Monday was the first day of immunotherapy.
Antibody treatment—it’s no joke.
We had read about the possible side effects.
We had listened to the doctors’ explanations.
We had prepared ourselves the best we could.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepares you for watching your child go through it.
By Monday night, it felt like we were back in some of the hardest days of transplant.
It felt like those nights when sleep was impossible and fear was constant.
About three to four hours after starting treatment, Lennon began to cry out.
She was in pain—deep, unrelenting pain.
They told us this was not uncommon, that many kids react this way.
But hearing the words “not uncommon” doesn’t make it easier when it’s your baby.
She was already on her PCA, her morphine pump.
We gave a few extra boluses.
We upped the drip dosage.
We tried to get ahead of the pain, but pain always seems to find a way through.
Finally, her body gave in, and she drifted into sleep.
Her lashes lay still on her cheeks.
Her chest rose and fell, a steady rhythm that gave me something to cling to.
For a brief moment, I thought maybe, just maybe, we had passed the worst.
But peace here is fragile.
It always breaks.
Soon, we realized she wasn’t emptying her bladder.
Hours passed.
Nothing.
And then—the fever came.
Not just a low-grade rise.
Not just a number you could brush aside.
No, this was the kind of fever that sends alarms ringing in your head.
104.5.
104.9.
Again.
Fevers in cancer kids are never simple.
No matter what the cause, every fever means procedures.
Every fever means risk.
She had to be accessed by her port—a needle so big it always makes her flinch.
On top of the central line she already had.
I hate it.
I hate the sound she makes when the needle pierces.
I hate that her little body has to endure so much, again and again.
The fever soaked her body in sweat.
Her hair damp, her clothes sticking to her skin.
We had to change her dressing just hours later because everything was drenched.
Her body was fighting, but in that fight, it was also hurting itself.
By 11 p.m., she still hadn’t peed.
The decision was made.
A Foley catheter.
Two attempts.
Two painful procedures.
Two moments of helplessness for me as her mother.
And still, I found myself questioning—was it the pain meds?
Was it the antibodies?
Was it both together?
Every decision feels like a gamble.
Every choice feels like stepping into darkness, praying you are guiding your child toward healing, not harm.
As the night went on, she became less responsive.
Her eyes, once so full of light, would barely open.
She was hard to wake.
We had to change her pain meds again, searching for a balance that didn’t exist.
And then came the moment that terrified me most.
When we accessed her port, when we inserted the Foley, she only opened her eyes once.
Just once.
Normally, those procedures would take five adults holding her down.
But this time, she didn’t fight.
She didn’t resist.
And that silence, that stillness, was more frightening than any scream.
Yesterday, she needed oxygen.
A thin cannula framed her tiny face, her breaths shallow but steady.
Every breath mattered.
Every breath was counted.
She’s also been dealing with nausea—waves of it, more intense than we ever expected.
Nausea that drains what little energy she still holds.
It has been a long, hard week.
And we are only halfway through.
Halfway through the cycle of treatments, pain, adjustments, and endless prayers.
I keep whispering the same words.
Please, God, let the fever come down.
Please, no more vomiting.
Please, no new symptoms.
Simple prayers.
Desperate prayers.
Because here, hope comes in small mercies.
A fever breaking.
A smile through the pain.
A brief moment of rest.
We cling to those mercies like lifelines.
We cling to them as proof that light still breaks through the dark.
And we cling to each other.
In the middle of all this, my sweet best friend made a post.
She talked about Door Dash cards.
It may seem like a small thing, but it was a gift of relief.
Because when you’re running on empty, when your body and spirit are exhausted, a simple meal feels like grace.
We are so grateful.
And last night, as I sat by Lennon’s bedside, I thought of the words from Psalms 40:1-3.
“I waited and waited and waited some more, patiently, knowing God would come through for me.
Then, at last, He bent down and listened to my cry.
He stooped down to lift me out of danger from the desolate pit I was in, out of the muddy mess I had fallen into.”
These verses echo in my soul tonight.
Because this is exactly what it feels like.
Waiting.
Crying.
Believing.
And trusting that somehow, some way, He hears.
What a Monday.
What a week.
What a storm.
And yet, what a child.
Lennon—my warrior, my fighter, my heart.
We will get through this.
Together.
Always together.
Every Small Victory Counts in Cylus’ Battle.1105
My sweet pumpkin, Cylus, has shown us once again what courage truly looks like. Over the past few weeks, he’s been undergoing overnight G-tube feedings, a lifeline that ensures every single calorie counts when your body is waging war against a monster like cancer. Watching him fight, often without complaint, is nothing short of inspiring.
Since starting these feedings, Cylus has gained back almost five pounds—a small number to some, but to us, it represents hope, resilience, and determination. Every ounce is a victory. Every meal delivered through that tiny tube is a testament to his unrelenting spirit. He doesn’t always feel strong. Some days, he barely wants to get out of bed. But still, he fights. He pushes through the fatigue,the nausea, and the pain because he wants to live, because he wants to win.
