A Miracle of Hope: The Story of My Younger Girl Self Battle with Nephrotic Syndrome and My Encounter with Angels

In the quiet corners of our world, we often hear stories that defy explanation, stories that linger in our hearts long after we hear them. This is one such story. It’s the tale of myself at six-years-old, that faced an uncertain future with an incurable illness, only to find myself in the care of angels who gave me the hope I needed to survive. It’s a story of strength, faith, and the belief that sometimes, miracles happen.

The Diagnosis: Nephrotic Syndrome

At just six years old, I was diagnosed with nephrotic syndrome, a rare kidney disorder that causes the body to lose too much protein through the urine. The condition leads to swelling, high cholesterol, and extreme fatigue, and can leave a child feeling helpless as their body betrays them. Nephrotic syndrome is a chronic illness that typically requires long-term treatment with medications like steroids, immunosuppressants, and diuretics.

For me, the situation was even more complicated. The doctors couldn’t determine the cause of my nephrotic syndrome—it was a mystery, and with no answers, the outlook was bleak. I began a life filled with frequent clinic visits, endless blood draws, and constant testing. Instead of showing improvement, my results continued to get worse. 

At the clinic, I was shy—on purpose. Everything about it felt overwhelming, especially the large chart they kept on me. I would stare at it and wonder what they were writing, what they knew that I didn’t. What secrets were hidden on those pages? Each time I saw it, a flicker of unease ran through me. The doctors made me nervous too; a small part of me didn’t trust anyone who kept secrets while giving me awful medicine and endless blood draws.

I never spoke directly with my doctors, even though they were twins like me—a small detail that somehow brought a sense of comfort, as if we shared a hidden bond. In the middle of all that fear and uncertainty, I discovered not speaking to them felt something like a superpower: a quiet feeling of safety I could call on whenever the world around me felt too big or too frightening.

Despite all the treatments, my doctors still couldn’t explain why my little body was suffering the way it was. They did what they could, but no one truly believed I would ever fully recover. For 11 long months, I took steroids every single day—the longest anyone at my clinic had ever endured. The side effects were cruel and it tasted absolutely disgusting! My tiny frame swelled with nearly 40 pounds of water weight, transforming my appearance until even my own reflection felt like that of a stranger. My face was severely puffy until only slits of my eyes showed. And my stature changed; I shrunk 3 inches. Children would sometimes stare or whisper, and the comments—innocent or not—cut deeply. I was only six years old, and yet I carried the kind of sadness no child should ever have to feel.

The illness took more from me than just my energy and appearance. At night, I would often wake drenched in sweat and my pajamas soaked through. My mother would gently change my clothes and tuck me back under fresh sheets before whispering words of comfort. Those tender moments in the dark became our unspoken ritual—my mother’s quiet strength wrapping me in love when the world felt unbearably heavy.

My diet was another constant reminder of how different my life had become. I was placed on a strict no-salt plan, with only one small indulgence each week—a serving of Steak-umms—that I anticipated with the same excitement most children reserved for birthday cake! My mother, determined to make every meal as nourishing, healthy and enjoyable as possible, turned even the simplest foods into colorful, fun creations, bringing a little joy and normalcy to an otherwise challenging routine.  I was happy for her effort, but as I got sicker,  I began to sit separately from my family as it pained me to see them eat foods I could not. It was difficult when I needed to fast for testing while my siblings were eating mint chocolate chip ice cream.

The home urine tests to check my protein levels quickly became a source of discouragement. Each day, my parents would let me dip the testing strip into my sample and wait for the color to appear. I knew the darker shades were bad—the ones we didn’t want—and yet, day after day, that’s what I saw. A quiet guilt began to settle inside me, as if I were somehow letting my parents down. In my child’s heart, I wanted so badly to make them proud by getting better… but I wasn’t. Over time, the testing stopped feeling like a game. I began to dread it, not because of the colors on the strip, but because I couldn’t bear to see the sadness in my parents’ eyes.

Through it all, I tried to hold onto the small joys that made me feel normal. My favorite activity was swimming. Nearly every day, my father would lovingly take me to the YMCA, hoping the water would bring me comfort and freedom from the heaviness of my illness. But more often than not, by the time I struggled into my swimsuit and made it to the pool, I was simply too exhausted to swim. I would sit quietly on the edge, watching the ripples dance across the water, dreaming of the day I’d have the strength to dive in again. My other favorite activities were playing with my twin or sister that lived at home. We had great adventures!

