On the afternoon of August 14, 2025, at exactly 3:19 PM, my daughter Giana entered the world far earlier than anyone expected.
She was born at just 24 weeks of gestation, weighing a mere 530 grams.
Her body was so small and fragile that she could fit in the palm of my hand, and yet, the very first thing she did was cry.
That cry was tiny but powerful, a declaration that she was alive, that she was fighting to stay with us.
Her original due date had been December 2, 2025.
In our plans, we would have returned to the Philippines, surrounded by family and the comfort of home, to welcome her into the world with joy and celebration.
But life had other plans for us.
Because of work commitments, I needed to remain in Singapore until I could secure clearance to work remotely back in the Philippines.
I believed it was only a matter of waiting a few more months.
Instead, those months turned into a life-threatening emergency.
For years, I had lived with hypertension.
Before pregnancy, I had managed it through exercise, careful diet, and occasional medication.
But once I was pregnant, my options narrowed.
Slowly and silently, my condition developed into preeclampsia, a complication that crept in like a shadow.
One night, despite resting and checking my blood pressure carefully, the numbers refused to come down.
Fear gripped me as I realized both my life and my baby’s life were now in danger.
I rushed to the hospital, hoping doctors could stabilize the situation.
At first, they tried, but within hours, everything began to collapse.
My liver was beginning to fail, my platelet count dropped dangerously low, and the risk of seizures loomed over us.
There was no more time to wait, no more treatments to try.
The decision was made: an emergency delivery was the only way forward.
I remember lying on the hospital bed, tears streaming down my face, whispering silent prayers into the sterile air.
I begged God to let my baby survive, to let me survive, to give us both another chance.
And then, against all odds, I heard her cry.
That moment will forever be etched in my memory—the relief of knowing she was alive, mixed with the heartbreak of knowing her battle was only beginning.
Giana was rushed immediately into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU).
Her world now is a place of wires, machines, and constant vigilance.
She breathes with the help of ventilators.
Her tiny body is supported by tubes delivering nutrition and medications.
Alarms and monitors track her every heartbeat, every breath, every fragile fluctuation.
She lies surrounded by the gentle, determined hands of doctors and nurses who fight beside her.
Every day in the NICU is a battle.
For Giana, something as simple as breathing, digesting milk, or maintaining body temperature requires enormous effort.
Her body is underdeveloped, but her will to live is extraordinary.
Each day she survives is a triumph.
Each small improvement, like a stable oxygen level or a slight weight gain, feels like a miracle.
But miracles come at a cost.
Because we are not Singapore citizens or permanent residents, we are not eligible for any government subsidy.
That means the entirety of Giana’s medical care—every procedure, every medication, every day she spends in the NICU—must be paid for out of pocket.
The hospital has given us an estimate that takes our breath away: SGD 802,000.
This is based on an expected 200 days of hospitalization, a journey of nearly seven months in the NICU.
It is a number that terrifies us.
It is a number far beyond what we can manage alone.
To keep her care going, the hospital requires payment in progressive tranches—SGD 100,250 at a time—until the full amount is reached.
We are doing everything we can to raise funds, but the truth is we cannot do this alone.
We need help, and we need it urgently.
As her mother, my heart longs for the day I can hold her without wires attached to her fragile skin.
I dream of the moment I can bring her home, kiss her cheeks without worrying about machines, and introduce her to family who are waiting to love her.
I imagine her laughing, running, and living a childhood free of hospitals.
But those dreams can only come true if she survives these critical first months.
And her survival depends not only on medical care, but on our ability to provide the financial resources required to sustain it.
This is why I am asking, from the depths of my heart, for help.
No gift is too small.
Every contribution will go directly to Giana’s care.
Every dollar is a lifeline that gives her another chance to fight, another day to grow, another step toward home.
This is not just about numbers or bills.
This is about a tiny baby girl who entered the world too soon, but who refuses to give up.
It is about a mother and father who are willing to sacrifice everything, but who cannot carry this burden alone.
It is about community—the belief that when people come together, miracles can happen.
All funds raised will be managed by Give.Asia and will be paid directly to the hospital.
There will be no detours, no delays—just direct support for the care that keeps Giana alive.
Her story began earlier than it should have, but with your help, it does not have to end here.
Her cry on that first day was more than just a sound—it was a promise.
A promise that she would fight, no matter how small, no matter how fragile.
Now, we must fight alongside her.
Please, help us give Giana a tomorrow.
Help us carry her through this battle, so that one day, she can look back at this chapter not as the end, but as the miraculous beginning of a life filled with hope.
From my heart to yours—thank you for reading, for caring, and for choosing to stand with us.
Together, we can give Giana not only the chance to live, but the chance to thrive.
