What 13-Year-Olds Should Be Doing — and What Cancer Steals.1489
This is the face of childhood cancer.
It is not rare. It is not okay. And it is certainly not something we can afford to turn away from.
Childhood cancer is the leading cause of death by disease in children in the United States. That fact alone should stop us in our tracks.
But numbers and statistics only scratch the surface. They cannot capture the reality of what this disease looks like in the life of a child, in the heart of a parent, in the daily rhythm of a family that never asked for this battle.
When we think of 13-year-olds, we should picture laughter ringing through school hallways.
We should picture sleepovers and soccer games, birthday parties and silly arguments about nothing.
We should picture a teenager sprawled on the couch with friends, watching movies and laughing until their stomach hurts.
But for too many children, that is not reality.
Instead, cancer rewrites the script. A 13-year-old may find themselves clenching in pain, their body aching from tumors or side effects of chemotherapy.
Instead of sitting in a classroom, they are lying in a hospital bed. Instead of planning weekends with friends, they are waiting for lab results. Instead of worrying about homework, they are worried about survival.
This is what childhood cancer really looks like.
It looks like tears streaming down a face too young to carry this much pain. It looks like exhaustion from endless nights in sterile hospital rooms where the beeping of monitors replaces the comfort of quiet sleep.
It looks like a body weakened by treatments so toxic they would bring many adults to their knees. It looks like moments no child should ever have to endure — surgeries, spinal taps, infusions, radiation burns.
It looks like parents holding back tears in front of their child, whispering prayers they never thought they would have to say.
It looks like siblings trying to understand why their brother or sister can’t come home, why holidays and birthdays now happen under fluorescent lights instead of at the kitchen table.
It is not rare. But because it happens behind hospital doors, many people never see it.
And that invisibility becomes part of the problem. If we do not see it, if we do not speak about it, then it is far too easy to accept it as “just how it is.”
But it is not acceptable. It cannot be acceptable.
Because our kids deserve better.
Right now, only about 4% of federal cancer research funding in the United States is directed toward childhood cancers. Four percent.
Four percent to fight the number one disease-related killer of children. Four percent to protect the most vulnerable among us.
Imagine if your child’s school received 4% of the resources it needed.
Imagine if your community’s fire department was given 4% of its funding and expected to keep everyone safe.
Imagine if your family lived on 4% of its income. Would anyone say that was enough? Of course not. And yet, this is the reality families of children with cancer face every single day.
Children are not just small adults. Their bodies are different. Their cancers are different. Their needs are different.
Treatments designed for adults are often too harsh, too damaging, and not specifically effective for pediatric cancers. And yet, because of limited funding, most children are treated with drugs developed decades ago.
Drugs that may keep them alive, but often leave lasting scars — heart damage, infertility, secondary cancers, cognitive struggles. Survivorship, for many, means a lifetime of consequences.
So when we say children deserve more than 4%, we mean they deserve more research, more targeted therapies, more hope. They deserve treatments that not only save their lives but protect the futures they are fighting so hard to reach.
We cannot continue to look away.
We cannot continue to tell parents, “This is just how it is.” We cannot let children grow up thinking their lives are worth less than better treatments, worth less than breakthroughs that should already be within our reach.
Behind every statistic is a child. A child with a name, a laugh, a favorite color, a dream for the future.
A child who loves superheroes and animals, who wants to be a teacher or a doctor or a pilot someday. A child who should be running through sprinklers in the summer, not hooked up to IV lines.
Behind every number is a family. A mother who would give anything to trade places. A father who feels helpless when he cannot fix the pain.
Brothers and sisters who try to be strong but cry quietly at night. Grandparents who pray and hope and do everything they can, even when it never feels like enough.
This fight is not abstract. It is real. It is daily. It is brutal. And yet, in the middle of it all, children show us a kind of courage most adults will never know.
They face needles, surgeries, and treatments with resilience that humbles us.
They laugh even when their bodies hurt. They smile even when their days are filled with fear. They remind us what true strength looks like.
But courage alone is not enough. Faith alone is not enough.
Love alone is not enough. These children need us — all of us — to raise our voices, to demand change, to push for more research, more awareness, more funding.
They need us to believe that their lives are worth more than 4%.
Because they are.
This is the face of childhood cancer. Not rare. Not acceptable. And not something we can turn away from.
Our kids deserve better. They deserve hope that isn’t rationed. They deserve futures that aren’t stolen.
They deserve more than this. More than pain. More than exhaustion. More than 4%.
They deserve life — full, beautiful, unbroken life.
And it is our responsibility to fight until that is no longer a dream, but reality.
Triumph: Beating the Odds with Courage and Faith.1650
Another surgery in the books, another small victory in a long, exhausting journey. For 20-year-old Avery White of Wetumpka, Alabama, life has never been simple. Born with CAPS, a rare inflammatory disorder, Avery has faced hurdles most people could scarcely imagine. The disease has battered her body over the years, leaving her immune system compromised, her energy sapped, and her weight dropping to just 77 pounds. Every day has been a careful negotiation between survival and the desire to live fully.
Yesterday brought one of the biggest tests yet: open-heart surgery at UAB in Birmingham. It was a procedure that would address severe mitral regurgitation, a condition caused not by birth but by the destructive effects of lupus on her heart valve. The stakes were high. Every person in that operating room knew it. But Avery, as she has done so many times before, faced it with courage that belies her age and size.
