Hope in the Face of Surgery.1556
Tomorrow is a huge day for her, a day that carries more weight than any single day has in her young life. The hours ahead will test her courage, her body, and the resilience of everyone who loves her. Tomorrow, skilled surgeons will begin a 12-hour operation, a delicate and complicated procedure designed to remove multiple tumors and affected tissues from her tiny body. It’s a first step in a series of major surgeries she will face, each one demanding strength, hope, and unwavering faith.
In the quiet moments before surgery, there is a mix of fear and determination. Her parents sit by her side, holding her hand, smoothing her hair, and whispering encouragement. They try to keep her calm, though their own hearts race with anxiety. The doctors have explained the plan over and over: they aim to remove as much of the disease as possible while sparing her precious kidney, one of the few organs strong enough to continue supporting her after this ordeal. It is a delicate balance, a dance of precision where every decision could alter the course of her recovery.
As they prepare her for the operation, her tiny frame is connected to monitors and lines, each one a lifeline that ensures the surgeons can track every heartbeat, every breath, every drop of fluid. When the anesthesia takes hold, she drifts into sleep, unaware of the long battle that is about to begin. The surgeons will work tirelessly, hour after hour, navigating through complex anatomy, removing tumors and damaged tissue, and making split-second decisions to protect her organs. Every movement must be deliberate, every incision precise, because even the smallest mistake could have significant consequences.
Once the surgery is complete, she will awaken surrounded by a forest of tubes and drains, reminders of the trauma her body has endured and the care that will be required in the days to come. Recovery will be long and challenging. The first hours in the ICU will be critical, as her medical team watches for complications that could threaten her progress. One particular concern is a chyle leak—a complication that could make feeding her extremely difficult and prolong her recovery. Every fluid, every drop of nutrition, must be carefully managed to support her healing body.
Even as the medical team works, her parents remain by her side, exhausted but vigilant. Sleep is scarce, replaced by the constant rhythm of checking monitors, listening for beeps and alarms, and offering soft reassurances to their daughter whenever she stirs. In those moments, the hospital room becomes a small world of hope, fear, and unwavering love. Every glance, every touch, is a reminder that they are fighting alongside her, that she is not alone in this battle.
Beyond the ICU, she may stay another 7–10 days in the hospital before beginning chemotherapy, the next phase in her fight against the disease. Each step is grueling, but necessary. The surgeries are designed to remove what can be removed, to give the chemotherapy the best chance to finish the job. Her body is resilient, but her spirit, courage, and the prayers surrounding her are equally vital.
The emotional weight on her family is immense. They carry worry, fear, hope, and determination all at once. They pray for guided hands, for surgeons whose expertise is matched by compassion, for minimal side effects, and for the protection of her organs. They ask for strength to navigate each day, for wisdom in the decisions ahead, and for the small victories that give reason to keep moving forward.
Every message of support, every prayer, every word of encouragement from friends, family, and even strangers becomes a thread in the fabric of hope that surrounds her. The knowledge that people all over the world are thinking of her, rooting for her, and believing in her recovery brings comfort that cannot be measured. It is a reminder that, even in the darkest hours, she is not alone.
Tomorrow will be long. The hours will stretch, the minutes may feel endless, and the uncertainty will be heavy. Yet, despite the fear, there is hope—hope that the surgeons’ hands will be steady, that the complications will be few, that her body will endure, and that she will come through this first surgery stronger, ready to face whatever comes next. For her family, hope is the anchor, the thread that ties them together and keeps their hearts beating in unison with hers.
They hold on tightly to that hope, knowing that each breath she takes, each small smile, and every moment of courage is a victory in itself. They know the road ahead will not be easy, that tears will come, and that challenges will persist. But for now, they focus on tomorrow—the first step of a journey that will test them all, but also reveal the depth of their love, the strength of their faith, and the resilience of their daughter.
Tomorrow is a huge day, but they face it with hope. With prayers, support, and unwavering determination, they believe that she can endure, that her body can heal, and that each surgery, each treatment, brings her closer to the day when the fight is behind her. Tomorrow will be long, difficult, and uncertain—but it is also a day of courage, a day of love, and a day that reminds everyone who knows her just how extraordinary this little girl truly is.
Fighting Through the Darkness: Branson’s Battle.1671
I know it’s been a few days since I’ve updated, and truthfully, I just haven’t had the mental capacity. Some days, even putting one sentence together feels impossible. I know so many of you wait for updates, praying alongside us, hoping for good news, and I’m sorry for the silence. But it’s hard to share when things are not going well. Some moments, it feels like the words themselves would break under the weight of what we’re living.
