Just a little update — though “little” never quite feels like the right word when it comes to Hazel. Every update carries the weight of fear, hope, and a thousand silent prayers.

We received the results of her most recent MIBG scan this week. At first, I thought I’d gotten used to the waiting, to the endless cycle of tests and results. But that familiar pit in my stomach still shows up every time I see the doctor’s number on the caller ID.

When the scan report came back, it said there were new spots of disease. Those words hit like a punch to the chest. My heart sank instantly. After everything she’s been through, after all the treatments and the tiny steps forward, to hear that there might be new disease — it’s unbearable.

Being concerned, I reached out to Hazel’s medical team right away. I needed to understand what was really happening. Later that day, they returned my call — but I missed it by seconds. When I played back the voicemail, the doctor’s voice sounded calm, even optimistic.

They said they were encouraged by her scan results. That after reviewing everything again with the radiologist, they believed the treatment was helping.

I must have listened to that message five times in a row, trying to understand what they meant. How could there be new spots, and yet they still think it’s good news? How could things look worse on paper but still be considered progress?

Maybe they compared this scan to July’s PET scan, I thought. Maybe what looks like “new disease” on the MIBG is actually old activity that didn’t show up before. Maybe it’s not truly new growth — just the treatment revealing what was already there.

I’d like to believe that. I need to believe that.

Still, I can’t help but question it. If she actually had several new and growing areas of disease, why would they keep her on the same treatment? There has to be an explanation — a reason behind their optimism that I can’t yet see.

I’ve reached out again for clarification but haven’t heard back yet. The waiting — it’s always the hardest part. The in-between moments when your mind races faster than your heart can keep up.

In the meantime, we got partial results from her bone marrow biopsies. On one side, where she previously had 50% disease involvement, it’s now zero. Completely clear. That felt like a small miracle. The other side, though — the one that had 30% last time — is still at 30%. No worse, but not better either.

It’s strange how relief and worry can live side by side like that. One number brings hope, the other uncertainty. But I’m learning to hold both at once — to celebrate the progress while praying for what’s still unfinished.

And here’s the beautiful part — Hazel feels good.
She isn’t throwing up. She’s eating again. She’s playing, giggling, and making silly faces at her nurses. Her laughter fills the hospital halls like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. If you didn’t know her story, you’d never guess the battle happening inside her tiny body.

That’s Hazel — pure strength wrapped in innocence.

She’ll start her next round of treatment on Monday. I’m planning to talk with her team that morning, to ask the questions that keep circling in my head — to understand their thought process, their plan, their faith in this path. I need to know that every step we’re taking is truly moving us forward.

And yet, even as I prepare for those difficult conversations, there’s this unshakable calm inside me. A whisper that says, Keep believing. Because time and time again, we’ve seen things shift in ways that can’t be explained by medicine alone.\

There’s something greater at work.

Hazel’s story has never been simple, but it’s always been filled with grace — the kind that shows up when everything else feels impossible. I’ve watched her body grow weak, then find strength again. I’ve seen her eyes light up even after nights filled with tears. I’ve seen the power of prayer move in ways that even her doctors can’t quite describe.

So yes — today, I’m still anxious. I’m still confused. I still have a million questions that no one can answer yet. But I’m also holding tight to faith. Because I believe in miracles — the kind that leave doctors speechless and hearts changed forever.

Hazel’s smile is proof of that.

She is more than her scans. More than the numbers and charts and reports. She’s a child — a bright, loving, incredible little girl who dances between fear and joy with a bravery that humbles everyone around her.

This journey is long, uncertain, and often cruel. But we’re not walking it alone. Every message, every prayer, every whisper of hope from friends and strangers — it all matters. It all lifts us a little higher when the weight feels too heavy to bear.

So please, keep praying for Hazel.
Pray for a miraculous healing — one that shocks her doctors, one that defies logic and science. Because God can.

And until then, we’ll keep believing.
We’ll keep hoping.
And we’ll keep fighting — together. 💛