“Chasing Fevers, Finding Hope”. 3196

We’re still in the hospital.It’s been days now—since Monday—and somehow time here feels slower, heavier, as if the walls themselves hold their breath waiting for the next beep, the next lab result, the next fever.

Lily has been having those annoying neutropenic fevers again, though thankfully they’re getting further apart. She spiked one yesterday around 3:30 in the afternoon, and another early this morning just before six.

Even though we know it’s “just” a neutropenic fever, they still drew blood cultures—Monday and again on Tuesday. Both came back with no growth. Still, they keep her on antibiotics, “just in case.”

I understand why. But deep down, I worry.

Because the last time she stayed on antibiotics too long, we ended up with C-Diff—a painful infection that left her weak and dehydrated, keeping us in this same hospital for nearly two extra weeks. I don’t want to relive that nightmare.

So I told the doctor, as gently as I could,

“If the cultures keep coming back clean, maybe we can take her off soon?”

He looked at the chart, then back at me, and smiled the kind of smile doctors give when they understand both your fear and your exhaustion.

“Let’s give it another day,” he said softly. “If there’s no sign of infection, we can stop.”

And just like that, I felt a little bit lighter.

---

Yesterday, Lily received her

final dose of Vincristine for cycle seven of chemotherapy.
Seven.
I still can’t believe we’ve made it this far.

Each cycle has been its own mountain—filled with nausea, transfusions, low counts, hospital stays, and endless waiting. Watching her go through it sometimes feels unbearable, and yet, she handles it with a grace I’ll never understand.

Now we have just one more cycle left.
Her final one.

If all goes well, it’ll start sometime in early or mid-November, depending on how quickly her blood counts recover. This particular cycle always takes her a little longer—her body needs time to rebuild what chemo has stripped away.

This morning, they drew labs again. The nurse handed me the printout, a sheet of paper filled with black numbers and acronyms that, over time, I’ve learned to read like a second language:

• Neutrophils: 81.2 (up from 40 yesterday)

• WBC: 0.2 (up from 0.1 yesterday)

• Hemoglobin: 8.3 (was 8.7)

• Platelets: 5 (down from 13)

I looked at the numbers, my heart rising and sinking all at once. Neutrophils up—that’s good. Platelets down—that’s not. It meant she’d need another transfusion today.

To someone else, those numbers might just be statistics. To me, they’re a map of hope and worry, a language of survival.

---

We’re pushing to go home tomorrow.

If she can make it through the night without another fever, we just might make it. I asked the doctor this morning, trying to sound calm:

“If she’s fever-free tonight, can we go home tomorrow?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“If things stay stable, yes.”

That word—home—has never sounded so beautiful.

 

We’ve been stuck here for days, doing exactly what I could be doing at home: watching for fevers, logging temperatures, giving Tylenol. Except here, everything feels sterile and suspended—no sunlight streaming through our kitchen window, no soft laughter from her little brother, no smell of pancakes in the morning.

Just the constant hum of hospital machines and the rhythmic squeak of nurses’ shoes on polished floors.

I know this place keeps her safe. But I also know healing doesn’t only happen inside hospital walls. Sometimes, it happens in the small comforts of home—the warmth of a blanket that smells like detergent you love, the soft murmur of your family moving through the house.

That’s what I want for her. Just a few days of normal.

So I’m praying—silently, constantly—that there will be no more fevers today.

---

Last night, something beautiful happened.

It was close to sunset, and the fluorescent lights in the hall were starting to flicker on. Lily looked up from her iPad and said,

“Mommy, can we go for a walk? I’m bored.”

I smiled. Bored. It’s such an ordinary word, but for us, it’s a gift. It means she feels well enough to move, to want something more than just lying in bed.

We took the elevator down to the second floor, where there’s a small Dunkin’ Donuts tucked near the waiting area. The smell of coffee and baked goods filled the air—mixed, as always, with that unmistakable hospital scent of antiseptic and floor polish.

