The flashing lights of the ambulance cut through the evening sky as Joey was transferred once again.
This time, the destination was Salt Lake.
His small body lay secured on the stretcher, while his parents carried the weight of fear and exhaustion in their eyes.

They whispered thanks for every prayer sent their way, clinging to the invisible strength those prayers carried.

Just when it seemed like their family was beginning to find a rhythm in Joey’s cancer journey, everything shifted.

Cancer has a way of breaking rhythms.
It interrupts ordinary days and turns them into emergencies.
And in the world of pediatric oncology, fevers are never simple.

From the very first chemo appointment, Joey’s parents were told the rule:

If his temperature ever climbs above 100.4, they must go straight to the hospital.
No waiting, no hesitating, no hoping it will pass on its own.

Because a fever could mean infection.

And infection, for a child with no immune system, can become life-threatening in moments.

So here they were on a Sunday evening, carrying their five-year-old boy back to the hospital.

Poor Joey begged not to return.

For all his bravery, for all the strength he shows daily, he is still only a child.
A child who wants to stay home, who wants to play, who wants to pretend hospitals are just a bad dream.

But with quiet resignation, he let his father carry him to the van, and then into the emergency room.

At triage, the nurse checked his vitals.
Her face softened, but her words held weight.

His numbers were concerning.

They flagged possible signs of sepsis, a dangerous complication that no parent wants to hear.
The nurse leaned close and gently warned them: more staff would be rushing in soon.

That kindness, that small moment of preparation, gave Joey’s parents a chance to breathe before the storm.

Within moments, the room filled.
Eight people entered — techs, nurses, and doctors — each moving quickly, each with a purpose.

Machines beeped.
Gloves snapped into place.

Voices overlapped as orders were given and carried out.
In the middle of the whirlwind was Joey, a little boy too small for such urgency.

The port in his chest had to be accessed.
It was still a frightening procedure for him, no matter how many times it had been done before.

But he faced it anyway, trembling yet brave.

He curled into his mother’s side, eyes glued to MarioKart videos playing softly on her phone.
That cartoon world, full of color and speed, gave him a tiny escape while real life pressed in.

Finally, the antibiotics began to flow through his IV.
Joey’s body was fragile, but it was also strong enough to keep fighting.
Now came the hardest part: waiting.
Waiting for labs.

Waiting for results.
Waiting to hear what came next.

In the middle of it all, Joey asked for something simple, something so perfectly childlike.
A blue slushie.
For a moment, his parents smiled, grateful for a glimpse of their boy beyond the sickness.

But just then, the doctor walked in.

A quick exam of Joey’s stomach led to a decision.
“Let’s hold off on that and do an ultrasound.”
The disappointment on Joey’s face was heartbreaking.

Even small joys seem stolen in moments like these.

And so the night went on, with more waiting, more scans, more prayers whispered into sterile air.
His parents sat close, holding his hand, brushing hair from his forehead, speaking softly so he would know he wasn’t alone.

They carried the fear silently, choosing instead to give him courage.

For Joey, the hospital was scary.
For his parents, it was unbearable to see him there again.

But through it all, Joey remained a fighter.

Scared, yes.

But brave in ways most five-year-olds never need to be.
Still able to watch MarioKart while the world swirled around him.
Still able to ask for a blue slushie in the middle of crisis.
Still holding on to the essence of childhood, even in a hospital bed.

His parents know this will not be the last emergency.
Cancer has a way of weaving uncertainty into every day.
But they also know they are not alone.

Prayers are holding them up.
Doctors and nurses are working tirelessly.
And Joey, their little warrior, refuses to let go of hope.

As the hours stretched late into the night, one truth remained.
This journey is not just about cancer.
It is about resilience.
It is about the small moments — a video game, a request for a slushie, a mother’s embrace — that remind them life still exists in the middle of the storm.

And it is about love.
A love that will carry Joey through every ambulance ride, every IV, every sleepless night.
His fight continues.
But so does his light.