It was a heartbreaking and painful journey for me as such a young girl—one filled with more challenges than most face in a lifetime.

Despite everything I was going through, my heart was buoyed by the kindness of others. Mail arrived at my home from churches all over the country—letters and cards from children I had never met, each one filled with prayers, drawings, and words of hope, all wishing for me to get better. Clutching these notes, I felt a quiet strength and a reminder that I was not alone in my journey. The world, it seemed, was rooting for me, lending light and love when the days felt unbearably dark.

And then there was my father. Every day, he devoted time to being with me in ways that went beyond words. We would lie together on the floor, and he taught me to “speak” to my body—to send it strength, calm, and healing energy. Years later, I  would smile and remind him to do the same for himself: “Talk to your body.” That simple practice, filled with love and intention, remains a special bond between us.

I also had the unwavering love of my twin brother. Every day, he played by my side, and at night slept right next to me, weaving stories to make bedtime fun and magical. Sometimes I would join in, adding my own twists—especially to our favorite tale about the mice skating through town—turning each night into a world of imagination and laughter despite the hardships of the day.

The Biopsy and the Angels

By the time my doctors decided to perform a kidney biopsy, I had already endured more than most adults could bear. I was only six years old, yet my days were filled with hospital visits, tests, and the constant rhythm of medications. My parents were exhausted, trying to stay strong for me, but anxiety lingered in every conversation.

No one knew what the future held.

My father’s company arranged for me to fly from my hometown of Jamestown, ND, to a hospital in Minneapolis. My mother and I left behind the rest of my family—a first for me, as I had never been separated from my twin brother or sister before. The journey was filled with a mix of fear, uncertainty, and the bittersweet ache of leaving home for the first time.

I can still remember the taxi pulling up to the hospital, the brick walls towering above me  as if reaching endlessly into the sky. The waiting area was vast and unfamiliar, and a quiet settled over me. Then came the walk down the long hall to my room—each step heavy with fear. What did it mean to have a room that wasn’t home? How long would I stay? Would I ever go back home?

My worries eased a little when I saw three other beds in the room, each occupied by a girl about my age. I quickly grew fond of them, finding comfort in their company. The play area became my sanctuary. I would climb into a plastic enclosure I called my spaceship, imagining myself soaring through the stars, escaping the weight of hospital life. Up there in my imagined space, I could leave behind the hushed conversations I overheard between my mother and the doctors, drifting instead into a world of my own creation, where worry and fear could not reach me. And of course there was Bell Kitty, a gift from my mother from the giftshop…a white stuffed kitty with a bell in her tail. To this day, I still have her.

The night before the biopsy, I turned to my mother with a question no child should ever have to ask: “Am I going to die?” My mother held me close and whispered that she would be there with me, and so would Bell Kitty—but she didn’t know the answer. It was a cruel truth that no six-year-old should have to face, yet somehow, I felt the weight of it. I understood, in a way far beyond my years, the fragile line between life and death, and the uncertainty that hung over my tiny body.

I was wheeled to surgery on my bed cart, my small hand tightly held by my mother walking beside me. Clutched in my other arm was Bell Kitty, my beloved stuffed companion, offering comfort and a sense of courage as I moved through the quiet, sterile hospital corridors toward the unknown.

As the nurses prepared me for the procedure, a heavy stillness and rising fear settled over me. I saw the bright lights, the sterile room, and the doctor’s serious expression. Every part of me wanted to cry out, “No!”—to run, to escape—but I stayed still, bracing myself for what was to come. They asked me to lie on my stomach, my small head resting on a hard, rolled-up towel. I was to remain awake so I could follow their instructions.

Then came the words that would echo in my mind for decades: “Do not move—or you could die.”

Tears welled in my eyes, but I didn’t dare let them fall, terrified that even crying might make me move. And then, something extraordinary happened. The lights above me began to blur, the sounds of the room faded, and a deep, peaceful calm washed over me. In that stillness, I  saw them—three radiant figures standing beside me. Angels. Their presence filled the room with a warmth and light so pure it felt like a blanket wrapping gently around my unmoving body.

I wasn’t afraid. In fact, for the first time in months, I felt completely safe. The angels looked at me with such kindness and love that I did not even notice my body. Though they didn’t speak in words, their message was clear and powerful. They told me it wasn’t my time to go—that I still had so much life ahead of me. They promised me I would be okay, that my pain would ease, and that I would grow up to live a long, beautiful life.

