Hello, we’re Elissa and Anthony — and we truly believe we are the luckiest parents in the world to call Capri our daughter.
Capri had just turned one. She was laughing, learning, cuddling, and filling our days with the kind of joy only a toddler can bring. One week after her first birthday, we took her to the GP for what we believed was a simple ear infection. We were reassured, given antibiotics, and sent home. It felt routine. Ordinary. Safe.
But deep down, we knew something wasn’t right.
The following week, we returned. Our instincts told us this was more than a poorly ear. That decision changed our lives forever. We were referred to our local hospital, where Capri underwent a CT scan. Within hours, our world collapsed. Doctors told us our beautiful little girl had an extensive brain tumour.
That same night, Capri was blue-lighted to Addenbrooke’s Hospital. Sirens, bright lights, fear — everything moved too fast and not fast enough all at once. On November 18th, our one-year-old daughter went through 12 hours of brain surgery. Twelve hours of waiting, praying, and holding onto hope with everything we had.
The surgeons did everything they could, but only around 80% of the tumour could be removed.
As Capri recovered, the tumour was sent away for testing. Four days later, on November 22nd, we received news no parent should ever hear. Due to the rare and aggressive nature of her cancer, without complete removal of the tumour, we were told we would likely only have two months with our precious girl.
Two months.
Before we could even begin to process that reality, Capri became septic. She was rushed to ICU, her tiny body fighting yet another battle. Once again, incredible medical teams saved her life. During this time, Alder Hey Children’s Hospital in Liverpool became our lifeline. Their specialists told us there might still be hope — that with their intra-operative MRI technology, they could attempt to remove more of Capri’s tumour.
The following week, Capri was transferred by ambulance to Liverpool. Another hospital. Another team. Another long and terrifying operation. But this time, we received the news we had been praying for with every breath we had left.
They were able to remove enough of the tumour for chemotherapy to become an option.
Against all odds, Capri was awake and smiling just two days later — the same sassy, cuddly, beautiful little girl we know and love. From having no hope at all, we were suddenly given a chance.
We returned to Addenbrooke’s Hospital, where Capri underwent a stem cell harvest and further surgery to place a shunt to reduce the pressure on her brain. On December 20th, she began the first of six rounds of intensive chemotherapy.
Our lives have become hospital corridors, ward lights, and sleepless nights beside her bed. We haven’t left the hospital in over a month. We’ve cared for Capri through surgeries, sepsis, sickness, vomiting, recovery, and pain — and through it all, she continues to show a strength that leaves us in awe.
Capri is a fighter.
She is still kind. Still gentle. Still full of cuddles. Still our little girl.
Both of us want — and need — to be by her side for every second of this journey. Our employers have been incredibly supportive, but the reality of long-term treatment means difficult financial sacrifices. We’ve taken a mortgage pause. We’ve cut bills wherever possible. Having only returned from maternity leave two months before Capri’s diagnosis, we simply never had the chance to build savings.
During the small breaks we may get at home between chemotherapy rounds, we need to adapt our home to meet Capri’s needs — transforming her nursery with medical and physiotherapy equipment, feeding pumps, specialist furniture, and preparing for long-term changes throughout the house.
This is not a short road. But it is one we are walking together, holding onto hope that it leads to a long, happy, and thriving life for our daughter.
We have never been people who ask for help. But now, with humility and gratitude, we are asking. Any kindness — whether through support, sharing Capri’s story, or simply keeping her in your thoughts — means more than words can say.
We want to keep everyone updated on Capri’s journey and, when we can, to give back to the charities that have carried us through the darkest days — including The Sick Children’s Trust, Ronald McDonald House, Alder Hey Children’s Hospital, and Addenbrooke’s Charitable Trust.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. And thank you for standing with our family as our beautiful Capri continues her fight — with courage, strength, and a heart full of light.
