Some days feel heavier than others.
Today was one of those days.

Theo has had several desaturation episodes — not his usual ones, not the quick dips that resolve with a touch or a breath — but the kind that pull the air from your lungs as you watch him struggle. His oxygen drops into the 20s, his skin turns blue, and for terrifying seconds, he stops moving.

The nurses rush in. Monitors scream. My hands shake as I whisper his name over and over — “Come on, baby, breathe.”

The same interventions that worked before aren’t helping this time. He takes longer to recover, longer to turn pink again, longer to make that faint sound that tells me he’s still fighting. Each second feels endless. Each episode feels like a lifetime.

We think it’s withdrawal. Yesterday they weaned his morphine, and that’s always the hardest day for him. His little body shakes, his heart races, and sweat beads across his forehead. You can see the confusion in his eyes — as if he’s wondering why his body feels this way. He’s only nine pounds, but he’s carrying a fight far too big for someone so small.

The doctors made adjustments today — changing his medication doses and feedings to match his new weight. He’s growing, slowly but surely, now up to 9 pounds 5 ounces. A tiny miracle in numbers. They also lowered his PEEP from 14 to 13 because his lungs looked too expanded on the x-ray, making his heart appear smaller.

But tonight, it feels like the change made things harder.
His chest pulls in with every breath — the retractions that signal struggle. It’s a sight no mother ever forgets. His little ribs show as he tries to pull air in, his body working twice as hard just to survive.

The PEEP, they told me, helps keep his alveoli open, prevents air from getting trapped, and helps his body clear the carbon dioxide. But right now, his CO2 levels are high — 80s and above — flashing on the monitor like an alarm my heart can’t silence.

I sit beside him, my hand wrapped around his. I whisper softly, hum to him, tell him he’s safe, that I’m right here. Sometimes, he calms — for a moment. His breathing evens out, his numbers rise. But then, it starts again. The alarms, the color change, the panic.

Each time, it feels like my heart breaks a little more.

Watching your child fight for air is something no one can ever prepare for.
There’s no training for it, no strength you can build ahead of time.

You just live in the moment — one breath, one number, one prayer at a time.

And yet, even in the middle of the fear, God finds ways to give me small pieces of light.

When I arrived at the hospital last night, Theo was in a big boy crib for the first time. I smiled through tears, seeing him stretched out like he was proud of himself for growing. And for the first time in weeks, I got to dress him. His tiny arms free of the midline in his right arm, his skin finally free enough to feel soft clothes against it.

It was such a simple thing — but it felt sacred.

I whispered, “Look at you, my brave boy. We can do hard things.”

Because we can.
We’ve been doing hard things for so long now.

Every day brings a new test of faith — new medications, new numbers, new fears.
But in each one, there’s also grace. There’s the quiet reminder that we’re not doing this alone.

When I feel like I can’t take another setback, I remind myself: The Lord is my refuge.
When my heart starts to race and the monitors seem louder than my prayers, I remind myself that He’s been with us every step of the way.

And when I see Theo’s tiny hand gripping my finger, I know — God’s strength is flowing through him too.

It’s easy to feel defeated in moments like this.

Easy to let fear win.

But faith isn’t about being fearless — it’s about trusting even when you’re terrified.

Theo doesn’t know the medical terms. He doesn’t understand CO2 levels, oxygen percentages, or ventilator settings. He only knows that when I’m beside him, holding his hand, whispering his name, he’s not alone.

And maybe that’s what faith really is — knowing you’re not alone, even in the hardest fight.

So tonight, as I sit here listening to the steady hum of machines, I breathe with him. I pray for his lungs, his heart, his strength.

I pray that tomorrow will be easier.
That the numbers will come down.
That the blue will fade.

But most of all, I pray for peace — for him, and for me.

Because even in the hardest moments, there’s light.
There’s love.
There’s the quiet strength that keeps us going.

Theo’s journey is far from over, but neither is our faith.
We’ll keep holding on — one breath, one prayer, one miracle at a time.

Bennett’s Sweet Smile: A Brave Warrior Fighting Leukemia.937

Bennett has the kind of smile that can stop you in your tracks — sweet, a little silly, and full of light. It’s the kind of smile that reminds us of innocence, of joy, of the beauty that exists in the world even when times are difficult. For Bennett, that smile is not just a reflection of happiness; it is also a sign of strength. At her young age, she is bravely battling leukemia, and yet she continues to shine with a spirit that inspires everyone around her.

Leukemia is a word no child should ever have to face, but Bennett has approached her journey with the heart of a warrior. Treatments, tests, and hospital stays are part of her reality now, but they do not define who she is. What defines Bennett is her laughter, her kindness, her bright personality, and the way she continues to bring joy to her family, her friends, and even to those who may only know her story from afar.

When she dances, the room seems lighter. When she sings along to her favorite songs, the heaviness of her fight against cancer seems to lift. And when she curls up with a book, she is transported to new worlds where anything is possible, where imagination takes flight and hardship fades away. These passions — music, dancing, and reading — are more than hobbies for Bennett. They are lifelines, carrying her through difficult days and giving her moments of pure joy that no illness can take away.

Her family stands beside her every step of the way, holding her hand during the hard moments and celebrating every little victory. They see firsthand the strength that shines from within her, even when treatments leave her tired or days feel overwhelming. For them, Bennett is not just their daughter or granddaughter — she is their hero. Watching her smile through pain and find joy in small things teaches them more about resilience and courage than words ever could.

Beyond her family, Bennett is embraced by a larger community — the NEGU Nation. NEGU, which stands for Never Ever Give Up, is a movement of love and encouragement that surrounds children like Bennett with reminders that they are not alone. For Bennett, NEGU Nation is more than just a network of supporters. It is a team of cheerleaders, a chorus of voices, all united in the promise to lift her up with love, hope, and strength.

Every message of encouragement, every act of kindness, every note of support sent to Bennett reminds her that her fight matters — that she matters. These reminders carry a powerful message: she is never forgotten, and she is never alone.

One way this love reaches children like Bennett is through JoyJars®. These colorful jars are filled with toys, activities, and treasures that bring happiness and comfort to kids fighting cancer. For Bennett, a JoyJar might mean discovering a new book, a fun game, or a little treasure that sparks laughter. But more importantly, each JoyJar carries a deeper message: You are loved. You are supported. You are not alone in this fight.

Supporting Bennett — and children like her — is a way of standing against the darkness of cancer with the light of compassion. Even a donation as simple as $30 can send a JoyJar into the hands of a child who needs encouragement, turning a hard day into one filled with smiles.

Bennett’s story reminds us all that courage can be small and sweet, but also mighty enough to change the world. Her smile continues to light hearts, her laughter continues to inspire, and her strength continues to show us what true resilience looks like.

So keep shining, sweet Bennett. Keep dancing, keep reading, keep smiling that wonderful smile. You are surrounded by love, lifted by hope, and supported by all of us who believe in you.

💙📚🎶 We NEGU for you, Bennett — today, tomorrow, and always. 💙📚🎶