Zander’s Journey – Fighting Through the Hardest Days with Unbreakable Strength 💛
It’s been a rough one. These last few days have felt heavier than most, and our little warrior has been fighting so hard. Zander came down with the rhino virus — the common cold, but for him, nothing about it is ever simple.
What might be a few sniffles for a healthy child becomes a full-blown battle for him. His body, already fragile from chemotherapy, can’t fight infections the way it should.
He’s been under precautions, but recovery is slow. He sleeps most of the day, his small body exhausted from the constant strain.
Then came the mucositis again — the painful sores that make even swallowing unbearable — and all the vomiting returned with it. Every time he moves or gets excited, the nausea starts again. His little stomach just can’t tolerate feeds the way it used to.
For about four days, he couldn’t even handle 5ml of formula an hour. Five milliliters — barely a teaspoon. During that time, all his nutrition came from TPN infusions through his IV.
We try to keep his stomach active, though. Even those tiny 5ml feeds help keep his digestion working, help his body remember what it means to take food, even in the smallest way.
But then came the pain. The usual doses of morphine weren’t enough anymore. His cries told us what no test could — that the pain had grown beyond what he could bear.
So the doctors switched him to a morphine drip. It seems to be helping. He’s finally able to rest a little, though the sight of that constant line running into his arm breaks our hearts every time.
His breathing has been difficult too. His chest sounds congested — each breath heavy and uneven. They did an X-ray yesterday, and thankfully it doesn’t look like pneumonia.
The extra fluid in his lungs is being managed with Lasix, but he’s still needing oxygen at night. Thursday night was especially terrifying. His oxygen levels dropped to 86%.
We tried everything — blow-by oxygen, holding the mask near his face, turning it up high — but it wouldn’t go past 92%. Eventually, the doctors had to move him to a nasal cannula so the oxygen could go directly into his nose.
It helped, but it was one of those nights that makes your heart stop with fear. Watching your child struggle to breathe… it’s something no parent ever forgets.
During the day, he’s been doing better. As long as we keep the head of the bed raised, his oxygen levels stay steady, and we get these tiny pockets of calm where he can just rest and be himself again.
Then there’s his blood pressure. It’s been high lately — just high enough to make the doctors watch closely, to make us hold our breath every time the cuff tightens on his arm.
The kidney team wants to wait before starting any medication, to see if it’s just a reaction to the infection or the fluid buildup. If needed, they’ll do an ultrasound to check the blood flow to his kidneys.
He’s on so many medications already, and so many of them can affect the kidneys. It’s a constant balancing act — how much is too much, and what can we do to protect what’s left. So far, his kidney tests are just below the threshold, but with one more round of chemo coming, we don’t know what that will look like next time.
And now, the MRI. It’s coming up on Tuesday — the big one. The scan that will tell us how much of the cancer has responded to treatment, how much of it is still there, how far we’ve come, and how far we still have to go.
I (Mom) won’t be there when it happens, and just writing that makes my heart ache. I’m finishing my EMR course in Langley — one more week left — and I can’t miss class. But I’ve always been there when they put him to sleep for procedures. Always. The thought of not being there this time… it’s breaking me.
Zander has one more round of chemotherapy ahead — the big one, the stem cell transplant. The doctors call it “the big kahuna,” because it’s as intense as it gets.
This treatment will wipe out his immune system completely. Every bit of protection he’s ever had, even from his baby vaccinations, will be gone. He’ll have no immunity at all. It’s terrifying, but it’s the best chance we have to beat this once and for all.
Still, in the middle of all this fear, there are moments of light. His brothers and sisters are here with us. The room gets noisy and chaotic when they visit, and sometimes Zander has to ask for quiet time, but you can see the joy in his face when they walk in.
His smile — that small, beautiful smile — lights up everything. It’s the kind of smile that gives you hope when you’re running out of it.
Through it all, he’s still teaching us what strength really means. He’s been through so much — more than most adults could endure — and yet he keeps going. His bravery keeps us strong too. Every time we start to break, we look at him, and som
ehow, we find the strength to keep standing.
We are endlessly grateful for the love and support surrounding us. From family, friends, nurses, doctors, and kind strangers — every word, every message, every prayer has helped us get through days like these. We could never do this alone.
And if you’ve ever thought about donating blood — please, please do. Zander has received 11 transfusions this week alone. Eleven. Each one giving him another day, another chance, another breath. He is just one child among hundreds in this hospital who rely on donated blood to stay alive. Blood donation truly, literally saves lives.
