Zander’s Fight – Brave, Fragile, and Full of Hope.
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. 🌷
Eryka’s Story – A Mother’s Plea From the Oncology Ward.2207
Eryka’s Story – A Mother’s Plea From the Oncology Ward
I am writing these words with trembling hands and a heart full of pain. For months now, our lives have been consumed by a nightmare from which I cannot wake. We live inside a hospital room on the oncology ward, where every hour feels like a battlefield and every day another war with suffering that words cannot truly describe.
In January, our fragile world collapsed once again. The doctors told us that new metastases had appeared. I can still hear the echo of those words in my mind, like a bell ringing at the end of hope. Everything changed in an instant. The hope I had been holding onto with all my strength began to crumble in my hands like dry leaves.
The doctors prescribed two more cycles of chemotherapy. It was supposed to be our chance — a path forward, however painful, to shrink the tumors and give Eryka another chance at life. We endured those weeks with a strange combination of fear and determination. Each hospital visit, each blood draw, each night of nausea and tears — all of it was for the hope of better news.
But in March, when the next tests came, our hearts sank. The results showed that while the tumors had shrunk slightly, they were still there. The disease had not disappeared. The enemy was still inside my little girl’s body. The doctors decided to start an even more aggressive treatment — chemoimmunotherapy. A word that sounds clinical and technical, but for us it meant one thing: even stronger medicine, even more pain, even deeper uncertainty.
This is hell on earth. There is no other way to describe it. My daughter, my little Eryka, is only a child, yet she endures pain so intense that even the strongest painkillers no longer bring relief. She moans in her sleep. Her small body stiffens, her face contorts, and she squeezes my hand with all the strength she has left, as if holding onto me can make the pain stop.
I spend nights sitting next to her hospital bed, watching the monitors beep and the IV drips empty into her veins. I watch her tiny chest rise and fall with effort. During treatment her oxygen saturation drops, her blood pressure sinks. Her lips turn pale. She is becoming a shadow of the girl she was only a few months ago.
I remember her laughter — bright, high-pitched, filling the house like sunshine. I remember her running barefoot across the grass, hair flying behind her, cheeks red with excitement. That girl feels like a dream now, distant and untouchable. Eryka no longer wants to eat. She no longer wants to drink. She rarely smiles. The hospital room has become her world, and pain her constant companion.
And me? I am here, beside her, helpless. I am her mother, and she clings to me as if I were her anchor in a storm. She will not let me go even for a moment. She holds my hand, she needs to feel my presence, she needs to know that I am here — always. But I am exhausted. I am alone here. There is no one to take over when I collapse, no one to hold her when I cannot. My body is tired, my spirit is tired, but I cannot stop. She is my child. I cannot fail her.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the machines beep and her breath becomes shallow, I feel like I am standing on the edge of an abyss. I whisper prayers I didn’t even know I remembered. I beg for strength. I beg for one more day with her. One more chance to see her smile again without pain.
We are fighting with everything we have, but our resources — emotional, physical, and financial — are running out. The treatments are expensive, the travel to the hospital is constant, the medications are endless. And the pain — the pain is unimaginable. Eryka’s body is so small, so fragile, and yet she endures what would break an adult.
I am asking you, begging you, from the bottom of my heart: please help us. Please stand with us in this fight. Your support is the only hope we have left that this nightmare might one day end. Without you, we cannot continue. With you, maybe — just maybe — my daughter will have a chance at life beyond the hospital walls.
When I hold Eryka in my arms, even with tubes running from her chest and tape on her little hands, I see the same girl I brought into this world — full of light, full of promise. She deserves a future. She deserves a life without pain.
I know there are many stories like ours. I know there are many children fighting similar battles. But when it’s your child, it feels like the world has shrunk to a single point — her suffering, her face, her hand gripping yours. I cannot give up. I will not give up. But I cannot do this alone.
Please, help us continue Eryka’s treatment. Help us buy the medications, pay for the hospital stays, fund the next steps of therapy that might give her a chance to live. Please help me ease her suffering. Every contribution, every prayer, every word of support matters more than you can imagine.
Thank you, from the depths of my heart, to everyone who has been with us so far. Thank you to those who have sent kind messages, who have donated, who have prayed. Without you, we would have lost hope long ago. Because of you, we are still fighting. Because of you, Eryka still has a chance.
But the road ahead is long, and it is steep. Please walk it with us.
With love and desperation,
Erkeaiym Duulatbekova — Eryka’s mother