Her aunt, Paige Smith, shared a heartfelt update late last night, painting a picture of relief, hope, and faith. “God is good!” Paige wrote, the joy and gratitude evident even in the brevity of her words. “Surgery went great. You could see the relief in Dr. Lewis’s eyes and emotions—he has a daughter Avery’s age.” That simple observation—of a doctor seeing his own child in a patient—added weight to the moment. In that operating room, everyone was acutely aware of the fragility and the courage in front of them.
The surgery itself was delicate and complex. Avery’s heart, weakened over time by CAPS and lupus, required meticulous care. Dr. Lewis and his team worked with precision, not only repairing the damaged mitral valve but monitoring every potential complication that could arise. Avery’s antiphospholipid syndrome—a condition that makes blood clotting unpredictable—added an additional layer of danger to the procedure. Surgeons had to think three steps ahead at all times, adjusting, pausing, reassessing, and acting with utmost caution.
Paige explained that after the repair, Avery remained in the OR for an additional hour, closely monitored to ensure her body was responding as expected. Every heartbeat was watched, every response carefully recorded, and every sigh of relief from the team reflected the knowledge that even a single small misstep could have serious consequences. And yet, as Paige wrote, the update ended on a note of hope: Avery had made it through the surgery. She was alive, stable, and moving into the next phase of recovery in the CICU.
For Avery’s family, this moment was both a culmination and a beginning. Months, even years, of fear, hospital visits, treatments, and sleepless nights had led to this day. Every scan, every blood test, every medication adjustment, every painful procedure—all of it had built toward this single outcome. And yet, as anyone who has cared for a child—or a young adult—with a rare disease knows, relief is fleeting. Surgery may be complete, but recovery is only just beginning.
As Avery moved to the CICU, her family stepped back, watching from a distance they had grown accustomed to over the years. They were not allowed immediate access, a rule that tests patience and faith in equal measure. For the next two hours, they waited. Every minute felt like an hour. Every passing second was measured, replayed in memories of past scares, past recoveries, past heartbreaks. And yet, even in the uncertainty, hope shone.
Avery’s journey is more than a medical story. It is a story of resilience, love, and the power of community. Over the years, she has endured countless tests and treatments that would challenge the strongest among us. She has faced the pain of chronic illness with a grace that inspires, the bravery to confront a reality most would shy away from, and the tenacity to hold on to life even when it feels precarious.
Her family has been there at every step, providing support that goes beyond the physical. They have whispered encouragements in the dark, held her hand through endless procedures, and lifted her spirits when despair threatened to overwhelm. They have become adept navigators of the medical system, learning to advocate for Avery’s care with precision and compassion. And through it all, they have maintained a faith that, at times, must have felt almost impossible to sustain.
Avery’s surgery yesterday represents a tangible milestone, a victory over a body that has been repeatedly tested. Yet it is also a reminder of the ongoing journey ahead. Recovery from open-heart surgery is never easy, even for a healthy adult. For Avery, whose body has been weakened by years of chronic illness, the road will be long and careful. Pain management, gradual rehabilitation, monitoring for infection or clotting, and regular follow-ups will dominate the coming weeks.
And still, her spirit remains unbroken. Friends, neighbors, and a growing online community have been cheering her on, sending prayers, messages of encouragement, and love. Every word, every thought, every gesture creates a network of support that strengthens her family and gives Avery the energy to keep fighting. In a world that sometimes seems indifferent to the struggles of the sick and vulnerable, Avery’s story is a beacon of hope, a reminder that courage can thrive even in the smallest, most fragile bodies.
Paige’s message captures the duality of relief and vigilance that defines life for families like Avery’s. “Surgery went great,” she wrote. But she also acknowledged the constant awareness, the need to monitor, and the careful observation that will continue for days, weeks, and months to come. It is a story of cautious optimism, where every small victory is cherished, and every challenge is met with preparation, patience, and love.
As Avery rests, surrounded by the hum of machines, the quiet steps of nurses, and the watchful eyes of doctors, her story continues to unfold. It is not a story of fear alone, nor of suffering only—it is a story of triumph, of small miracles, and of a family’s unyielding devotion. Every heartbeat she takes is a testament to resilience. Every breath a declaration that she refuses to be defined by illness. And every moment she spends moving toward recovery reinforces the belief that hope, combined with skill and love, can overcome even the most daunting obstacles.
For Avery, the surgery may be complete, but her journey is far from over. She will face challenges ahead, and her strength will be tested again. But yesterday’s success offers a renewed sense of possibility—a chance to breathe easier, to regain energy, and to continue living despite the shadow of CAPS and lupus.
In the quiet moments after surgery, in the hours when her family waits and prays, and in the small victories that will mark the coming days, Avery’s story stands as a beacon. It is a story of courage in the face of rare disease, of medical skill combined with human compassion, and of a young woman who refuses to be defeated by circumstances beyond her control.
And while the world watches, some from afar, some closer to home, everyone who follows Avery’s journey can see the same truth: resilience, faith, and love are sometimes the most powerful medicines of all. Her fight is not just medical—it is personal, human, and deeply inspiring.
Yesterday was a win. But it is also a reminder that every day forward matters, every heartbeat matters, and every step toward healing is worth celebrating. Avery White may be small in stature, but her courage, determination, and spirit are immense. She is living proof that even when illness strikes hard, hope, care, and relentless determination can make a difference.
And so, the story continues. Avery rests, surrounded by the steady rhythm of the ICU, the loving support of her family, and the prayers of countless hearts. She has faced another hurdle, and she has conquered it. And while the road ahead will require patience, courage, and endurance, yesterday’s success is a reminder: Avery White is a fighter, and she is far from finished.
