"From Five Million to 800,000: Branson’s Incredible Step Forward".1499
Today, for the first time in what feels like ages, we have some encouraging news to share.
It’s not the end of the road, not even close, but it is a sign that maybe, just maybe, the tide is turning.
Branson’s white blood cell count, which had been stuck at a worrisome level, has risen from 5,000 to 8,000 in a single day.
For most people, numbers like that don’t mean much, but for us, they mean everything.
These aren’t just numbers on a chart—they are markers of life, signs of a body slowly finding its footing again.
Even more encouraging is that the majority of those white cells are neutrophils.
Neutrophils are the body’s frontline soldiers, the ones that rush to the site of infection and fight with everything they have.
When you are neutropenic—when you have none of these cells—you are left defenseless.
A simple cold can turn deadly.
But now, seeing Branson’s neutrophil count rise gives us hope that his body is slowly rebuilding an army, one cell at a time.
And as if that wasn’t enough good news, we learned something even more remarkable.
His adenovirus levels, which had been terrifyingly high—over five million—have dropped to 800,000.
From five million to 800,000.
That is not just progress; that is a miracle in motion.
It’s a sign that the treatments are working, that his body is responding, and that maybe his exhausted immune system is finally getting some help.
We are thanking God for these mercies.
Every step forward feels like a gift.
Every drop in those viral numbers is an answered prayer.
These are the moments we cling to when the nights feel endless and the days blur together inside hospital walls.
In addition to these promising lab results, Branson is receiving albumin infusions.
Albumin is a protein that helps pull excess fluid out of tissues and into the bloodstream, where it can be processed and removed.
For a boy whose body has been battered by infection, chemotherapy, and countless medications, these infusions provide relief.
They ease the swelling, support his circulation, and give his weary body a fighting chance to keep healing.
These little pieces of progress—the lab results, the treatments, the small mercies—are what keep us going.
They remind us that even in the bleakest days, there is still movement, still reason to hope.
But I need to be honest: progress on paper does not erase the suffering in reality.
The truth is that Branson is still absolutely miserable.
His body has been pushed right up to the edge of what it can handle, and we see that in every movement, every expression, every moment of his day.
Watching it is gut-wrenching.
It feels like a cruel paradox: the numbers look better, but my boy still looks so broken.
His hair has fallen out again.
It wasn’t unexpected—we’ve been here before—but that doesn’t make it easier.
This time, though, it isn’t just his hair.
His eyelashes and eyebrows are starting to fall out too.
For a child who has already lost so much, this is another visible reminder of the war his little body is fighting.
When I see him without those small features that frame his face, I am reminded that cancer takes so much more than what lab results can measure.
There are no words to describe the helplessness.
Some days, I sit by his bed, holding his hand, wishing I could take every ounce of his pain into myself.
I want him to laugh again, to play again, to feel the lightness of childhood instead of the weight of survival.
I want my boy to be happy and healthy, free from the tubes and wires and endless pokes.
That desire is so strong that it aches.
And as if the physical battle wasn’t enough, there is an emotional one unfolding too.
Donald will soon be leaving to return home.
The thought of saying goodbye has cast a shadow over the small joy we’ve felt with today’s good news.
We are not ready for him to go.
We dread the days ahead without him here.
In the middle of all this uncertainty, having family close is what steadies us.
The idea of being apart again feels like another burden on a heart already too heavy.
So we ask, again, for prayers.
Prayers for Branson’s continued healing.
Prayers for strength in the days and weeks and months to come.
Prayers for our family as we navigate the separation, the exhaustion, the endless roller coaster of fear and hope.
We are clinging to faith, even in the darkest stretch of this journey.
Faith that these numbers are not just coincidences but signs of a comeback in motion.
Faith that God is holding Branson in His hands, even when we feel like we can’t hold ourselves together.
Faith that healing is possible, even when suffering feels overwhelming.
Your love, your support, your prayers—these are what carry us when our legs give out.
You are the hands holding us up when we fall.
You are the light that reminds us we are not alone in this fight.
We love you all more than words could ever express.
For now, we will hold onto the progress.
We will celebrate the rise from 5,000 to 8,000.
We will marvel at the drop from five million to 800,000.
We will be grateful for every infusion, every medicine, every sign of healing.
And we will keep fighting.
Because Branson is worth every battle.
He is worth every prayer, every sleepless night, every tear shed.
He is our boy, our heart, our warrior—and we will never stop believing that his comeback is near.