I desperately wanted to go with them—to leave behind the needles, the medicine, the endless nights of tears and exhaustion. The angels’ beauty was unlike anything I had ever experienced; their presence radiated peace so complete that I longed to stay within it forever. It felt like a warm sunny window. The thought of being with them, free from pain and fear, filled me with a sense of awe and relief.

But the angels gently shook their heads. Their message came not through words, but through a feeling that touched my soul: “Not yet. You still have a purpose to fulfill.”

When I opened my eyes after the biopsy, the first thing I noticed was the soft light drifting through the hospital room. My body felt heavy, but my heart was calm—different, peaceful. As they wheeled me out, I searched for my mother and saw her waiting just outside, her eyes red and glistening from tears. My voice came out small but certain as I whispered, “It’s going to be okay, Mommy. The angels told me.” From that day forward, I held on to the promise I had been given in that operating room.

From that moment on, I have carried the angels’ message in my heart like a quiet, steady flame. Through every challenge that life has brought, I have remembered their light, their words, and the gift of being told I still had a purpose to fulfill. And through the years, they have appeared again—gentle reminders that I am never alone.

The Miracle of Healing

In the weeks and months after the biopsy, something began to change—slowly at first, almost too subtle to notice. The same body that had once betrayed me began to show signs of healing that no one could explain. The swelling that had made it hard to move started to fade, and the constant fatigue that had kept me from playing, swimming, or simply being a child began to lift. My parents watched in disbelief as the little girl they had feared struggling for years came back to life fully - in my laughter and living as a child.

The doctors were baffled. Tests that had always brought grim results now showed steady improvement. One by one, my symptoms disappeared. My kidneys, which had been unstable for so long, suddenly began working normally. There was no new medicine, no experimental treatment—nothing that could account for the change. And yet, against every expectation, I was getting better.

Then came the word we had hoped and prayed for—remission.

Even then, the doctors were cautious. They told my mother to keep all of my larger clothes and continue watching my diet carefully, convinced I would relapse within a few years. But deep down, I already knew something they didn’t—the angels had kept their promise. And through the years, they have continued to appear in my life, gentle reminders that I am never alone.

Though nephrotic syndrome has no cure to this day, my recovery defied every medical explanation. The doctors who had once prepared my family for the worst could only stand in awe. My parents saw what their hearts already knew to be true: a miracle had taken place.

Each day brought a new sign of hope—less swelling, brighter lab results, more energy, more laughter. And through it all, I never doubted where my healing came from. Whenever someone asked how I was doing, I would smile and say, “I told you I’d be okay. The angels told me so.”

That faith lived in me even before the biopsy. I still remember the Christmas before I was hospitalized, when my parents took me to see Santa at the mall. I didn’t ask for toys or candy that year. When Santa leaned close and asked what I wanted for Christmas, I said softly, “I just want to be well and I want all the children to be well.”

Years passed, and the memory of that hospital room never left me. I grew stronger, carrying the quiet confidence of someone who had glimpsed something beyond this world. That experience shaped my life in ways words can barely describe. Now, at 50 years old, I still remember every detail—the blinding light, the calm voices, the warmth that filled the room. I remember the angels’ promise: “It’s not your time. You’ll be okay.”

And I was.

My journey is one of faith, love, and resilience—a living reminder that even when science has no explanation, hope has its own kind of healing power. Miracles are not always grand gestures; sometimes they’re whispered in the stillness of a hospital room, carried by the light of angels, and sealed by the unshakable belief of my little girl self who refused to give up.

Author’s Note and Author of this Blog

My story is shared with love and the hope that it brings comfort, faith, and courage to anyone who may be walking a similar path. My journey from sickness to healing is more than a medical mystery—it’s a story of faith, resilience, and the quiet miracles that surround us when we least expect them.

Now, at 50 years old, I continue to live a life filled with gratitude and purpose. I know my story was never meant to be kept to myself—it was meant to inspire others, to remind people that even in the darkest times, light can still find its way in.

I warmly welcome anyone who has experienced moments of hope, healing, or the unexplainable to reach out and share their story with me. I believe that by connecting and sharing, we help one another heal—and keep the message of faith and love alive.

Blessings, Heather Rose