The past 24 hours have tested every ounce of strength this family has left.
Branson’s little body is tired — drained by pain, nausea, and the endless fight his days have become.

This morning, doctors placed another NG tube to help with constant vomiting. He cried, trembling, but endured it like he always does. When the tube slipped out later, he had to go through it all again. 

Another procedure followed, this time to ease the pain caused by the BK virus that refuses to let go. Most adults couldn’t handle what Branson faces daily — but he keeps going, quietly, bravely.

Nichole and Donald never leave his side. Between every beep of the monitor, they whisper prayers — watching the numbers rise and fall, finding hope in every small improvement.
And through the exhaustion, one miracle shines: Branson’s CNS results still show 0% leukemia. 

Tonight, under the soft hum of machines, they pray for healing, for peace, for their little boy’s relief.
Because love never stops believing.
And Branson still deserves his miracle. 

Branson’s Battle for Relief 🧡
(10.07.25 update – over 1000 words, line break after each sentence)

The past twenty-four hours have been some of the hardest yet.
Every breath, every heartbeat feels like another test of endurance.

Branson’s body is utterly exhausted — worn down from months of fighting, procedures, infections, and relentless pain.
He’s been battling nonstop, without a single moment of true rest.

This morning began with tears and trembling hands.

The nausea had grown so unbearable through the night that the doctors decided an NG tube had to be placed.

It wasn’t the first time.
But that doesn’t make it any easier.

The moment the tube touched his nose, Branson flinched.
His tiny hands tried to push it away.

The nurses spoke softly, his parents held his arms, whispering that it would help, that it was only for a little while.

He cried quietly — the kind of cry that no child should ever know — and when it was finally in place, he was pale and shaking.

A few hours later, he pulled it out himself.No one could blame him.

After all, how much more can one body tolerate?
But that meant enduring the agony of having it replaced all over again.

It’s brutal to watch, beyond words, beyond tears.

The kind of heartbreak that leaves a parent feeling helpless — wanting to take every bit of pain and carry it themselves if only it would give their child relief.

Alongside the tube placement, another procedure had to be done to help his body manage the effects of the BK virus — an infection that has tormented him for weeks.

It causes pain so deep it makes even the strongest child cry out in ways no parent should ever hear.

Branson has been through so much already: transplants, chemo, infections, hospital rooms that have become both battlefield and prison.

And still, somehow, he keeps fighting.

Nichole and Donald stand at his bedside, praying without pause.
They whisper words of hope while monitors hum softly in the background — steady, mechanical reminders of the fragile balance between life and suffering.

They have learned to read every number, every beep, every shift in his breathing.
They’ve learned to measure their days not by time, but by lab results, blood counts, and moments of peace between waves of pain.

They’re waiting now — waiting for the CNS results for adenovirus.
This one test feels like a line drawn between fear and hope.
Every hour drags on like a lifetime, every doctor who walks into the room carries the weight of an answer that could change everything.

So they pray.
Not once, not twice — but constantly.
Every heartbeat becomes a prayer: “Please let it be negative. Please let him be safe.”

And in the middle of it all, there is still one bright light.

His CNS results for leukemia remain 0%.
Zero.
Still in remission. 🙌🏼
Those words mean everything — the fragile hope that after all this suffering, his body is still holding on to the victory he fought so hard for.

His latest counts bring a flicker of cautious optimism: WBC at 8,000, neutrophils at 7,000, and lymphocytes at 200.
Small numbers, maybe, to anyone outside this world.

But to them, these numbers are like constellations of hope — tiny lights guiding them through the darkness.

Each rise, each improvement, means that somewhere deep inside, his body is still fighting, still believing in survival.

Nichole keeps a notebook beside his bed — pages filled with test results, medications, prayer lists, and little notes like

“He smiled today” or “He slept for two hours straight.”
Those small victories are everything.
They are the breaths of life between storms.

But the truth is — they are exhausted.

Every time they think he’s turning a corner, something else hits.
And yet, they hold on.

Because love doesn’t quit.
Because a parent’s hope is stronger than despair.

They’ve asked again for prayers — not as a formality, but as a lifeline.
They feel those prayers.
They feel the love coming in from across the world, from strangers and friends alike.

In messages, in candles lit, in whispered prayers from hospital corridors to quiet bedrooms miles away.
That energy, that faith, has carried them through every sleepless night.

Tonight, as Branson lies resting — his small chest rising and falling under the soft glow of the monitors — his parents hold his hands and pray aloud:
“For healing.
For comfort.
For relief.”

Their specific prayers have become a rhythm, a map of everything their hearts long for:

🧡 For the CNS adenovirus results to come back clear and negative.
🧡 For Branson’s body to stabilize and find relief from all the side effects.
🧡 For the nausea and vomiting to stop and for his stomach to settle.
🧡 For healing and comfort from the pain caused by the BK virus.
🧡 For strength to keep enduring these incredibly hard days.
🧡 For a miraculous breakthrough and signs of improvement soon.
🧡 For peace, rest, and protection over Branson’s mind and body.
🧡 For wisdom and discernment for his medical team.
🧡 For supernatural comfort and endurance for Nichole and Donald as they advocate and care for him.
🧡 And for continued remission — complete, lasting, unwavering.

Every prayer whispered is another candle lit against the darkness.
Every message of support is another thread holding this family together.
And though these days are cruel and heavy, they still choose faith over fear.

Because somewhere deep down, they believe a breakthrough is coming.

They believe that relief will come — maybe not all at once, but slowly, gently, like the dawn breaking after the longest night.
They believe that one day soon, Branson will wake without pain.

That he’ll sit up, smile again, maybe even ask for his favorite snack.
That the tubes and wires and procedures will fade into memory, replaced by sunlight, laughter, and life beyond hospital walls.

Until then, they keep holding on — to each other, to faith, and to the unshakable love that has carried them this far.
They know the road is long.

They know the fight isn’t over.
But they also know that miracles don’t always come suddenly — sometimes they come through endurance, through love that refuses to give up.

So tonight, as another long day fades into the quiet hum of machines, they sit together and whisper their nightly promise:
“We won’t stop fighting.
We won’t stop believing.
We won’t stop praying.”

And somewhere in that small hospital room, between the tears and the steady rhythm of his heart monitor, hope still burns — faint but unbroken.
Because Branson deserves relief.
He deserves to feel better.
He deserves his miracle.