Branson is in excruciating pain. There is no easy way to describe it. Even morphine around the clock barely touches what his little body is feeling. He curls into himself, his small frame tense with agony, and I am helpless. Watching him struggle, unable to take the pain away, feels unbearable. Every parent’s instinct is to protect, to shield, to absorb their child’s suffering, and yet I cannot. I can hold his hand, stroke his hair, whisper reassurances—but the pain is his, and I cannot carry it for him.
Every part of this journey has brought its own challenges—the diagnosis, the treatments, the uncertainty—but post bone marrow transplant has been by far the hardest and darkest chapter yet. The recovery we imagined, even hoped for, is complicated by this relentless virus. Branson’s vision remains unchanged, which is a relief, but it is small comfort compared to the magnitude of what he is enduring. His white blood cell count has begun to rise again, slowly, inching up to 1,200 today, a small victory amid the storm. But the adenovirus levels are now at 12 million, and it feels impossible to see a clear path through the fog of worry.
This morning brought a glimmer of hope. I received a call from Donald and the doctors urging me to get to the hospital immediately. They needed to take my lymphocytes, my white blood cells, because my immune system is strong enough to help fight Branson’s virus. I felt a mix of anxiety and relief. Anxiety because it’s yet another medical procedure to endure, relief because it’s the best chance we have to give him a fighting shot. The cells were collected, incubated overnight, and will be infused into Branson tomorrow. The doctors explained it could take about four weeks for these cells to activate and start effectively combating the virus, so we are praying, every single second, that they work exactly as they are supposed to.
The doctors have been honest with us. Right now, Branson is receiving the only medication available for the adenovirus, but it hasn’t been responding as hoped. And the medicine carries risks—especially to the kidneys if used too aggressively. That is why the lymphocyte collection was necessary: it is his best shot at a real immune response. And even as we face these terrifying unknowns, there are moments of gratitude. Branson’s sepsis is much improved. Clinically, aside from the adenovirus, the doctors say he’s “okay.” That small piece of stability feels like a lifeline, even if the rest of the journey is so uncertain.
Emotionally, it’s exhausting. Donald will be leaving us soon, and the thought of navigating these next critical days without his support feels overwhelming. He is half of our family team, the anchor I rely on to breathe, think, and process in moments when fear threatens to consume me. But at the same time, I know Maddox and Magnolia need him back home, and I am grateful that they will finally have him there. Still, the weight of responsibility, the isolation, and the constant vigilance are almost too much to bear. Every monitor beep, every nurse’s update, every fluctuation in Branson’s vitals becomes a test of endurance, of faith, of hope.
Through it all, I try to be present for Branson, even when I feel like I am running on empty. I hold his hand, brush his hair from his forehead, and whisper to him: “I wish I could be half as strong as you are.” And the truth is, he is strong—stronger than anyone could imagine. Every tiny blink, every managed breath, every moment of stillness amidst pain feels like a victory. He teaches me daily what courage truly looks like, even when his body is failing him.
I ask, again and again, for prayers—not just for Branson, but for our family. For his healing. For this virus to be destroyed. For endurance, for clarity, for peace in the midst of chaos. Every prayer matters. We feel them all. They lift us in ways words cannot describe. And in these long, lonely nights, with only monitors and the soft hum of the hospital around us, they remind me that we are not walking this path alone.
It’s difficult to reconcile the fear with the gratitude. There are moments when I am angry at the unfairness of it all, at the cruel reality that no child deserves this kind of pain, that no parent should have to witness it. And then, in the same breath, I am grateful for the small victories, for the medical advancements that give Branson a fighting chance, for the team of doctors and nurses who fight beside him, and for the love and prayers that surround us from every corner.
I cannot predict the future, and I cannot control the virus. But I can be here. I can breathe alongside him. I can remind him of love, of hope, of life beyond the monitors. I can be a constant in a world that feels anything but certain. And I cling to that as tightly as I cling to him.
Please, continue to pray for Branson. Pray for miracles, for progress, for the medical teams guiding his care. Pray for endurance for our family, as we walk through this nightmare one day, one hour, one minute at a time. Every prayer matters, every ounce of hope counts. And to those who love us and hold us up during this, thank you. Your support carries us in ways we can’t always put into words. We feel it. We are grateful beyond measure.
Branson, my sweet boy, I see you. I see your courage. I see your fight. And I promise you, we will keep walking through this together. Every step, every breath, every day, we are with you, and we are not giving up.
