This is a vulnerable post — one I never imagined I’d be writing, one I wish with everything in me I didn’t have to share. But silence doesn’t make the pain go away, and updates are part of this journey.

For the past few days, I haven’t been able to find the words. Between hospital halls, test results, and sleepless nights, every ounce of my energy has gone to Cylus.

Today, with a rare moment of stillness, I want to tell you what happened — because he deserves to be seen, prayed for, and lifted by every heart that can hold him.

The past week has been grueling. We had been focusing all of our strength on resolving the kidney stone issue that already left Cylus exhausted and in pain.

We thought that would be the fight of the week. But Sunday night, without warning, our world tilted again in the most terrifying way.

It started during a football game. Cylus woke up, and I noticed something odd — his left eye was closing more slowly than the other.

At first, I wanted to believe it was nothing, maybe just fatigue or irritation. But instinct told me otherwise. We tested him at home, asked him to smile, to blink, to respond. The difference was undeniable. His body wasn’t responding the way it should.

Through Friday and Saturday, he had complained of headaches, left eye pain, and ear pain.

I thought maybe it was sinus pressure or related to everything else going on. But within an hour of waking, the change was undeniable and terrifying: the entire left side of his face had stopped responding.

We didn’t wait. We rushed to the ER, hearts pounding with dread. The possibilities no parent ever wants to hear whispered around their child’s name began swirling: a stroke, a brain bleed, a mass pressing on vital structures.

The CT scans ruled out some of our greatest fears. No stroke. No brain bleed. No obvious spread into his brain. But we were admitted immediately, and within just 24 hours, his face remained paralyzed.

An MRI was ordered, and waiting for those results felt like an eternity. The halls of the hospital seemed quieter than usual, though I know it was my heart amplifying the silence. When the doctors finally came with answers, our lives tilted once more.

Cylus has a new mass. It is at the base of his skull, on the left side, pressing directly on his facial nerve. That is why his face has stopped moving, why his eye, his smile, his expressions are frozen.

And yet — we were told something that gave us both relief and devastation. belive, because the cancer has not spread to his brain, and no new masses beyond this one were found. Devastation, because this mass is new, aggressive, and already wreaking havoc on his body.

We are moving forward with MIBG therapy. It begins tomorrow. Four days of liquid radiation. Four days of isolation.

Four days of watching our boy endure what no child should ever endure, in the hope of buying more time, more life, more hope. The doctors described it as “nuking” his progressing cancer. That word stuck with me — so violent, so raw, and yet so necessary.

I have shared before the traumas Cylus has endured in this journey. He is refractory. His cancer is relentless, progressing despite every effort, every treatment, every prayer we’ve whispered in hospital rooms.

He has endured new lesions in his pelvis and femur. He suffered a knee fracture. He has battled COVID.

He has lived through a kidney stone that would bring an adult to tears. And now, he faces facial paralysis from yet another tumor pressing on nerves that should never have been threatened.

There has been no grief like this. No torment like watching cancer invade your child’s body piece by piece, stripping away their abilities, their smiles, their light — and yet leaving them still fighting, still brave, still somehow your little warrior.

Every day we pray. Every night we beg. Please God, let this work. Please give us this miracle.

We are praying with every fiber of our being. From the depths of our souls, from the rawest corners of our hearts, we are pleading for this treatment to be the one that turns the tide. We are on our knees, not just asking, but crying out: please, let this work.

The truth is, cancer doesn’t just attack the body. It invades every part of life. It steals moments, it robs innocence, it shatters the illusion of safety.

If creates a new normal where parents live by scans, blood counts, and treatment cycles. Where children live with tubes, ports, isolation, and pain. Where families cling to hope as their only lifeline.

And yet, in the middle of all this, there is still light. Cylus is still here. He still laughs at times, even with a face that won’t fully move.

He still holds our hands. He still fights every single day. His courage humbles us. His resilience teaches us. His spirit carries us forward when our own strength falters.

We are not walking this road alone, and we know that. The love from family, friends, and even strangers who have become part of this journey is the only reason we can keep moving.

Every message, every prayer, every donation, every gesture of kindness has been a lifeline. It is not just support — it is survival.

To those who have stood with us, thank you. We could not do this without you. And yet, we must ask again: please keep praying. Please keep believing. Please hold Cylus in your hearts as he begins this next brutal stage of treatment.

Tomorrow begins four days of radiation that will isolate him, weaken him, and terrify us all. But it may also save him. It may buy us more time. It may bring the miracle we desperately need.

I don’t know what the days ahead will look like. I only know that we will keep fighting alongside him. We will keep whispering love into his ears, holding his hands, sitting through the long nights, and believing in the possibility of healing.

Cylus’s story is not over. This is a dark chapter, yes, but it is not the final page. We still believe in light. We still believe in miracles. And we will keep believing until the very end.

So tonight, with a mother’s heart cracked wide open, I ask: please pray for my baby. Please lift his name to God. Please hold us in your thoughts as we walk through this fire once again.

Because at the end of the day, what we want is simple: to see our boy healthy, smiling, and free from this relentless disease. To watch him run again. To see him laugh without pain. To know that his childhood was not stolen entirely by cancer.

Thank you for standing with us. Thank you for loving him, for believing with us, and for reminding us that we are not alone in this fight.

Please God. Please let this work.