With love,
Elissa, Anthony, and our incredible Capri 💛
Chapman: The Little Miracle Who Defied Every Odd.2051
In a world where statistics often shape expectations and medical charts attempt to predict outcomes, there are stories that break through the odds with quiet, miraculous strength. Chapman’s story is one of them—a story that reminds us that life, no matter how fragile, is powerful beyond measure, and that love can rewrite even the bleakest narratives.
From the moment Chapman was conceived, he faced challenges many believed were insurmountable. He was diagnosed with full Trisomy 18, also known as Edwards Syndrome, a rare chromosomal condition in which every cell carries a third copy of the 18th chromosome. For decades, Trisomy 18 has been described in medical literature as
“incompatible with life.” Families are often told that their babies may not survive pregnancy—and if they do, they may live only hours or days.
Chapman’s parents were told the same heartbreaking expectations. They were told he would likely not make it to birth. They were told if he did survive delivery, they might have only moments with him. They were told that this condition, by all medical standards, offered no real hope.
But Chapman had a different story to tell.
Born prematurely at 36 weeks, he entered the world not only breathing but fighting—proving from his very first breath that he was here for a purpose. His parents describe him not just as a survivor, but as a teacher, a blessing, and a miracle wrapped in the tiniest body. “He has proven that he is very compatible with life,” his family says. “And even more compatible with love.”
Despite his diagnosis, Chapman has shown a remarkable strength and calmness that radiates from him. He loves to be held close, soothed, and rocked gently to sleep—moments his parents cherish with an intensity only families who have faced the unimaginable can understand. Each sigh, each small movement, each warm weight in their arms is a reminder of the miracle they were told they would never have.
Like many children with Trisomy 18, Chapman has several characteristic features—his tiny clenched hands, his rocker-bottom feet, and his sweet strawberry-shaped head. But to his family, these are simply parts of who he is, pieces of his uniqueness, beautiful and perfect in their own way.
Chapman receives most of his nourishment through an NG tube, a feeding tube that helps him grow and thrive. Yet in a display of determination, he is also able to take 10 milliliters from a preemie bottle—a small but mighty victory that fills his family with pride. Every swallow, every feed, every gain is a milestone worth celebrating.
One of the greatest blessings in Chapman’s journey is his overall stability. He was born with a tiny hole in his heart, a common concern for babies with Trisomy 18, but doctors are hopeful it will close on its own. It isn’t causing him difficulties—a gift in itself. Even more astonishing, Chapman has always been able to breathe room air, without requiring oxygen support. For a diagnosis often accompanied by severe respiratory complications, this is nothing short of miraculous.
His parents don’t take a single moment for granted. They know the statistics. They know the predictions. But they also know that none of those numbers define their son. Each day with Chapman is a gift—one they thank God for with reverence and joy.
In the hush of nighttime feedings and the softness of morning stretches, in the steady rhythm of rocking chairs and the warmth of loving arms, Chapman continues to teach everyone around him an important truth: life is not measured in length, but in love.
He has already touched more hearts than many people do in a lifetime. His existence challenges assumptions, expands compassion, and shows the world that every child—no matter their diagnosis—is worthy, cherished, and extraordinary.
Chapman’s story is not just one of survival. It is a story of hope in its purest form. It is a story of parents who chose to love fiercely even when fear threatened to swallow them whole. It is a story of a little boy who arrived in this world with every odd stacked against him—and who continues, with quiet resilience, to defy those limits every single day.
There is power in his tiny fingers, curled in their delicate Trisomy 18 clenched shape. There is courage in every breath he takes without support. There is grace in the way he rests against his parents’ chests, trusting, peaceful, loved.
Chapman is a miracle—not because his life is long or easy, but because it is his, and because it shines with a depth of love that statistics can never measure.
Each day he is here is a triumph.
Each moment is a blessing.
And every breath is a reminder that miracles come in many forms—sometimes wrapped in the softest blankets, held in loving arms, and weighing only a
