After having two beautiful little boys, Cayden and Franklin, I had always dreamed of having a daughter. On July 19, 2017, that dream came true when we welcomed our precious little Piper Winifred into the world. From the moment we knew she was a girl, my excitement was overwhelming. Shopping for her, decorating her room—it felt like magic, even more special than with the boys. Her older brothers adored picking out tutus, sparkly dresses, and princess outfits for her. Piper was an easy baby—she slept well, ate well, and was always happy. Every milestone was reached on time, and our family felt complete. The joy she brought was immeasurable, and from day one, her brothers were utterly smitten with their little sister.
In May 2018, Piper began vomiting. We assumed it was just a stomach bug, but when her temperature spiked, I took her to a new GP. He noticed her pale skin and recommended a blood test if things didn’t improve. Piper was prescribed antibiotics for what was thought to be an ear infection. When her fever worsened, we went to the hospital, only to be turned away—“just a virus,” they said. A month later, she began vomiting again. While feeding her, I felt a hard lump on the right side of her belly and immediately knew something was wrong. We rushed to the GP that day. Both doctors examined her and agreed her liver felt swollen, sending us straight to the hospital. With all three kids in tow and no family nearby, we had to wait for my husband to get home before heading in.
At the hospital, blood tests confirmed abnormalities, and Piper was admitted. That night, a doctor told me that an enlarged liver could only be caused by HIV, hepatitis, or cancer. HIV and hepatitis were unlikely, but hearing the word “cancer” about my 11-month-old alone was terrifying. I kept it to myself overnight, not wanting to alarm my husband. The next morning, we were transferred to the children’s hospital, where we spent hours undergoing scans and tests. Eventually, we were given a room on the oncology ward, and our hearts shattered when we were told that our perfect little girl had neuroblastoma—a rare but common cancer in infants. Stage 4, it had already spread from her adrenal gland to her liver, lymph nodes, abdomen, chest, and ovaries.
The following morning, Piper underwent her first surgery and general anesthetic. They inserted a central line near her heart and took a biopsy. Chemotherapy began that afternoon. Weeks later, the biopsy revealed she was MYCN-amplified, meaning high-risk. Her journey would include five rounds of chemotherapy, surgery, a stem cell transplant, radiation, and six months of immunotherapy—each step fraught with side effects like vomiting, diarrhea, mouth sores, weight loss, and potentially life-threatening complications.
Our family relied heavily on relatives to care for Cayden and Franklin while Piper underwent treatment. Most nights, I stayed in the hospital with her, missing out on moments with my older boys. The stem cell transplant was the hardest part—four weeks of isolation, with her brothers unable to visit for three of those weeks. Their cries broke our hearts, but my husband was by my side, helping care for Piper through nights of sickness and pain. Her transplant began at the end of November, and we feared we would spend Christmas in the hospital. But miraculously, Piper was discharged on Christmas Day, the most precious gift we could have imagined.
Even when not admitted, hospital visits consumed most of our week. Three full days of appointments, an hour’s drive each way, school drop-offs, and juggling all three children left me exhausted, surviving on coffee and red bull. By March 2019, Piper’s condition worsened. She became unhappy, lost weight, and stopped walking much. She held her stomach over her liver, repeatedly saying “ouch.” Though scans still showed disease, doctors attributed it to medications or a virus. But as a mother, I couldn’t ignore her signals, especially after losing a friend from the ward her age.
On June 8th, 2019, a massive lump appeared on Piper’s belly, and her eyes looked yellow. We rushed to the hospital, only to learn the tumors had spread. Frustration and anger consumed me—my warnings had been dismissed. The chance of relapse in high-risk neuroblastoma is 50%, so we explored clinical trials overseas. Tragically, her liver damage prevented her from participating. Local chemotherapy temporarily improved her condition, but within days, her liver function declined again. On June 17th, we were sent home, faced with the unthinkable.
We explained to Cayden and Franklin that their sister might go to heaven. Cayden, just five, wanted to make her soup and find a new doctor, but eventually understood no one could save her. On June 20th, Piper woke up brighter, playing with her brothers, but by 5:30 p.m., she vomited blood. We called the home nurse and administered pain relief while waiting for my husband to get home. He arrived in time to cuddle our baby girl for the last time. At 9:14 p.m., Piper took her final breath. Later, her brothers had one last chance to say goodbye. On July 1st, 18 days before her second birthday, we laid her to rest. Watching Cayden carry her tiny casket broke my heart and filled me with indescribable pride.
The months after Piper’s passing were unbearable. My husband and I grieved differently while helping our boys process the loss of their sister. Every day, we honor her memory, never letting them forget their brave, strong, and beautiful little sister. Seeing other children and girls around us is a constant reminder of our loss. Holidays, birthdays, and everyday moments are bittersweet without her.
Piper’s journey changed our lives forever. It opened my eyes to the invisible world of childhood cancer—its isolation, lack of awareness, and emotional toll. Life’s little moments are now precious. While her absence leaves a void we can never fill, we are grateful for the joy she brought, the lessons she taught, and the love she left behind. Every day with Cayden and Franklin is a gift, and I wish more than anything that Piper were here to share it with us.