Lily wore her pink knit hat, the one that hides her bald head and brings out her eyes. She held my hand tightly as we walked, IV pole trailing behind us like a quiet shadow.

We sat near the big window that overlooks the parking lot. People passed by—doctors in white coats, nurses with quick steps, families carrying bags of hope and fatigue.

And then, out of nowhere, a small miracle happened.

An older man walked past, holding a bouquet of flowers. He glanced at Lily and smiled softly.

“Aww,” he said, the way people do when they see something pure and fragile.

He took a few more steps, then suddenly turned back.

Without a word, he pulled a single flower from his bouquet, bent down, and handed it to Lily.

“This one’s for you, little warrior.”

Lily’s eyes lit up. She took the flower carefully, like it was made of glass, and smiled so wide it melted my heart.

“Thank you!” she said, her voice small but bright.

The man smiled again, nodded, and walked away.

Just like that—a stranger, a flower, a moment of grace.

Lily kept looking at the flower, turning it in her hands.

“He’s nice, Mommy. He gave me a flower.”

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.

“Some people are just kind… even when they don’t have to be.”

That night, I placed the flower in a small plastic cup beside her bed. It wasn’t fancy, but it looked beautiful under the pale hospital light.

Before falling asleep, Lily glanced at it and whispered,

“Maybe it’ll bring me good luck.”

I brushed a strand of hair from her face and smiled.

“It already did, baby. It already did.”

She drifted off to sleep without another fever that night.

---

I stayed awake for a while, listening to her breathing—steady, calm, peaceful. Outside the window, the city lights glowed softly against the night sky. The hospital, which so often feels heavy and unyielding, seemed gentler somehow.

I thought about that stranger and his flower. He probably has no idea what that simple act meant to me—to us.

When you live in hospitals long enough, kindness becomes rare currency. It feeds something deeper than medicine ever could. It reminds you that even in all the exhaustion and fear, the world still holds beauty.

---

Tomorrow, we’ll know if she can finally go home.

I don’t dare hope too loudly, but I can’t help myself. I whisper a quiet prayer anyway:

“Please. Just let her rest in her own bed.”

We’ve made it through seven cycles—seven long, exhausting rounds of chemo, labs, transfusions, and sleepless nights. I’ve watched my little girl lose her hair, her appetite, her strength—and then, somehow, find it again.

She’s cried. She’s laughed. She’s fought harder than most adults ever will.

And through it all, she’s never once said, “I give up.”

Every time she looks at me and says, “I’m okay, Mommy,” I know she’s not just trying to reassure me—she’s reminding herself that she’s stronger than this disease.

I look over at that little flower by her bed, its petals slightly drooping now, and I think about how fragile life is—and how resilient.

Maybe healing doesn’t always look like a perfect lab result. Maybe sometimes it looks like a child smiling through her fear, or a stranger offering a flower, or a mother whispering prayers in the dark.

Maybe hope is built out of moments just like these.

---

Epilogue

The next morning, the nurse walked in with a smile that told me everything before she even spoke.

“No fever overnight!” she said. “Looks like you’re going home today.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Then Lily’s eyes lit up, and she squealed,

“We’re going home, Mommy!”

I pulled her into my arms and held her tight, feeling her heartbeat against mine.

“Yes, baby,” I whispered. “We’re going home.”

The nurse smiled as she started disconnecting the IV line. Outside, sunlight was pouring through the window—the kind of light that feels like a promise.

Lily looked at the little flower on the bedside table and grinned.

“See, Mommy? It was good luck.”

I laughed through tears. “You were right.”

As we packed up our things, I glanced around the room one last time—the monitors, the machines, the walls that had witnessed both our fear and our strength.

We walked out together, hand in hand. The flower stayed behind, sitting in its plastic cup by the window, its petals catching the morning light.

A small reminder that even in the hardest places, kindness blooms—and hope never really leaves.