We don’t know what the next few weeks will bring — the MRI results, the next round of treatment, the stem cell transplant. We know it won’t be easy. But we also know we’re not giving up. Not now, not ever.
Because Zander — our brave, beautiful boy — is still fighting. He’s still smiling. And as long as he does, we’ll keep fighting right alongside him.
💛 Our little warrior isn’t done yet. The road is long, but so is his courage.
Read more about Zander’s journey below — and keep him in your thoughts as he faces his next battle. 🌷
Holding On to Hope – Hazel’s Battle Continues.2175
Just a little update — though “little” never quite feels like the right word when it comes to Hazel. Every update carries the weight of fear, hope, and a thousand silent prayers.
We received the results of her most recent MIBG scan this week. At first, I thought I’d gotten used to the waiting, to the endless cycle of tests and results. But that familiar pit in my stomach still shows up every time I see the doctor’s number on the caller ID.
When the scan report came back, it said there were new spots of disease. Those words hit like a punch to the chest. My heart sank instantly. After everything she’s been through, after all the treatments and the tiny steps forward, to hear that there might be new disease — it’s unbearable.
Being concerned, I reached out to Hazel’s medical team right away. I needed to understand what was really happening. Later that day, they returned my call — but I missed it by seconds. When I played back the voicemail, the doctor’s voice sounded calm, even optimistic.
They said they were encouraged by her scan results. That after reviewing everything again with the radiologist, they believed the treatment was helping.
I must have listened to that message five times in a row, trying to understand what they meant. How could there be new spots, and yet they still think it’s good news? How could things look worse on paper but still be considered progress?
Maybe they compared this scan to July’s PET scan, I thought. Maybe what looks like “new disease” on the MIBG is actually old activity that didn’t show up before. Maybe it’s not truly new growth — just the treatment revealing what was already there.
I’d like to believe that. I need to believe that.
Still, I can’t help but question it. If she actually had several new and growing areas of disease, why would they keep her on the same treatment? There has to be an explanation — a reason behind their optimism that I can’t yet see.
I’ve reached out again for clarification but haven’t heard back yet. The waiting — it’s always the hardest part. The in-between moments when your mind races faster than your heart can keep up.
In the meantime, we got partial results from her bone marrow biopsies. On one side, where she previously had 50% disease involvement, it’s now zero. Completely clear. That felt like a small miracle. The other side, though — the one that had 30% last time — is still at 30%. No worse, but not better either.
It’s strange how relief and worry can live side by side like that. One number brings hope, the other uncertainty. But I’m learning to hold both at once — to celebrate the progress while praying for what’s still unfinished.
And here’s the beautiful part — Hazel feels good.
She isn’t throwing up. She’s eating again. She’s playing, giggling, and making silly faces at her nurses. Her laughter fills the hospital halls like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. If you didn’t know her story, you’d never guess the battle happening inside her tiny body.
That’s Hazel — pure strength wrapped in innocence.
She’ll start her next round of treatment on Monday. I’m planning to talk with her team that morning, to ask the questions that keep circling in my head — to understand their thought process, their plan, their faith in this path. I need to know that every step we’re taking is truly moving us forward.
And yet, even as I prepare for those difficult conversations, there’s this unshakable calm inside me. A whisper that says, Keep believing. Because time and time again, we’ve seen things shift in ways that can’t be explained by medicine alone.\
There’s something greater at work.
Hazel’s story has never been simple, but it’s always been filled with grace — the kind that shows up when everything else feels impossible. I’ve watched her body grow weak, then find strength again. I’ve seen her eyes light up even after nights filled with tears. I’ve seen the power of prayer move in ways that even her doctors can’t quite describe.
So yes — today, I’m still anxious. I’m still confused. I still have a million questions that no one can answer yet. But I’m also holding tight to faith. Because I believe in miracles — the kind that leave doctors speechless and hearts changed forever.
Hazel’s smile is proof of that.
She is more than her scans. More than the numbers and charts and reports. She’s a child — a bright, loving, incredible little girl who dances between fear and joy with a bravery that humbles everyone around her.
This journey is long, uncertain, and often cruel. But we’re not walking it alone. Every message, every prayer, every whisper of hope from friends and strangers — it all matters. It all lifts us a little higher when the weight feels too heavy to bear.
So please, keep praying for Hazel.
Pray for a miraculous healing — one that shocks her doctors, one that defies logic and science. Because God can.
And until then, we’ll keep believing.
We’ll keep hoping.
And we’ll keep fighting — together. 💛
