Halloween used to mean magic.
It used to mean pumpkin-shaped candy buckets, giggles echoing through the crisp autumn air, and the kind of sugar-fueled joy only childhood can hold. But this year, in a quiet house lit softly by orange string lights, Halloween feels different — heavier, quieter, and achingly tender.
Because this Halloween, little Cylus isn’t out trick-or-treating with his friends.
He’s curled up on the couch, exhausted from more than just an ear infection.
He’s fighting cancer.
A Different Kind of Hero
When Cylus first lost his hair to chemotherapy, his parents tried to find a way to laugh through the heartbreak.
They joked he’d make the perfect “Mr. Clean” for Halloween — bald head, big grin, and all.
But that was months ago, before the infection, before the fatigue set in, before Halloween became just another reminder of how different life is now.
“He doesn’t need a superhero costume,” his mom said softly. “He’s a real one every day.”
And she’s right.
Every day, Cylus wakes up to face battles most adults couldn’t bear — needles, scans, the dizzying waves of nausea, the fear that creeps in between moments of hope.
Yet even on the days when his little body trembles with pain, his spirit glows.
He smiles for his parents.
He tells his baby brother stories.
He still dreams about candy and pumpkins and silly ghosts.
That’s what makes him a hero — not the cape, but the courage.
The Year Everything Changed
Just one year ago, life was different.
His mom remembers it vividly — the crunch of leaves underfoot, the sight of her boys running down the familiar streets of her childhood neighborhood, the sound of laughter mingling with the autumn wind.
That Halloween, they were celebrating her mother’s own battle with cancer. It had been an emotional season, but there was still joy, still light, still a sense of normalcy.
She didn’t know then that it would be their last “normal” Halloween.
Within months, Cylus would be diagnosed with a tumor on the left side of his head — the same side where he now battles a stubborn ear infection. The same side that reminds his mother of everything they’ve lost, and everything they still refuse to give up.
When the doctors said the word “tumor,” the air left the room.
But Cylus — sweet, brave, endlessly resilient Cylus — faced it the way he faces everything: with quiet strength and a mischievous grin that seems to whisper,
You’re going to have to do better than that to take me down.
The Reality of What Childhood Cancer Steals
People talk about what cancer takes — health, energy, hair.
But those who’ve lived it know it’s so much more than that.
It steals the ordinary days.
The little rituals that make up a childhood: running in the yard, playing tag, trick-or-treating until bedtime, waking up to a pillowcase full of candy.
It steals the chance to be carefree.
