels.
I knew his condition was critical.
I also knew I wasn't ready to give up hope.
It had started with a fever.
Xavier came home from his day activity centre feeling unwell. At first, I thought it was an ordinary illness that would pass with medication and rest.
I gave him fever medicine and watched over him.
But his temperature wouldn't come down.
As the days passed, he became increasingly lethargic. Something was terribly wrong.
We rushed him to the Accident and Emergency Department at the National University Hospital.
After blood tests, urine tests, X-rays, and scans, the doctors diagnosed severe pneumonia. The infection had spread around his lungs, and infected fluid had collected in the space surrounding them.
His condition deteriorated rapidly.
On 20 October 2022, Xavier was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit.
Nothing prepared me for what I saw when I entered.
The room was unnaturally cold. Machines beeped constantly. My son lay unconscious with a breathing tube in his mouth.
Drips hung beside his bed. A urine bag collected his waste. Inflatable sleeves around his calves rhythmically squeezed his legs to maintain blood circulation.
Only one parent was allowed to visit at a time. His sibling couldn't enter.
I stood beside Xavier, looking at the young man who had left home with a fever and was now fighting for his life.
The medical team performed major surgery to remove the infected fluid around his lung. They also carried out a tracheostomy, creating an opening in his airway to help him breathe through a tube.
Even after the operations, his condition remained critical.
Then came a conversation I will never forget.
One of the consultants sat down with me to discuss Xavier's deteriorating condition.
He explained that further medical intervention at that stage was unlikely to be effective. He recommended allowing the illness to take its natural course rather than continuing aggressive treatment that could cause Xavier additional stress and pain.
I understood what the doctor was trying to tell me.
He was concerned about Xavier's suffering. There were limits to what medical treatment could achieve, and nobody could promise that my son would recover.
But when I looked at Xavier lying motionless in that hospital bed, I saw my son.
I believed he was still fighting.
The doctor waited for my answer.
I gathered whatever courage I had left.
"I believe in miracles," I told him. "As long as Xavier wants to fight, I will continue fighting with him."
I wasn't certain that Xavier would survive.
I was frightened of complications, further infections, and the possibility that he might never wake up.
I knew another operation could bring more risks.
But I couldn't bring myself to stop hoping while there was still a chance.
Although I discussed important decisions with my husband whenever he was available, much of the responsibility rested on my shoulders.
I spent long hours beside Xavier, praying silently and waiting for updates from the doctors.
I also reached out to family members and friends, asking them to pray for him.
Their encouragement helped me through those difficult months.
After making my decision, I felt an unexpected sense of peace.
I still worried about Xavier. Every new medical update mattered. Every complication frightened me.
But I had made the decision I believed was right for my son.
Xavier remained in intensive care for almost three months.
Day after day, I waited.
Eventually, his condition improved enough for him to be transferred to a general ward.
In total, he spent almost four months in hospital.
On 20 February 2023, he was finally discharged.
I remember looking at him after he left the ICU. There was a bald patch on his head caused by the powerful antibiotics and medications he had received.
Seeing it broke my heart.
It reminded me of everything his body had endured.
But he was still here.
Today, Xavier lives in a nursing home. He continues to face many challenges, and life has not returned to what it was before his illness.
I am deeply grateful to the social worker who helped us secure a place for Xavier at the nursing home. I am equally grateful to the nursing staff who care for him on our behalf.
Knowing that he is being looked after gives our family comfort and reassurance.
Whenever I visit him, I remember those months in the hospital.
I remember the cold ICU room, the sound of the machines, and the sight of my son lying unconscious.
I remember the doctor asking me to consider what further treatment might mean for Xavier.
And I remember the words I spoke that day.
People sometimes ask where I found the strength to keep going.
I don't think I was unusually strong.
I was simply a mother who loved her son.
That experience changed my understanding of miracles.
I used to think a miracle meant complete healing, when someone who was seriously ill became well again.
Now I understand that life can remain difficult even after the moment we prayed so desperately to survive.
Xavier still has challenges. So do I.
But every time I see him, I am grateful that we have another day together.
I believed in miracles then.
I still do.
Told by: Steph Low
Written by: Sam Choo
Story Tags: Motherhood, Faith and Hope, Family Caregiving
Steph Low is a mother whose experience caring for her critically ill son has shaped her understanding of faith, hope, and perseverance. Through her story, she hopes to encourage families facing difficult medical decisions and uncertain futures.
