Plano, Texas, 2016. Margaret Boemer, a mom of two young daughters, sat in the ultrasound room for what she thought would be a joyful routine scan at 16 weeks. She was pregnant with twins, but heartbreakingly, one had already been lost earlier in the pregnancy. Now, as the technician grew quiet and stepped out, Margaret’s heart sank.

The doctor returned with grave news. “Mrs. Boemer, there’s a large mass on your baby’s tailbone—a sacrococcygeal teratoma. It’s rare, about one in 40,000 pregnancies, and it’s growing fast. It’s stealing blood from the baby, putting enormous strain on her tiny heart.”

Margaret’s voice cracked as she asked, “What does that mean? Can we fix it?”

Other doctors had been blunt: terminate the pregnancy. The risks were too high. But Margaret and her husband Jeff refused. “We wanted to give her life,” Margaret later said. Desperate, they sought a second opinion at Texas Children’s Hospital in Houston.

There, they met Dr. Darrell Cass and his partner, Dr. Oluyinka Olutoye—co-directors of the Fetal Center, both seasoned in the delicate world of surgery on unborn babies. Dr. Cass leaned forward, his expression serious but hopeful. “This tumor is competing with your baby for blood flow. It’s like a race—and right now, the tumor is winning. Her heart is starting to fail.”

Margaret gripped Jeff’s hand. “Is there anything we can do?”

Dr. Olutoye, the Nigerian-born surgeon with a calm, steady presence honed from years of high-stakes operations, spoke next. “We can attempt open fetal surgery. We’ll make an incision in your uterus, partially deliver the baby—just enough to access the tumor—remove as much as we can, and then place her back inside. The placenta will keep providing oxygen and nutrients. It’s extremely risky—for both of you. There’s a chance of preterm labor, bleeding, or worse. And for the baby… maybe a 50% chance of survival.”

The room fell silent. Margaret looked at Jeff, tears in her eyes. “Lynlee doesn’t have much of a chance without it,” she whispered. “The tumor is shutting her heart down. It’s an easy decision for us—we want to give her life.”

Dr. Cass nodded. “Then let’s fight for her.”

By 23 weeks and 5 days, time was running out. The tumor had grown nearly as large as the fetus herself—Lynlee weighed just over a pound, the mass almost matching it. In the operating room, a team of over 20 gathered: surgeons, anesthesiologists, nurses, all moving with precise urgency.

Margaret, under anesthesia, lay still as the incision opened her abdomen and uterus. Warm fluid was pumped in to mimic the amniotic environment. Then, carefully, the surgeons brought out Lynlee’s lower body and the massive tumor attached to her tailbone, keeping her head and upper torso inside, still connected to the umbilical cord and placenta—like a lifeline to another world.

The OR was tense, monitors beeping softly. Dr. Olutoye took the lead scalpel. “Steady,” he murmured to the team. “We have to remove most of this without compromising her blood flow.”

As they dissected the vascular tumor—feeding off Lynlee like a parasite—the unthinkable happened. Her tiny heart faltered and stopped.

“Cardiac arrest!” a nurse called out.

The room froze for a split second. Dr. Cass compressed gently while the team worked frantically. “Come on, little one,” Dr. Olutoye said under his breath. “Fight.” They restarted her heart, transfused blood directly into her fragile vessels.

Minutes felt like hours. Finally, they resected nearly all the tumor. “Good work,” Dr. Olutoye said quietly. “Now, back home.”

With exquisite care, they tucked Lynlee back into the uterus, closed the delicate tissues watertight to prevent rupture, and stitched Margaret up. “It’s kind of a miracle,” Dr. Cass later reflected, “that you’re able to open the uterus like that, seal it all back, and the whole thing works.”

Margaret spent the next 12 weeks on strict bed rest in Houston, far from home, praying through every contraction scare. “It was very difficult,” she recalled. “But worth every pain.”

On June 6, 2016, at 36 weeks, Lynlee Hope Boemer was born the second time—via C-section, a healthy 5 pounds, 5 ounces, crying vigorously. Eight days later, a quick follow-up surgery removed the tiny remaining tumor bits.

Today, Lynlee is a thriving toddler—crawling everywhere, babbling words, eating like a champ, and hitting every milestone. No heart issues, no lasting scars from her extraordinary journey.

Dr. Olutoye, humble as ever, once said, “It’s a privilege to care for these families. These are babies that are essentially dying—we give them a chance.”

Margaret smiles when she looks at her daughter. “She was born twice. And every day, I’m grateful we chose to fight for her second beginning.”

In the annals of medicine, Lynlee’s story stands as a testament: sometimes, with courage, skill, and unyielding hope, science doesn’t just save a life—it grants it a miraculous do-over before it even truly starts. 👶✨