“One More Week at Home — Hazel’s Fight Continues”.3058 (zqe)
It has been a week since we came home.
One precious, fleeting week — and already, time feels like it’s slipping through our fingers.
We have one more week before packing up again, before heading back to New York City for Hazel’s next round of chemo-immunotherapy. I keep telling myself to breathe, to stay present, to make every moment count. But sometimes, it feels like no amount of time will ever be enough.
At home, Hazel seems like herself again.
Her cheeks have color. Her eyes sparkle. She laughs at her brothers’ silly jokes and sings to the dog like nothing in the world could hurt her. She’s happiest here — surrounded by her siblings, in her own bed, in the warmth of everything familiar.
There’s something healing about being home.
No monitors beeping through the night.
No IV poles rattling behind her.
Just the sounds of family — giggles in the hallway, cartoons in the background, the thump of little feet running down the stairs.
Hazel soaks it all in.
Every hug, every bedtime story, every shared snack at the kitchen counter feels sacred — because we know what’s coming. We know that in just a few days, we’ll have to say goodbye to this peace again, and step back into the world of hospital rooms and sterile air.
We’ve decided to stretch our time here as far as we can.
We’ll stay until the very last possible minute — probably heading out late Sunday night or early Monday morning.
Sunday is special.
It’s Titus’s 3rd birthday — and there’s no way we’re missing that celebration. 🎂
He’s been counting down the days, his little voice shouting “three!” every time he’s asked how old he’ll be. Hazel’s been helping him plan his “big day,” insisting he needs a Paw Patrol cake and “lots of sprinkles.” She’s so proud to be the big sister, and he looks up to her like she hung the moon.
We’ll celebrate him, laugh a little louder, and hold each other a little tighter — before loading up the car again for the long drive to NYC.
And then… round four begins.
Hazel’s oncologist mentioned that this round might be accompanied by more scans — a CT scan, bone marrow testing, and possibly a brain MRI. They’re not sure yet if they’ll combine everything with a PET scan or wait until another round. The uncertainty hangs heavy in the air, as it always does.
We’ve learned that cancer doesn’t follow a schedule. Plans change. Results shift. Some days bring hope, others bring questions we’re not ready to ask.
And lately, something new has been worrying me.
Hazel has been sweating more than usual — enough for me to notice, enough to make me anxious.
It could be something simple, like warmer clothes or heavier blankets at night. That’s what I pray it is.
But in the world of childhood cancer, nothing is ever “just simple.”
Sweating can be a sign of high metabolism — and in medical terms, that can mean her cancer cells are active again, consuming calories and energy at a faster rate.
Even writing those words makes my chest tighten.
I try to stay calm when I see the damp curls around her forehead or when she pushes off her blanket at night, saying she’s too warm. I tell myself,
But in the quiet moments, when the kids are asleep and the house is still, my thoughts spiral.
And so I pray.
I pray that it’s nothing — that the sweating is just a small, harmless thing.
I pray for steady hands and calm hearts when we head back to New York.
I pray that God is working miracles inside her tiny body, even now — that He is healing what medicine can’t reach.
Because we’ve seen miracles before.
Hazel’s journey hasn’t been an easy one.
She’s faced more pain, more needles, more fear than most adults ever will. And yet — she still smiles. She still sings. She still finds joy in the smallest of things: bubbles in the bath, cuddles with her brothers, coloring books spread out on the living room floor.
Sometimes, when I look at her, I see strength I can’t explain.
There’s a glow to her — not from health, but from something deeper.
A peace that says, I’m still here. I’m still fighting.
It’s humbling to witness.
When people message us, telling us how much Hazel’s story has inspired them — how she’s reminded them to hold their families closer, to pray harder, to live with more gratitude — I understand why. Because Hazel isn’t just our daughter. She’s become a symbol of hope, of perseverance, of faith that refuses to crumble.
She is, quite literally, a living testimony of answered prayers.
And yet, we’re still asking for more.
So we continue to pray.
That God continues to strengthen her body and her spirit.
That He keeps sickness away, that every cell of her being is touched by His healing hand.
That Hazel will not just survive this — but one day, thrive.
That her story will become one more light in this dark fight against childhood cancer.
To everyone who has prayed for us, written messages, shared posts, or changed their Facebook photo to gold for Childhood Cancer Awareness Month — thank you.
We see you. We feel you. And your love is lifting us through the hardest days.
Every comment, every prayer, every word of encouragement reminds us that we are not alone. This journey often feels impossible, but the kindness that has surrounded us gives us the strength to keep going.
It’s strange — how the world can feel both unbearably heavy and unbelievably kind at the same time.
Soon, we’ll be packing again.
Suitcases, medical supplies, favorite stuffed animals — the things that make long hospital stays a little less cold. The drive to New York will be long, but familiar. The skyline will rise ahead of us like a silent reminder of the battles we’ve fought there before.
Round four will begin, and we’ll face it the way we always do — with faith, with hope, and with the quiet courage of a little girl who refuses to give up.
For now, though, we’re soaking in these last home days.
The smell of pancakes on a Sunday morning.
The sound of Titus giggling as Hazel chases him around the living room.
The sunlight on her hair as she curls up beside me and whispers, “Mommy, I feel good today.”
And for that moment — that precious, ordinary moment — everything feels okay.
Because no matter what comes next, Hazel’s story isn’t just one of illness.
It’s one of love. Of faith. Of the countless hearts she’s touched across the world.
So tonight, as I tuck her in and listen to her soft breathing, I whisper another prayer:
That the same God who brought her this far will continue to carry her forward.
That He will make her healing complete.
That this chapter — no matter how hard — will one day be a testimony of miracles.
