Branson’s Battle: A Little Warrior’s Fight for Life.2085
We’re still deep in the trenches right now… and truthfully, it feels like there’s no way out. Every day seems like an endless loop of heartbreak, a battle that repeats itself with no signs of relief.
Nothing has changed yet. Each time we step into Branson’s room, seeing him so small, so exhausted, our hearts break all over again. The helplessness is almost unbearable.
Today, Branson had to go back on oxygen because his levels were dropping. The doctors ran every test possible, including another chest X-ray, and thankfully, everything came back clear.
They believe this is just another cruel side effect of the relentless adenovirus he cannot seem to shake. It’s like an invisible enemy that never rests, constantly attacking, leaving him drained.
Yesterday, Branson was infused with more donor cells in the hope of giving his immune system an extra boost to fight these viruses. But his little body is just so tired.
He’s not only fighting the adenovirus and all its awful side effects, but the BK virus has returned too. It’s brutal. Every day feels like a new challenge, and sometimes it feels like we’re watching him being crushed by a storm we can’t stop.
Earlier this week, Branson underwent both a colonoscopy and an endoscopy to figure out why he’s in constant pain, vomiting, and struggling with stomach issues.
The results showed his intestines are extremely inflamed, with a significant buildup of fluid and air in his abdomen. That explained so much of the discomfort he’s been enduring. Thankfully, aside from the inflammation and pressure, everything else looked okay.
Branson is sleeping most days, barely eating or drinking, and so frail. We asked again about placing a feeding tube because his body is so malnourished, but the doctors said his platelets are still too low.
With all the vomiting, they feel it’s too risky right now. We’re praying that in the coming days his counts improve enough for them to place one because he desperately needs nutrition and strength.
The doctors have told us that because of all the harsh therapies he endured in the U.S. before coming here, his body is taking an even harder hit than most children do after a transplant.
Watching Branson suffer day after day is gut-wrenching beyond words. Each time he grimaces in pain, we feel every bit of it ourselves. The helplessness is a heavy weight we carry constantly.
We miss home more than words can express. We miss Donald. We miss Maddox and Maggie. We miss our dog. We miss our people, our routines, our life.
Living this nightmare in real time while the rest of the world keeps turning is nearly impossible. We feel like we’re standing still, waiting for some sign of relief for Branson.
Please pray. Pray, pray, and pray again that these new cells will take hold. Pray that Branson’s body will finally turn a corner.
Pray that the viruses will be cleared, the inflammation will calm, his pain will ease, his appetite and vision will return, and his strength will be restored. Branson deserves to feel good again. He deserves to just be a kid again.
We cling to faith, even when it feels impossible. Every single prayer being lifted for Branson carries us through.
They remind us that even in the darkest moments, we are not alone. The love and support pouring in from everyone around us give us the strength to keep going, day after day, minute after minute.
Every message, every prayer, every ounce of love and support means more than we can ever express. We could not make it a single day without each and every one of you. Your words, your care, your hope—they are what keep us standing. They are what keep Branson fighting.
Watching Branson lie there, we feel both helpless and determined. Every breath he takes reminds us of his strength, courage, and resilience.
We have seen Branson smile, even just fleetingly, between the pain and exhaustion. Those brief glimpses of happiness give us hope that one day he will come through this, healthy and strong, able to live the childhood he deserves.
While waiting for that miracle, we stay by Branson’s side, holding his hand, whispering words of love, and sending up every hope and prayer we can muster.
Every day is a battle, but we know we are not alone. The prayers and love from all of you are lifting us, giving us courage, and giving Branson a fighting chance.
And in the quiet moments, when Branson drifts off to sleep, we stand there, listening to his fragile breathing, silently promising that tomorrow will be different.
A day when his body may heal a little more, when the viruses may weaken, when his smile may return. We will not give up. We will continue to pray, to love, and to stand strong until Branson can return to the normal life he deserves.
Every day is a test of faith, a reminder of the fragility and preciousness of life, but also a reminder of the power of hope, love, and community. Branson’s fight is not just his own—it has become ours, yours, and everyone who is holding him in their hearts and prayers.
And together, we continue to hope for that day when he can finally be free from pain, free to be a child, free to live. A day when Branson’s body is strong, his smile is bright, and his childhood is restored to him. We will never give up.
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. 💛
