A Mother’s Fight: The Journey That Made Me a Healer
Some stories change you forever. This is mine.
Losing Tyler
Tyler’s struggle began the moment he entered this world. Born in October 2010, he had swallowed meconium and had his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck four times. After being given Pitocin to speed up the process and a double epidural that left me unable to control my legs… let’s just say his birth did not go as planned.
Exhausted and relieved that he was finally here, he was reunited with me four hours after leaving the NICU. He latched onto me for breastfeeding. Overwhelmed with joy, I couldn’t believe that I had a son. I cried in disbelief—awed, amazed, and carrying the weight of it all. He was a miracle. After multiple pregnancy losses before him, my little miracle was finally in my arms.
On day two, it was business as usual at the hospital. The nurse came in for his routine vaccinations, and by that night, he became severely jaundiced. I was reassured that it was completely “normal” for babies to become jaundiced, but it took two months for his tiny body to clear the bilirubin. He and I spent our early days sunning in the triple windows of my master bedroom.
My little yellow baby… we sunned together every day.
At his two-month well-baby checkup, he received his exam and his first round of vaccines. He started screaming non-stop and finally bawled himself to sleep. Hours later, Tyler still wouldn’t wake up. When he did, he was lethargic and wouldn’t latch like usual to feed. He slept almost non-stop for days. My gut told me something was terribly wrong. I jumped on the phone with my pediatrician immediately, but was dismissed as an overly anxious first-time mom. “Everything is fine,” they said. “This is a normal reaction. He’ll bounce back in a couple of days.”
Days passed, and I could not keep my child awake to feed. He seemed to be losing weight. His diapers weren’t as full. He wasn’t himself. There were subtle, yet noticeable shifts. I called the doctor again, only to be made to feel more stupid and annoying than the last time. But in my gut, I knew something was terribly wrong. I was desperate, my heart pounding out of my chest. I begged to bring him in but was dismissed, put on hold, and sent on my way.
For a week, this continued. I started obsessively documenting every feed—what little there was—and it became more and more concerning. Finally, I had enough. I jumped in my SUV, drove to the doctor’s office, and demanded they see my son. Tyler was crying non-stop, not eating well, and so lethargic. Our days weren’t the same anymore. Something was wrong.
Reluctantly, the office agreed to run labs, after making me feel like sh*t for “poking my son and running all these unnecessary tests on an infant at such a young age.” A nurse muttered under her breath, “I feel so bad for that little baby. Mom is new and has anxiety.”
The first red flag - hypothyroidism. And can you see his eyes? Still a little yellow.
I took my new baby to the hospital, fighting back tears. He was so little, they had to use a light to find a vein in his hand. They performed an abdominal ultrasound, a urine and stool analysis. And still, those words echoed in my mind: “I feel so bad for that little baby. Mom is new and has anxiety.”
Maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe it was all in my head.
The results? Hypothyroidism—normal at birth—which, if left untreated, can cause cognitive delays, including a drop in IQ. The thyroid is the master gland in the body. We were rushed to an emergency pediatric endocrinologist appointment, and they immediately put him on Synthroid, a thyroid medication.
Watching my pediatrician scramble, rushing around the office, pouring over birth records to see if he had missed something, was beyond alarming. It was my first glimpse into the horrors of a broken medical system that I had no idea would soon consume my life in the most perverse way.
For the next two months, Tyler bounced back… and for two and a half glorious months, he was thriving! Gaining weight, nursing like crazy, becoming the chubbiest baby with the kind of cheeks you just wanted to gobble up. He would get so excited when I walked up to his crib after a nap—his little legs would kick back and forth, and he’d flash the biggest gummy smile with five of the cutest dimples you’ve ever seen. The way he memorized my face, the way we locked eyes—I was head over heels, madly in love.
My big beautiful healthy boy!
As time ticked on, I knew his four-month well-baby checkup was fast approaching. A pit grew in my stomach. Something gave me pause. I called the office to reschedule, making an excuse. I wasn’t “sick.” I was terrified. I knew what had happened to him wasn’t just a coincidence, and everything inside me was screaming not to go back. So I pushed the appointment out only by a few weeks, not yet fully trusting that little voice inside me.
In the meantime, I reached out to everyone I trusted—Did you see anything with your child? What did you do? Was he/she okay? The overwhelming consensus was the same. “Yes, we did the vaccines. They’re safe. Our kids were fine.” But after what had just happened, I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t have a single person in my life who thought differently. Was I losing it?!
When I finally went in, I came armed with a notebook. I asked all the hard questions. Through trembling lips, I voiced my fears and bravely shared my observations. But I was swiftly reassured, “Mrs. Maroney, this is how we protect him, especially now that he has hypothyroidism. There is no risk. Vaccines are safe and effective. You are doing the best thing for your son.”
Reluctantly, I agreed.
And although something still didn’t sit right, I wanted to protect my son.
That was the night my son disappeared.
March 4th, 2011. That date still haunts me.
March 6, 2011… This picture captures a moment of profound disconnect, 2 days after the injury. The emptiness in his eyes speaks volumes; it’s a haunting reminder of the struggle within. He avoided connection, and I was left chasing shadows behind the camera. Countless images reflect that same flat affect. This is one of the last pictures of me for some time.
He stopped looking at me. Stopped rolling over. His head drooped. Drool poured from his mouth. He couldn’t latch to breastfeed. And worst of all, he screamed in pain, day and night. His smile disappeared. He didn’t want me to touch him or hold him. My thriving baby, once in the 97th percentile for weight, began wasting away—becoming a shell of the child he once was. I wouldn’t see that gummy smile or those bright blue eyes locking onto mine for what felt like an eternity. And sadly, I would be convinced into one more set of them at his 6 month old (and last) “well-baby” check. At that stage, I never returned. Tyler was now fighting for his life.
This was after his 6 month old shots. You can see the weight drop in just 1 month from the prior photo.
Through years of research, trial, and relentless determination and grit, we tried almost every healing modality— from hyperbaric oxygen therapy to IVIG for an inflamed body and his broken immune system. You know what they say: a concerned mother does better research than the FBI. Tyler had 6 safe foods. We were failure to thrive. We took him across the country to see the best and brightest immunologists, GI specialists, dieticians, Geneticists, and detox specialists. We found homeopathy, worked with DAN and MAPS doctors, did all the therapies, treated parasites and detoxed heavy metals, mold and vaccines. I found my mom tribe (sometimes in rogue little private groups), that turned out to be more like family. We discovered the root cause of what had happened. We rebuilt his gut, supported his detox pathways, supported his immune system, removed environmental toxins, and slowly—painstakingly—began to heal him. It wasn’t overnight. It wasn’t easy. We regressed along the way. But piece by piece, we saw glimpses of our Tyler again. His body, his mind—his soul—began to return to him.
My Tyler - my miracle. At almost 3 years old, he's a true overcomer, and the change is truly remarkable.
Healing is possible. Even for complex cases on the brink of death. And it all starts with a refusal to give up.
(Stay tuned for part two: Jaxon’s story.)
There is so much to this story, but this is the beginning of what started it all…
This is so much more than a story. This is a movement. Unfuck Your Health.
xoxo, Ashlee
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