The Casts, the Hospitals, and the Little Wins

After the birth, everything blurred. One minute we were still taking in the tiny perfection of her toes, the next we were being handed a schedule that felt like it belonged to someone else’s life. Hospitals became our second home before we’d even settled into our first.

There were casts, scans, and a language of medical jargon that felt like a foreign country. But slowly, we found our rhythm. We learned which hospitals had kind nurses, which waiting rooms had sunlight, and which coffee machine didn’t taste like burnt hope. Through it all, there were small victories — a cast that came off without tears, a doctor who actually listened, a day when the car park wasn’t full. Those were the wins that mattered.

At thirteen days old, Hannah-Rose had her first set of fibreglass casts. Tuesdays became “casting day.” Each week we’d bundle her up, head to the hospital, and hold our breath while the specialists gently and sometimes not so gently manipulated her tiny legs into new positions.

The first orthopaedic specialist was rough. He knew what he was doing you could tell he’d done it a thousand times but there were moments I had to bite my lip and make little “oh my god” noises under my breath as I watched. It wasn’t cruel, it was clinical. Still, no one tells you how hard it is to watch your baby be strong before she can even hold her head up.

Each cast was molded slightly different from the last, aiming to bend her knees bit by bit, working toward ninety degrees so they could stay in place. Every week brought small progress, measured in millimeters and patience.

Someone once said to me, “You need to strive for correction, not perfection.” I was offended at first how dare anyone imply she wasn’t perfect? But time and exhaustion have a way of humbling you. I began to see the truth in those words. Every new movement was a miracle, every correction a quiet victory. Perfection was never the goal comfort, strength, and freedom were.

Between casts, we became regulars in the hospital corridors. MRI scans, hearing tests, endless checkups. The MRI came back perfect. Every observation was perfect. The hearing tests, though those were hard. She failed the first, then the second. The kind of failure that makes your heart stutter. Then, one day at home, I was singing to her. She stared at me, eyes glassy, lip trembling, and a tear rolled down her cheek. That was my proof. She could hear me she always could.

Those twelve weeks of weekly castings were relentless. But just when I thought I couldn’t handle another appointment, everything changed.

Our current orthopedic surgeon, took over after the twelve weeks of casting with the previous specialist. From the start, he treated Hannah-Rose like she was his own. Gentle, patient, and genuinely invested. He doesn’t just “see” her he knows her. He speaks to her kindly during every appointment, reassuring her that one day she’ll walk in herself and see him . Behind his back, we call him Uncle Wes, because that’s what he feels like family who happens to wear scrubs.

He was handed a complicated case and handled it with such clarity and compassion that we finally exhaled. He doesn’t just tell us what’s happening he asks. He includes us in every plan, every step. He explains the options, checks that we’re comfortable, and doesnt make us feel rushed.

Most of the time, he even rearranges his own schedule so we can be seen when the corridors are clear, giving us real time to talk instead of being shuffled through like another number. He’s thorough, professional, and unbelievably caring.

Wes had some time off already booked in his calendar for a couple of weeks, and he made it clear we needed a plan for while he was away. We were fortunate to have the opportunity to meet Haemish Crawford in Auckland, who had previously worked with Wes and knew him personally, reassured us that Hannah-Rose couldn’t be in better hands which only confirmed what we already felt. Haemish and his team were incredible, and we were thrilled to experience the true Ponseti method using plaster of Paris. After just three casts, we were amazed at how much progress her feet had made. The team at Auckland’s Starship Hospital radiated genuine care and support, and we felt so blessed to have met such compassionate people.

Just recently, after a full day of surgeries, Wes still came into the hospital at 6 p.m. to see Hannah-Rose. Her casts had slipped, and rather than leaving it to someone else, he pre-booked a room, drove in after hours, and fixed them himself. He didn’t have to but he wanted to. Because he knows how special her case is, and he wanted it done correctly. That kind of care is rare. He goes above and beyond every single time, and we’re so grateful to have him managing her journey.

Support Systems That Helped Us:

When you’re thrown into hospital life, no one gives you a manual. I had to do most of my own research just to figure out what support existed — and what we were actually entitled to.

Disability Allowance (WINZ):
A social worker helped me with the forms for the disability allowance through Work and Income. The paperwork is thick enough to make anyone cry, but once it’s sorted, it really does help. It covers travel to appointments, medications, and the small but constant costs that come with having a medically complex child.

Travel Assistance (NZ):
Travel assistance is another lifeline. It helps cover petrol and mileage for medical trips even motels if you need out of town and airline tickets something you don’t realize adds up until you’re halfway through your fifth hospital week in a row.

Mobility Parking:
Getting a mobility parking permit made the world of difference. I had to track down the forms myself, but it was worth it. When that little card arrived, it wasn’t a symbol of limitation it was freedom. It meant less pain for her, less rushing for me, and more time to breathe before walking into another long appointment.

Carer Support :
If you’re caring for a child with special medical needs, Carer Support through WINZ can give you a small allowance to use for respite someone to help, even for a few hours. It’s not just about money; it’s about your sanity. Having a breather makes you a better caregiver.

We learned all of this the hard way through trial, error, and persistence. But once those supports were in place, the weight lifted just enough to make space for living again. So if these links help even just one family out this is all worth it.

Looking back now, those twelve weeks of casts feel like both a lifetime and a blink. They tested us, reshaped us, and taught me patience I didn’t know I had. The casts may have been rough and the process slow, but they gave us something extraordinary a reminder that progress isn’t always loud or fast. Sometimes it’s quiet, steady, and covered in fibreglass.

Every small movement, every adjustment, every kind word from a doctor who cared that’s what built the foundation for everything that came next.

Through the chaos, through the paperwork and the waiting rooms, one thing stayed the same: love showed up every single Monday and then some.