Brielle is downstairs taking a nap with Dad.
So I decided to sneak away for a second and play upstairs in the playroom.
It’s quiet here — the kind of quiet that lets you think.
And as I sit here among her toys, I just want to answer a few questions that people have asked, because I’ve always wanted to be a resource for others — for those looking for answers when maybe their team doesn’t have them.
But before I say anything else, I need to start with this: I’m not a doctor.
I don’t have a medical degree.
I studied marriage and family counseling.
This world — this world of hospitals, medications, protocols, and prayers — was never something I thought I’d know so intimately.
When Brielle was first diagnosed, I remember feeling like I had been dropped into a foreign country without a map.
Everything was new.
Every word the doctors spoke felt like another language.
And I wish — oh, how I wish — that I had known more back then.
If I had, maybe I would have taken different roads, or added different things, or understood earlier that healing doesn’t just happen in hospitals — sometimes it begins in the heart.
Now, all I want is to help.
Not to replace chemotherapy, radiation, or any of the treatments that modern medicine has to offer.
Those things are necessary.
They save lives every single day.
But I’ve learned that sometimes, healing also needs hope, and faith, and tiny acts of love repeated over and over again.
I want to share what has helped us — the little extras, the gentle things that have made a tremendous difference in our journey.
Because maybe, just maybe, they’ll help someone else too.
Two weeks ago — or maybe it’s been a little longer, I’ve lost track of time — we started noticing more pain again.
Brielle’s pain meds had to be increased.
We worked to get it under control, and eventually, we brought her dosage back down.
Her vitals are stable now.
She’s more tired than before, but we still have good, beautiful hours of wakefulness.
Hours when she sits on the couch with her little blanket, making crafts or writing tiny verses on colorful paper.
Sometimes she insists on showing me every single one.
“Look at this one, Mommy,” she’ll say, eyes shining with pride, her fingers smudged with marker ink.
Those moments — small, ordinary, yet sacred — are everything.
She doesn’t need oxygen all the time anymore.
Her heart rate hovers around a hundred — a little high for a resting child, but steady.
For us, that’s a victory.
Because every breath, every heartbeat, every smile counts.
We remember the Brielle from a month ago — the one who could walk across the living room without help, who giggled endlessly at “Full House” reruns.
That Brielle is different from the Brielle we see now.
But she’s still here.
Still fighting.
Still radiating a quiet, stubborn joy that fills our home.
We’re just soaking in every single second we get with her.
Every tiny smile.
Every whisper of “I love you, Mommy.”
Our nights are different now.
Brielle has become a night owl — maybe she takes after me.
During the day, the pain meds make her sleepy, so she naps.
But by nightfall, she’s wide awake.
She’ll look at me with those big brown eyes and say, “I’m ready to watch Full House.”
And so we do.
We stay up late, talking, laughing, sometimes crying, holding hands under the soft glow of the lamp.
I don’t mind the sleeplessness.
Those hours are our treasure.
They’re the quiet spaces where I see her spirit — bright and unbreakable — shining through the pain.
Then we sleep in the next morning, the sunlight spilling across her bed, her stuffed animals tucked around her like an army of little guardians.
That’s our rhythm now.
It’s not perfect.
But it’s ours.
About two weeks ago, when Brielle’s pain began to worsen, I made a decision that broke me.
I stopped what we called “The Miracle Protocol.”
It’s something we share on our main page — a set of natural supplements, teas, and nutrients that we believe have supported her body alongside medical treatments.
For months, it had been part of our daily routine.
But when her pain grew sharper, I began to question everything.
Maybe, I thought, I was doing too much.
Maybe it was time to stop.
Maybe it was time to just… let go.
For four days, I paused the protocol.
I continued her pain meds, her nausea meds — those have never stopped — but I put everything else away.
And during those four days, I felt like my heart had been hollowed out.
Every prayer felt heavy.
Every breath felt uncertain.
I remember kneeling beside my bed one night, the room quiet except for the hum of her oxygen machine downstairs.
I closed my eyes and whispered, “Father, I need an answer.
Please tell me what to do. If I’m supposed to stop, let me know.
Please make it clear — bold — because I don’t trust myself to give up.”
Because I know who I am.
I’m the kind of mom who keeps going.
Who researches late into the night.
Who refuses to stop until every door has been knocked on, every stone turned.
I needed something undeniable.
A sign.
A feeling.
Anything.
And then, in that stillness, I didn’t hear a voice — not really — but I felt something.
A warmth, a whisper in my soul that said, simply, “Keep going.”
Two words.
But they wrapped around me like light.
Keep going.
Maybe it was just for me.
Maybe it was Heaven reminding me that hope isn’t foolish — it’s holy.
I opened my eyes and wiped my tears.
And I said out loud, “Okay. I’ll keep going.”
The next morning, I mixed up the protocol again.
A sixty-milliliter syringe of blended nutrients.
