Little Marcus woke up not feeling well that morning.

He didn’t want breakfast, didn’t ask for snacks, didn’t even look at his favorite fruit cup.
When his mom tried to feed him some milk, he sipped once, then his little face wrinkled in discomfort — and moments later, he threw up.

It wasn’t the first time.
And it probably wouldn’t be the last.
But every time it happens, his parents’ hearts ache just the same.

Now, Marcus lies quietly on his hospital bed, his tiny body wrapped in soft blankets.

He’s slowly drinking more milk, taking tiny sips at a time — it’s the only thing he’ll drink when he’s feeling sick.

The nurses, gentle and quick as always, step in with practiced care.

They wipe him down, change his gown, murmur soothing words that blend with the quiet hum of hospital machines.
They’ve become like family — part of the rhythm of his days.

Afterward, they prepare for what they call his “last scheduled bath” before the next round of chemotherapy begins.
Marcus doesn’t like baths much.

He makes a little frown, sometimes cries, sometimes just stares off with tired eyes — but even then, he lets them help.

Because deep down, he understands this is part of the fight.

In a couple of hours, the next phase begins.
Another dose of chemotherapy.
Another battle inside his little body.

The nurses continue giving him premeds — the medicines that help prepare his system for what’s coming.
One of them is meant to reduce nausea.
Everyone’s hoping it’ll help this time.

His parents aren’t worried yet.
They’ve learned that nausea and vomiting are part of this process — awful, but expected.
Still, watching it happen never gets easier.
Every time Marcus winces or turns pale, they feel a small crack inside their hearts.

If Marcus feels up to it tonight, they’ve promised to post pictures.
The big football game is happening — the one with the famous “wave,” where the entire stadium turns toward the children’s hospital and waves to the kids watching from their windows.

Some of Marcus’s family members are traveling to the game, hoping he’ll be awake to see it.
They won’t be able to come close, but maybe — just maybe — Marcus will look out the window and wave back.

That simple gesture has become something sacred — a reminder that even when life feels confined within hospital walls, love still finds its way in.

Yesterday, Marcus had a better day.

He spent most of it eating and sleeping — his two favorite things when he’s feeling strong.
But what he really wanted was cuddles.
He only fell asleep when someone was holding him.

That’s Marcus — the little boy who finds peace in touch, comfort in warmth, safety in arms that love him.

It also happened to be his twentieth month of life.

The hospital cafeteria was serving beef tacos that day — a small miracle in itself.

Because Marcus loves tacos.
Even when his appetite fades, just the smell can make him smile.

So when the tray arrived, his parents grinned.
It felt like the world had aligned — just for a moment — to give their boy a taste of joy.

During chemo, Marcus is required to stay in his high chair for safety.

So his parents made sure he wasn’t bored.
They set up his toys, arranged a small side table, and played his favorite movie — Cars.

Marcus has seen it so many times that he now mimics the characters.

When Mack the truck makes silly faces in his reflection on the interstate, Marcus copies him, puffing his cheeks and giggling through his IV lines.
It’s those tiny laughs — fleeting, spontaneous, pure — that make the hard days bearable.

Even in the middle of chemotherapy, Marcus finds reasons to smile.

Tomorrow, he’ll only receive one chemotherapy drug.
His parents have already noticed his fine baby hairs falling out.
It’s one of the hardest parts — the visible proof that something invisible is happening inside him.

They run their fingers gently over his soft head, trying not to cry.
It’s only hair, they remind themselves.
It will grow back.
But it still hurts — because every strand feels like a piece of his childhood slipping away.

Over the next few days, his blood counts will continue to fall.
His little body will show more side effects.
They’re ready for it — at least, as ready as any parent can be.
One day at a time.
That’s how they live now.

That night, Marcus sleeps better than expected.
No major side effects, just mild discomfort.
His parents stay awake, watching his chest rise and fall, whispering silent prayers.

When morning comes, it’s time again — more premeds, more chemo.
Today marks the last day for his first chemotherapy drug.
They’ve been told that after twenty-four hours, they’ll finally be able to hold him without wearing protective gowns.

The thought brings tears to his mother’s eyes.
To feel his skin against hers again — to hold her baby without barriers — is something she’s longed for through endless sterile days.

At eleven o’clock, the second chemotherapy drug will begin.
This one will be given every day for four days.

Then next week, Marcus will get his PICC line — a small catheter that will help doctors deliver medicine directly into his veins.
After that, the bone marrow transplant.
The biggest step yet.

To make the next days a little brighter, Marcus’s parents rearranged the hospital room.
They moved the furniture, set up a little table, and brought in a large screen TV.
They turned it into something resembling home.

When Cars plays on the screen, the whole room seems to glow.
Marcus claps his hands, points at Lightning McQueen, and for a few moments — just a few — the word “chemo” disappears.

His laughter bounces off the sterile walls.
His joy refuses to be dimmed.
And that’s Marcus — a little boy who keeps teaching everyone around him what strength truly looks like.

Every day brings something new — a challenge, a symptom, a small victory.
Some mornings are filled with energy; others begin with tears and nausea.
His parents have learned to live in the middle — between fear and faith, exhaustion and gratitude.

Sometimes, they hold each other and cry.
Other times, they laugh over the smallest things — a funny face, a spilled cup of milk, a random “vroom vroom” from Marcus that reminds them life still has sweetness.

Because even here, surrounded by machines and medicine, love is louder.
And love, somehow, always wins the day.

No one knows what tomorrow will bring.
But tonight, when the stadium lights shine and the crowd turns toward the hospital, thousands of hands will wave.
And somewhere in that building, a little boy with thinning hair and a brave heart will lift his hand too.

It might be small and shaky, but it’ll be filled with all the hope in the world.
For Marcus.
For every child fighting beside him.
For the belief that miracles can still happen — one wave, one day, one smile at a time.