💛 Thank you for standing with us.
Thank you for believing in Hazel.
And thank you for helping us remember that love — real, unconditional, unwavering love — can heal in ways medicine never could.
Tiny but Mighty: Baby Maddex’s Fight Against a Kidney Tumor.1170
A Mother’s Plea: Prayers for Baby Maddex
Every parent dreams of their child’s first days being filled with warmth, love, and wonder. The hospital stay is supposed to be short, the first checkups reassuring, and life at home the beginning of a joyful journey. For Maddex’s parents, those dreams have been abruptly replaced with fear, uncertainty, and heartbreak.
At just 12 days old, baby Maddex has been admitted to a children’s hospital after doctors discovered a tumor in his kidney. His family is now facing the unthinkable—conversations about surgery, recovery, and the fragility of life for a newborn barely two weeks old.
The Shock of Diagnosis
It began with signs that something wasn’t right. Maddex, so tiny and new to the world, wasn’t thriving in the way his parents had expected. At first, they thought perhaps it was nothing serious—maybe his body just needed time to adjust. But tests revealed something far more devastating: a tumor growing inside his kidney.
Hearing the word tumor connected to their baby boy’s name was like being struck by lightning. “I can’t imagine my life without him,” his mother shared through tears. “We are so devastated by this news and just hope for a full recovery.”
A Life Interrupted Before It Began
At 12 days old, Maddex should be cradled in his parents’ arms at home, swaddled in blankets, sleeping peacefully to the rhythm of lullabies. His parents should be learning his cries, memorizing his expressions, and marveling at the miracle of new life.
Instead, their days are spent in a children’s hospital room, surrounded by machines, doctors, and the constant hum of medical care. Every time a nurse enters with a clipboard, every time a doctor speaks about “next steps,” they are reminded that their baby’s fight has already begun—before his life has even had a chance to unfold.
Facing Surgery
Doctors believe the tumor will likely need to be surgically removed. The thought of surgery on such a tiny body fills Maddex’s parents with dread. The risks feel enormous, the fear overwhelming. And yet, they cling to hope—the hope that this procedure could remove the tumor entirely, giving Maddex the chance to grow and thrive.
They know that surgery is not just about removing a mass. It’s about protecting their child’s future, about giving him the possibility of birthdays, first steps, school days, and the countless milestones his parents dream of witnessing.
A Mother’s Heart
For Maddex’s mother, the emotional toll is beyond words. She moves between his hospital crib and the chair beside it, her hand always reaching for his, her heart breaking at every IV line and monitor attached to his fragile body.
She whispers prayers over him, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She strokes his tiny fingers and tells him he is strong, that he is loved, that he is not alone. And in the quiet moments, she admits the fear that gnaws at her: What if I lose him? What if I never get to bring him home?
It is a fear no parent should ever face.
A Father’s Strength
For Maddex’s father, the role is one of protector and supporter. He is terrified, too, but he knows he must remain strong for his family. He listens carefully as doctors explain procedures. He asks questions, seeking clarity in a sea of medical terminology. He holds his partner when she cries, reminding her that they are in this together.
And when he looks at his son, he feels an ache in his chest so deep it is almost physical. He would take Maddex’s place in an instant if he could. But since he cannot, he does the only thing he can: he prays, he hopes, and he stands by his family with unwavering love.
The Power of Prayer
This is why Maddex’s family is reaching out, asking for help from everyone willing to listen: “Please pray for my 12-day-old son, Maddex. He has been admitted to children’s hospital for a tumor in his kidney, and we could use all the good thoughts and prayers we can get.”
They believe in the power of prayer—not just their own, but the collective prayers of family, friends, and even strangers. They know that faith can carry them through the darkest moments, that love and support can strengthen them when fear feels too heavy.
A Community United
Already, messages of support have begun to pour in. Friends and relatives send words of encouragement. Strangers, touched by Maddex’s story, offer prayers. Some light candles, others write notes of love, and many whisper his name into their nightly prayers.
For Maddex’s parents, every message is a reminder that they are not alone. That people across cities, states, even countries are lifting their son up in faith and hope. That his life, though so new, has already touched countless hearts.
The Fragility of Life
Maddex’s story is a stark reminder of how fragile life can be. In just 12 days, his family has gone from joy to devastation, from welcoming their son into the world to fearing for his survival. It is a reminder that none of us are promised tomorrow, and that every moment with those we love is a gift.
But his story is also a testament to resilience. Even at 12 days old, Maddex is fighting. His tiny body, though fragile, is filled with strength. His spirit, though quiet, is unyielding. And his life, though just beginning, is already shaping those around him with lessons of faith, courage, and love.
Looking Toward Recovery
The days ahead will not be easy. There will be tests, procedures, and the difficult reality of surgery. There will be moments of exhaustion, moments of fear, and moments when hope feels far away.
But there will also be victories. The first time he opens his eyes after surgery. The first time his parents get to hold him again. The first time the doctors smile and say the words his family is desperate to hear: “He’s going to be okay.”
His parents cling to that hope. They dream of the day they can bring him home, introduce him to the world beyond hospital walls, and watch him grow into the boy—and the man—they know he is meant to become.
Conclusion: Holding Onto Hope
Today, Maddex’s family is devastated. They are exhausted. They are afraid. But they are also filled with faith. They know the road ahead is uncertain, but they refuse to give up hope.
They ask us all to stand with them. To pray for Maddex’s healing. To believe in his strength. To send love, light, and good thoughts into the world on his behalf.
🙏 Please pray for baby Maddex. May his surgery be successful, may his recovery be smooth, and may his future be long, joyful, and filled with love. 💙