“She Was Given Two Weeks, She’s Still Here”.1569
Lexie was just six years old—bright, full of energy, and always moving to the rhythm of her own joy. She loved to dance, twirling in the living room until she fell into giggles, hair flying, eyes sparkling with the innocence and freedom of childhood. Her laughter filled every corner of the house, a sound so pure it felt like music. She was, in every way, a little girl who seemed destined to take on the world with boundless energy.
But in an instant, her world—and her family’s—turned upside down. What began as a nagging pain in her hip, the kind of ache parents often dismiss as “growing pains,” soon grew into something more persistent. The pain didn’t go away. It worsened, sometimes leaving her limping, sometimes causing her to cry at night when she should have been dreaming. Her parents knew something was wrong, though nothing could have prepared them for the truth.
After tests, scans, and anxious waiting, the diagnosis arrived like a crushing blow: Stage 4 neuroblastoma. Not just any childhood cancer, but one of the most aggressive, unpredictable forms. And as if that weren’t enough, the doctors’ words shattered the family’s fragile hope—less than two weeks to live.
For a six-year-old who should have been playing dress-up, chasing butterflies, or practicing cartwheels, this was the harshest twist of fate. For her parents, it was an unthinkable nightmare. How do you prepare to say goodbye to your child before she’s even had the chance to truly live?
But Lexie was not ready to give up. And neither were her parents.
The treatments began immediately—harsh, unrelenting, designed to wage war against the cancer that had invaded her small body. Chemotherapy dripped into her veins, burning with both promise and pain. Radiation followed, targeting the tumors but leaving behind scars no one could see. There were stem cell transplants, antibody therapy, endless hospital stays that blurred the line between home and sterile white rooms filled with machines.
Her little body endured more than most of us will in a lifetime. Twice, she came dangerously close to leaving this world behind. Her heart faltered, her strength waned, and doctors warned her parents to prepare for the worst. Twice, her family braced themselves for the unimaginable. And twice, Lexie clawed her way back, fragile but unbroken, determined to keep going.
She lost her hair, but never her spirit. She lost days to nausea and exhaustion, but not her will to smile. Even when her bones ached and her body felt heavy, her eyes still sparkled when someone put on her favorite music. Nurses often paused outside her room, listening to the faint hum of a child trying to sing, even when her voice trembled with weakness.
The cancer spread to her bones, a painful reality that made every step feel like climbing a mountain. Treatments left lasting scars—on her body, yes, but also on her childhood. Friends went to school, played on playgrounds, celebrated birthdays, while Lexie’s world revolved around IV poles, scans, and the rhythm of hospital corridors. But she refused to be defined by illness.
She wanted to be Lexie. Not “the girl with cancer.” Not “the patient in room 307.” Just Lexie—the girl who dances, who laughs, who fights with a spirit that seems far bigger than her six-year-old frame.
Her parents, Jenaya and Josh, often marveled at her resilience. On days when adults would have collapsed under the weight of fear and exhaustion, Lexie found ways to laugh. She cracked jokes with nurses, decorated her hospital room with drawings and stickers, and insisted on wearing bright colors even when everything around her was sterile white and grey. Her joy was not ignorance—it was defiance. It was her way of saying: I am still here. I am still me.
There were nights when fear took over, when pain was too great, when exhaustion silenced even her laughter. On those nights, her parents held her hand and whispered prayers, sometimes through their own tears. And still, when morning came, Lexie found a way to rise again, to smile through the haze of pain, to show everyone that the fight wasn’t over.
Doctors continue to monitor her closely. Every scan is another question mark—will the cancer return? Has it spread? Is the treatment working? For Lexie and her family, life is lived in three-month increments, measured by scans and bloodwork. Hope rises and falls with every test result. Yet through it all, Lexie’s spirit remains steady.
She dreams not of hospitals, but of dancing. She talks about the songs she wants to perform to, the routines she wants to learn. She plans for birthdays, for sleepovers, for days at the park. Her imagination stretches far beyond IV poles and hospital beds, reminding everyone around her that childhood cannot be stolen by cancer—not completely.
Lexie’s story is one of unimaginable pain and breathtaking courage. It is about a little girl who has already faced more battles than most adults, and yet continues to shine with a light that inspires everyone around her. It is about parents who have learned to live with fear but refuse to let it steal their hope. It is about love that holds a family together even when the future feels fragile.
Every day Lexie is still here is a miracle. Every laugh, every dance step, every smile is a victory. She is a reminder that life is not measured in years alone, but in moments—moments of joy, of courage, of love that defies the odds.
She may carry scars. She may face battles yet to come. But she is Lexie. The girl who dances. The girl who laughs. The girl who keeps fighting. And as long as she has breath in her body, her story will not be defined by cancer, but by the strength of her spirit.
Because Lexie is still here. And that, in itself, is a triumph.
