Nine days. Nine days that felt like both a lifetime and a heartbeat, a stretch of time where every moment was threaded with hope, fear, and an unwavering determination. Seven of those days were spent in complete isolation. Seven days in a room where the outside world was reduced to muffled voices through a door and the sterile hum of hospital machines. Seven days bathed in radioactive light—each moment precise, targeted, and relentless. And now, finally, after all the waiting, the uncertainty, and the trials, we are heading home. MIBG therapy is done—for now.

Looking back at the week that was, it’s hard to even know where to begin. It was exhausting in every possible sense: physically, mentally, emotionally. But through it all, Cylus shone with a strength that left us both in awe and in tears. Every single tumor he carried responded to the radiation.

Even the new skull base tumor, one that hadn’t appeared on previous scans, took the treatment. And not only that—two other tumors, previously undetected, were also reached and irradiated with precision. That moment, learning about those unseen tumors, was a mixture of shock and relief. Shock, because we hadn’t known they existed; relief, because MIBG had already done its work on them. It was proof that even when life feels invisible and unpredictable, science, care, and courage can find a way.

The week was brutal, no sugarcoating it. Cylus was weak, of course. Who wouldn’t be, after seven days in isolation, under radiation, with a body carrying the weight of both illness and treatment? But even in his exhaustion, he kept moving. Each step, each stretch of his arms, each attempt to sit up in bed felt monumental. It wasn’t just movement—it was a declaration. A statement that he refuses to be defined by his illness, that no treatment, no hospital stay, no tumor, no isolation, can take away his spirit.

If “you can do hard things” were a person, that person would be Cylus. Every day, he teaches us lessons that no book, no seminar, no lecture could ever impart. Patience, resilience, endurance, and the quiet courage that shows up when no one is watching. Moments that seem ordinary—playing with a small toy, laughing at a silly joke, or simply looking at us with that sparkle in his eye—become extraordinary when we realize the effort behind them. Behind every smile, there’s a body worn thin by treatment; behind every laugh, a mind that has weathered fear; behind every step, a heart that refuses to give up.

Watching him, we are reminded that courage isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s sitting alone in a hospital room, counting the minutes until you can see your parents again. Sometimes, it’s lifting your hand for the nurse, even when you’re tired and sore. Sometimes, it’s managing a tiny smile, a word, a blink of acknowledgment, when every cell in your body aches. Cylus showed all of that and more.

Nine days in a hospital is a number. But those numbers don’t convey the nights spent worrying over monitors and medication schedules, the hours counting breaths and blood counts, the endless vigil of love and vigilance. They don’t tell you about the smell of antiseptic, the hum of machines, the soft shuffle of nurses’ feet in the night. They don’t capture the tiny victories: a meal eaten, a nap taken, a hand held. Those moments are quiet, but in them lives hope. And hope is what carried us through.

Now, the hospital doors close behind us, and the world outside feels both immense and familiar. Home awaits—a space filled with warmth, laughter, and the ordinary comforts we often take for granted. But home isn’t just a building; it’s the place where Cylus can stretch his legs, breathe freely, and feel the safety of family. It’s where the walls don’t hum with machines, and the air isn’t thick with antiseptic. It’s where he can just be Cylus—playful, curious, brave, stubborn, resilient Cylus.

We will continue to watch him closely, continue to support him, continue to love him fiercely. But for today, we pause. We take a deep breath. We let ourselves celebrate the courage we have witnessed, the battles we have endured, and the victories—both big and small—we have earned. Cylus has carried himself through the unimaginable with a grace that is humbling. His bravery has lifted us as much as our care has supported him.

Our boy has taught us more in these nine days than we could have learned in a lifetime of ordinary days. Patience, love without condition, the beauty of small victories, the quiet resilience that comes from facing fear head-on—he embodies all of it. Every step he takes, every smile he gives, every look of determination is a reminder that even the hardest paths can be navigated with courage.

Now, the next phase begins: watching, waiting, hoping. We step forward with cautious optimism, knowing the road ahead may be long, with twists and turns still unknown. But looking at Cylus, we know that he will meet each challenge with the same steadfast courage he has always shown. And we, with hearts full of love, will walk right beside him, supporting each step, celebrating every triumph, and comforting every struggle.

Through all of it, there is gratitude. Gratitude for the science and care that made this treatment possible. Gratitude for the doctors, nurses, and staff who cared for him tirelessly. Gratitude for the resilience that exists in Cylus, a resilience that amazes us every single day. And gratitude for home, for the opportunity to breathe a little easier, and to feel the warmth of family together once again.

Cylus is more than a patient, more than a survivor. He is courage in motion, hope in action, a living testament to the strength of the human spirit. And as we walk out the hospital doors today, we carry with us a renewed sense of purpose: to love fiercely, to cherish every moment, and to honor the bravery of a boy who can do hard things in ways that inspire everyone around him.