We’ve just passed what would have been Day 15 of Cycle 3, another day that was supposed to include chemotherapy for Harper. But after a severe reaction to one of her medications earlier, the doctors decided to stop that part of the plan. Instead, we’ve entered a period of rest and recovery, waiting for Cycle 4 to begin.
Yesterday, we walked into the day full of hope, thinking we might finally get some home leave. The idea of stepping into our familiar home, feeling the softness of our bed, hearing the comforting background hum of normal life—it was almost tangible in our minds. But in an instant, those plans fell apart. Harper’s blood levels were too low, and she needed another platelet transfusion.
Then her temperature spiked again. Even if her counts had been okay, the fever alone would have kept us in the hospital. That moment hit us like a punch to the chest. It was a hard, painful lesson: don’t put all your eggs in one basket. This is the reality of the journey—plans can change in seconds, and you have to adapt, fast, or you’ll be swept away by the storm of emotions.
Right now, aside from her blood counts, Harper is struggling with severe soreness caused by the chemotherapy still leaving her system. As it exits her body, it irritates her skin, leaving painful rashes, burns, and open sores. Something as simple as using the bathroom becomes excruciating. You might think, “It’s just skin irritation,” but in this journey, these moments are monumental—they test you in ways you can’t imagine.
Hearing your little one scream in agony, cry, and tell you to “go away” or “you’re hurting me” when all you’re trying to do is help… it shatters you. Of course, she doesn’t mean it, but it still hurts to hear. Seeing your child so helpless, so small and vulnerable in the face of pain, is gut-wrenching. It’s a unique kind of heartbreak that doesn’t fade, no matter how many times you see her bravely fight through it.
We share these updates not for sympathy, and certainly not for comparison. This is a way to document Harper’s story and our journey as parents, and to keep those who care informed. Every child’s path through childhood cancer is different, and no story should ever be compared. Each tear, each wound, each small triumph is unique and sacred.
When Harper lies on the hospital bed, curling herself up against the sheets, I am reminded of the early days when the doctors first delivered the diagnosis. The fear, the confusion, the utter helplessness—it was like being pulled under a wave that refused to let go.
Every day since then has brought a new challenge: from the first injections to long hospital stays, to the constant anxiety over the side effects of medication. You might think that once the first hurdle is over, life gets easier. But each stage brings new trials, no less harsh than the last.
The skin irritation from chemotherapy leaving her system has made Harper afraid of using the bathroom, and each diaper change becomes a battlefield of pain versus patience.
Sometimes, she squeezes her eyes shut, tightens her lips, and tries not to cry—but the whimpers escape anyway, and it pierces our hearts. Each time we clean and change her, we feel both helpless and determined. We have to do it, to protect her from infection, to keep her body safe.
In the quiet moments, when Harper finally drifts to sleep in our arms, I see courage in her tiny eyes that is rare even among adults. Her body is weak, worn down by pain, yet her spirit refuses to give in. She manages weak smiles when she sees a toy we brought to brighten her long days in the hospital. Those small smiles, fleeting as they may be, give us strength—they remind us why we must continue, why giving up is never an option.
We’ve also learned a lot about patience and the strength within ourselves. Before all this, planning, organizing, thinking about the future seemed simple. But living in the reality of a hospital, of chemotherapy, of constant change, makes everything fragile.
You learn to let go of what you cannot control, to live with uncertainty, to wait for better days. Sometimes, even a few hours of peace—Harper sleeping soundly, without fever or pain—is enough to feel immensely grateful.
Yesterday, when our plan to go home fell apart, we cried. Not for ourselves, but for her, for the hardship she endures. But then we took a deep breath, held each other’s hands, and reminded ourselves that each passing day is a small victory.
Each fever that comes down, each blood count that stabilizes, each burn or rash that fades slightly… these are victories that deserve recognition.
We still hope to get home for at least a couple of days next week. Even just a few days—to see the familiar corners of our home, to let Harper play on the floor instead of the hospital bed, to prepare a meal for her, to feel the rhythm of normal family life again—these are big goals. We have learned to treasure the small moments, the tiny laughs, the meals that don’t come with IVs or the hum of machines.
Through all this, we understand that this journey is not just Harper’s—it’s ours too. It’s the journey of parents learning to love and protect unconditionally, to live in uncertainty, and to find joy even in the darkest days.
We know there will still be many challenges ahead—long days, sleepless nights, more pain, more tears—but we also know that human resilience and love are limitless.
We write these days down not as complaints, but as records, reminders that each moment, even the painful ones, is part of the story. Harper’s story, the story of a brave child, of parents who will never leave her side, not for a second. Every time we look into her small eyes, we see the reason to keep going, the hope for the future—a future that, while still uncertain, is full of love and possibility.
So we take it one day at a time, one hour at a time, one moment at a time. There is no magic that lasts forever, but the peaceful moments, the little smiles, the hugs that linger… these are the real magic in our eyes.
And we will continue this journey, with patience and strength, hoping for the day we can go home, see Harper run across the floor, and hear her laugh—really laugh, without pain, without fear.
We believe that no matter how difficult the path, love and perseverance will guide the way. Until that day comes, we will continue writing this story, chapter by chapter, page by page, so we never forget how brave Harper has been, and how much we have learned from her—about courage, patience, and unconditional love.
