This article first appeared in the Miami Herald in collaboration with the Lee Caplin School of Journalism and Media.
The sharp pain in Yordanka Fernandez’s abdomen had been worsening for days. Four days after being dismissed by her doctors with a diagnosis of gastritis, the pregnant Miami woman’s water suddenly broke. It was too early — far too early.
At just 26 weeks pregnant, she rushed to the hospital, terrified for her baby. Her placenta had detached, leaving her unborn son, Nicholas Katrib, without oxygen for those four critical days that would forever change both of their lives.
“I was scared out of my mind,” Fernandez recalls, her eyes brimming with tears. “I didn’t know if he was going to make it. No one did.”
Katrib was born via emergency C-section on Christmas Eve of 2006, weighing just one pound and measuring 11 inches long. The lack of oxygen for those 96 hours put him in the hospital’s neonatal intensive care unit for four months, after which he was diagnosed with cerebral palsy.
“He was so small,” Fernandez says looking through one of the many photo albums she has of Katrib in their Hialeah home. “I knew I had to fight just as hard for him as he was fighting to stay alive.”
Now 48, Fernandez has spent nearly 18 years as Nicholas’s full-time caregiver. From physical therapy to medical appointments and surgeries, she has managed it all with determination and positive energy. She ensured that Katrib had every opportunity to grow stronger and live as comfortably as possible.
But as puberty hit, their lives took a challenging turn. Hormonal changes worsened Katrib’s autism, triggering sudden and severe behavioral challenges. Unable to communicate his frustration, he became aggressive and unpredictable, often lashing out at those around him, including his mom.
“It was like he was trapped inside himself,” Fernandez says. “He couldn’t communicate what he was feeling, and it came out in anger. It broke my heart to see him like that.”
For nearly four years, he refused to let anyone near him. These behavioral challenges forced him to stop therapy and exercise—activities crucial for managing his condition. Without them, his scoliosis, which had been mild, worsened rapidly.
Finally, in January of this year, he was prescribed the correct medication, significantly reducing his aggression. For Fernandez, this change brought some peace, as her son felt like himself again.
However, because of years without proper physical therapy, his spine has severely curved, and doctors warn that surgery may be the only option. But with Katrib’s low bone density, the procedure could be life-threatening. The alternative is 16 weeks of intensive physical therapy, which could help avoid the need for surgery altogether.
“I don’t know what else to do,” Fernandez says, her eyes fixed on her son. “I can’t afford it, and I’ve done everything I can, but it’s just not enough anymore.”
Katrib, who finds joy in small pleasures like a cafecito and listening to the Cuban reggaeton duo Gente De Zona, is a sweet soul who loves his mother more than anything.
“We’re like a retired old couple,” says Fernandez. “Talking and sitting on the couch all day.”
Despite the challenges, Fernandez remains her son’s tireless advocate, caring for him every day and ensuring he has everything he needs.
“He’s all I have,” she says. “I live for him. He’s my everything.”
Social workers at Nicklaus Children’s Hospital, including Maria Mendez and Belkis Pereira, have been working with Fernandez for a couple of months to connect her with the necessary resources.
“Our mission is to bridge the gap between families and the services they need, whether it’s therapy, financial aid, or emotional support,” said Mendez.
Still, the options available for Katrib’s case are limited.
“The resources available to patients outside the hospital are more limited,” said Dr. Jose Roza, assistant director of patient and family services, who has worked at the hospital since 1985. “We explore every resource and link them to the families, but most of the time, it’s out of our hands.”
The hospital nominated Katrib for inclusion in the Miami Herald/el Nuevo Herald Wish Book program.
As Katrib approaches his 18th birthday, Fernandez worries about what lies ahead. His scoliosis continues to progress, and without therapy, it could soon reach a point of no return.
“He wouldn’t survive the surgery,” she says plainly. “Therapy is his only chance.”
Despite her fears and exhaustion, Fernandez holds onto hope. She reflects on the journey they’ve shared, from the moment her water broke to their quiet companionship on the couch.
“I’ve done everything in my power for him,” she says. “I will continue to do that till I’m gone.”
From Wish Book, Yordanka and Nicholas request help paying for the 16-week therapy sessions that might help him avoid surgery and live the rest of his life alongside his mom.
For families like theirs, the Wish Book program is a chance to rewrite their story.