A pot of tea steeped with herbs I can now name by heart.
The gentle hum of the breast milk pump that provides the extra nourishment she still tolerates.
Every step felt sacred.
Every action, a prayer in motion.
And as I handed Brielle the little syringe, she looked at me, smiled faintly, and said, “Thank you, Mommy.”
That was all I needed.
I’ll keep doing this.
As long as I have breath.
As long as she’s here.
Because I believe — with everything in me — that the things we’re doing, the things we’re praying, the things people are sending us from all over the world, are working together in ways we can’t yet understand.
Maybe this isn’t about curing.
Maybe it’s about caring.
Maybe it’s about giving her every ounce of love, time, and comfort that I can.
So that one day, when she smiles down from Heaven, she’ll say, “You did it, Mom. You gave me the best you could.”
And I’ll know that’s true.
That’s what keeps me going.
Not science alone.
Not hope alone.
But love — relentless, radiant, unwavering love.
News
Two weeks. That’s all the time left to save his life. Cancer has already stolen so much from little Jędruś — his laughter, his energy, his peace. It came once, was beaten back, and then returned — stronger, crueler, more determined to win. He’s only a child, but he’s already been through more than most adults could bear. Two brain surgeries. Endless chemo. Nights filled with fear and pain. And now, the doctors have said the words no parent can endure: “There’s nothing more we can do here.” But somewhere, there is hope — a special treatment in the U.S. that could save him. A chance to stop the cancer without destroying his body. A chance to live. The cost? 2 million złoty. The deadline? 14 days. His parents don’t sleep anymore. One stays by his hospital bed; the other cares for their baby at home. They fight exhaustion, despair, and time itself — because giving up isn’t an option. This is more than a fundraiser. It’s a race against death. And every second counts. 👉 Full story in the comment
We’re standing against the wall. And right behind us—death. We can feel her breath on our backs, her cold, merciless…
Cylus just endured nine days of relentless treatment, including seven days in total isolation under radioactive light. Every moment was a battle between hope and fear—but the outcome was remarkable: every single tumor responded to therapy. Even the new ones, unseen in previous scans, were hit and treated. That news brought shock, but also relief—proof that science and courage can reach even what’s hidden. The week left him weak, but each small step, each smile, each lift of his hand was more than movement—it was defiance. Cylus showed that true courage isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a tired child raising his hand for the nurse, or finding the strength to smile when everything hurts. Now, the hospital doors close behind him, and home awaits. Cylus is more than a patient, more than a survivor—he’s courage in motion, hope in action. The road ahead is long, but he’s already proven he can do hard things. Read the full story in the below the comments.👇
Nine days. Nine days that felt like both a lifetime and a heartbeat, a stretch of time where every moment…
Dallas has been fighting harder than ever. His body is tired, his lungs weak, but his spirit hasn’t given up. After days of sickness, doctors finally found the reason — Adenovirus. A simple virus for most children, but for Dallas, it’s a storm that his fragile body can barely survive. His lungs are struggling, his breathing shallow, yet he keeps hanging on. He’s slowly being fed through fluids, and soon doctors will perform a delicate procedure to help him stay nourished when his body can’t handle food. Every small step — every quiet breath, every sip he keeps down — is a tiny victory. Today, he smiled for the first time in days. It was small, weak, but enough to remind his mother why she never stops praying. Because no matter how fragile he looks, there’s a light in him that refuses to fade. And that light — that fight — is what keeps hope alive. The full story is in the comments below.👇
Every day feels like a battle for little Dallas — a fragile boy with a brave heart who fights harder than most…
ch2 . Stephen Colbert sat frozen under the studio lights, the crowd expecting laughter — but instead, they got silence. Moments earlier, he had finished reading Virginia Giuffre’s posthumous memoir, a raw and devastating account that peeled back the final layers of one of America’s darkest scandals. “This isn’t just a book,” Colbert said, his voice cracking. “It’s a warning — and we ignored it for too long.” The man who built his career on comedy now looked ready for battle, vowing to use his platform to expose what Giuffre died fighting to reveal. Across the nation, viewers watched in stunned disbelief as late-night television turned into a moral wake-up call. What Colbert does next could change everything. DETAIL BELOW
Stephen Colbert sat frozen under the studio lights, the crowd expecting laughter — but instead, they got silence. Moments earlier,…
CH2 . Hillary Clinton thought she could silence Senator Kennedy in a high-stakes Senate hearing. She was dead wrong. In a stunning 73-minute confrontation, Kennedy didn’t just hold his ground—he turned the tables and unleashed a firestorm, exposing decades of hidden truths. The chamber was left reeling, and Washington is in shock. This wasn’t just a debate; it was an detonation. See the explosive full exchange…
Hillary Clinton’s 73-Minute Collapse: How Senator John Kennedy Dismantled Washington’s Most Influential Woman The Senate Showdown That Rewrote the Rules…
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