Manitoba·First PersonSixteen hours after giving birth, I went with Kevin to meet our son for the first time. Nothing prepared me for the sight – so many tubes, wires and monitors surrounding someone so small,” writes Claudia Riddell.Now, despite brain bleed, he not only eats on his own but often says, ‘I want to walk’Claudia Riddell · for CBC News · Posted: Sep 28, 2025 7:00 AM EDT | Last Updated: 6 hours agoClaudia Riddell celebrates every hard-fought milestone with her son, Marley: “We are always watching Marley, making sure he’s engaged and happy.” (Submitted by Claudia Riddell)This First Person article is the experience of Claudia Riddell, a mother of two who documents her family’s journey as advocates for their son, Marley, who lives with cerebral palsy. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see this FAQ. You can read more First Person articles here.Sixteen hours after giving birth, I went with Kevin to meet our son for the first time. What does he look like? How is he? But nothing prepared me for the sight – so many tubes, wires and monitors surrounding someone so small. We learned how to touch Marley at first, just “hand hugs,” resting our palms gently against his tiny body. We didn’t know what we were doing and could not imagine the road ahead. Our bodies rocked and our voices trembled as we softly sang: Marley, don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing is gonna be all right. Our love song and promise to him.Days blurred together. During morning rounds, 10 or more doctors and team members moved from bed to bed, speaking a medical language we barely understood. Initially, we were told Marley wasn’t the sickest baby in the NICU. But that changed within days, when doctors discovered a severe brain bleed. We were called into a private room. The news was devastating. Marley might never eat, walk or talk on his own. We were given time to consider “comfort care.” In (what I consider) the callous words of the doctor who broke the news, we could “let him die.”The next morning, we stood in a busy corridor, waiting to see Marley. “They’re going to ask again,” I whispered to Kevin. But we nodded to each other in quiet agreement. As long as Marley’s fighting, we’ll fight with him – giving him the best support we could. He is a determined, joyful child.- Claudia RiddellSome team members respected our decision. Others, less so. One doctor in particular returned to the question of comfort care again and again, perhaps assuming we didn’t fully understand the prognosis. We asked hard questions: “What’s the probability of these outcomes? Can you say with certainty what will happen? The answer was always ‘no’ – no certainty, only the possibility of these outcomes. Claudia Riddel says her son Marley pushes himself “in ways I’d never seen in someone so young.” (Submitted by Claudia Riddell)One afternoon, I noticed Marley looked more laboured, as if everything that day was just too much. The monitors didn’t sound an alarm, but I could see it in his eyes – glazed, tired, struggling. We approached the doctor, wanting to be respectful. The doctor listened to our concerns and adjusted Marley’s care plan to give him some relief, which seemed to make a difference. That moment affirmed for us the importance of our voice in Marley’s care.After 94 days, we finally took our boy home. Our new normal was filled with therapy sessions and follow-ups: occupational therapy, physiotherapy, newborn follow-up clinics and later, speech-language pathology and child development appointments. At one point, we had 20 appointments in one month. It was exhausting, but we are grateful for the access to these services. Kevin began working night shifts so we could be more present for Marley’s care during the day. That first year was the hardest, full of unknowns.We could see Marley was delayed in his milestones, but also that he is a determined, joyful child. Even then, he worked hard, pushing himself in ways I’d never seen in someone so young. Today, at 2½, he not only eats on his own but often says, “I want to walk.” Supporting Marley is not a sprint. It’s a long, winding journey.- Claudia Riddell We are always watching Marley — making sure he’s engaged and happy –while asking ourselves “what’s the best next step? Where should we focus?” Alongside the medical recommendations, we field an endless stream of information about therapies, toys and equipment that might help him. Some ideas faded away quickly. Others stayed with us.One in particular was a robotic gait trainer. It was expensive and far outside what most families, including ours, could take on lightly. We sought out professional opinions. Some closed the conversation quickly, while others welcomed the dialogue. In the end, we decided to incorporate it into his therapy plan. For us, the decision wasn’t about the device itself, but about making every thoughtful choice we can to give Marley the best chance to move forward.If these years have taught us anything, it’s that supporting Marley is not a sprint. It’s a long, winding journey. The path is full of decisions, some small and immediate, others weighty and uncertain. We keep showing up, listening, questioning and making the best calls we can with what we know. Some doors close, some open. And with each step — whether in an isolette (a clear plastic enclosed crib or incubator that provides a controlled environment for premature or newborn infants) in our arms, or on his own two feet — we carry the same quiet promise we made in those earliest days. We will keep fighting for Marley.ABOUT THE AUTHORClaudia Riddell is a mother of two who shares her family’s experiences about the realities of raising a child with cerebral palsy — the challenges, small victories and lessons learned along the way. You can follow her family’s journey on Instagram at @MarleyMakesItHappen.
‘As long as Marley is fighting, we’ll fight with him’: Claudia Riddell’s battle to save son’s life
