An hour into my shift caring for elderly people, something deep in my gut told me to check my phone. I couldn’t settle. A mother’s instinct was screaming at me—something was wrong with my 2-year-old daughter, Harper-Lee.
Before I left for work, Harper had been tired. That wasn’t strange in itself—she’d spent the morning dancing around the living room to music and was her usual energetic, sassy self. I tucked her into my bed for a rest and handed over childcare to my older daughters, Jamie-Leigh, then 18, and Kyla-Shannon, 13. I had no reason to believe anything was out of the ordinary.
But when I finally reached into my bag and unlocked my phone, I was met with dozens of missed calls from Jamie-Leigh—and one message that chilled me: the only legible word was “blood.”
Immediately, I panicked. I assumed our dog must have bitten Harper. But the reality was far worse.
I called Jamie-Leigh. The moment the video connected, I saw my baby girl covered in blood, pouring from her mouth. I screamed and ran out of work—I was only two minutes down the road. By the time I got home, the ambulance had already arrived. Paramedics looked stunned. One even said they had never seen anything like it. There was blood mixed with bright green fluid, and no one knew why.
Earlier that day, Harper had been happy. She was watching TV and dancing around as I got ready for work. She was tired, yes, but nothing that raised alarm bells. As I sat beside her in the hospital later that day, doctors initially suspected her tonsils had burst—she had a history of septic tonsillitis.
They took her down to the operating theater, and she looked at me and said, “Mommy, I need you.” That was the last thing she ever said to me.
Three and a half hours later, the heart surgeon came out. “It’s not her tonsils,” he said. “It’s a button battery.”
That tiny, coin-sized object had become lodged in Harper’s esophagus. Its acid had burned a hole through her main artery. He returned to surgery to try to save her, but four hours later, he came back and said the words that still ring in my ears: “I’m sorry.”
I screamed “No!” I didn’t need an explanation. My baby was gone.
Harper-Lee died of cardiac arrhythmia—a result of the internal bleeding and damage caused by that battery.
It’s been four years since that day, May 21, but it still feels like yesterday. I relive it constantly. The police investigated and discovered the battery had come from an LED light remote purchased online from China. The compartment wasn’t screwed shut. Harper had managed to remove the battery and swallow it without anyone noticing.
Since then, I’ve been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and depression. But my grief has fueled a mission.
I’ve dedicated my life to raising awareness of the dangers of button batteries. I’ve shared Harper’s story across social media, under @stacybambam. I’ve met with parliament, campaigned for policy change, and collaborated with battery manufacturers to push for safer designs and proper warnings.
The backlash hasn’t been easy. I’ve been harassed by trolls who called me a murderer and blamed me for what happened. But I didn’t know. No one told me these everyday objects—found in toys, remotes, and household gadgets—could be deadly.
Now, I’ll never stop telling Harper-Lee’s story. Not just for her, but for every family that might still have a chance to avoid what we’ve lived through. Parents need to know: keep button batteries out of reach. Check your devices. Speak out. No child should die this way.
My daughter’s life was short, but her legacy will be long. I promised her that.
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