Lara's First Halloween

Holidays often hold special meaning for families, filled with traditions, laughter, and costumes pulled from closets or store racks.

For us, Halloween was always a mix of the ordinary and the extraordinary—ordinary in the way my girls dressed up year after year, and extraordinary because Lara’s health challenges meant every celebration required courage, creativity, and resilience.

Lara came home from the hospital on October 7th, 2000—the very same day her big sister, Céline, turned three. She had been admitted at the beginning of July for what became a three-month stay. Those months were filled with multiple surgeries, complications, and an emotional roller coaster that no parent can ever truly prepare for. By the time she was discharged, I was both relieved and fragile, carrying the weight of what we had endured and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

That first Halloween arrived only weeks later. For most families, a baby’s first Halloween is an occasion for sweet costumes and playful photos. For us, it came with “extras” we dreaded—oxygen tubing and a feeding tube. These were new, intimidating, and constant reminders of how different our journey had become. Yet, I wanted so badly to give both of my daughters a sense of normalcy. I wanted them to have joy, to have costumes, to have memories that weren’t just shaped by hospital rooms and medical equipment.

That Halloween also happened to be a follow-up appointment with Lara’s cardiologist at DuPont Hospital. Like so many other appointments, I packed everyone up on my own and headed out for what I knew would be a full-day event. Céline was dressed as Tinker Bell, her little wings bouncing as she walked, and Lara was tucked into her car seat in a bright orange pumpkin costume that seemed to swallow her tiny frame.

The day included an echocardiogram, something we had become familiar with all too quickly. The technician performing it was someone I had built a good rapport with—kind, patient, and always ready with her treasure chest of small gifts for children to choose from when the test was over. It became a sweet ritual between us. I’d rummage through the little toys, always picking something with a bit of sparkle to bring home for Céline, along with something Lara could eventually enjoy. It was a small act of thoughtfulness that made the medical feel just a little lighter.

Lara’s cardiologist was another blessing in those early years. Brilliant, warm, and compassionate, she had a way of making us feel both seen and heard—a rare gift when navigating complex medical care. She explained things carefully, celebrated even the smallest improvements, and treated our family with dignity and respect.

Most of our hospital visits ended with a stop at the gift shop and the cafeteria, and that Halloween was no different. Céline and I would browse the trinkets—stickers, small toys, sometimes something sparkly—and then we’d share a meal together. The cafeteria always served Swedish fish and ice cream, and somehow that became our ritual too. Those little routines grounded us, offering moments of sweetness in the midst of stress.

Walking through the hospital that day, I felt a tangle of emotions: pride at seeing my girls in costume, joy at Céline’s delight, and gratitude that Lara was home and strong enough to be with us after such a long hospitalization. But there was also a quiet grief—for the innocence of what had been lost, for the reality that Lara’s first Halloween was spent in the shadow of follow-up appointments, oxygen tanks, and medical uncertainty.

And yet, DuPont softened the day. The staff greeted the children warmly, the halls were decorated, and treats were passed out with genuine smiles. They created a celebration, even within the walls of a hospital. For that, I was grateful.

Looking back now, I realize that Lara’s first Halloween wasn’t just about costumes or candy. It was about learning to hold both grief and joy in the same moment. It was about finding small pockets of celebration, even on the hardest days. And it was about beginning to understand that, while our family’s path was not the one I had imagined, it was still filled with love, resilience, and the sweetness of memory.