They called it high-dose treatment.
For most, it’s just a phrase. For a mother, it’s weeks of pain, fear, and waiting beside a fragile little boy fighting for his life.

Frans’s latest scans showed progress — a score of 3, clean bone marrow. 🙏
But the glowing lymph nodes in his abdomen remind everyone that the battle isn’t over.

Tomorrow, he begins three days of chemo, followed by stem cell reinfusion — the start of another fight too big for a child, yet somehow, he faces it with quiet courage.

Tonight, as he sleeps with his stuffed dinosaur tucked close, his mom sits beside him, holding his tiny hand and whispering the same prayer she’s said a thousand times:

“Please, let this be the one that heals him.”
👉 Full story in the comment

Frans — A Heart Strong Enough for the Storm

💛 Frans — Holding On to Hope, One Breath at a Time 💛

Today, we checked in.

The bags had been sitting by the door since last night — neatly packed, everything labeled, everything ready.


But no matter how many times we’ve done this, I don’t think I’ll ever truly be ready.

Every hospital hallway feels both familiar and foreign — the sterile smell, the echo of footsteps, the quiet hum of machines.


Each time, it’s as if my heart pauses between beats, torn between fear and faith.

We knew another round of treatment was coming.
We just didn’t know what kind.

It wasn’t until we were already two-thirds of the way there that the phone rang, and the doctor’s voice filled the car:


“We’ve decided on high-dose treatment.”

Those words hit harder than I expected.
I nodded, said “Okay,” but inside I could feel my chest tighten.
High-dose treatment.
The words sound almost neutral to anyone else — clinical, matter-of-fact.


But for us, they mean weeks of pain, nausea, and watching my little boy’s body fight to survive something that’s supposed to save him.

Still, amidst the fear, there was something to hold onto.

The latest MIBG scan showed a decrease — a score of 3. 🙏
It might not sound like much, but to us, it was hope.
Tangible, precious hope.

We also had to redo the bone marrow test, since the last one hadn’t provided enough material.


This one wasn’t much better — barely anything to examine.
But what little they saw… was clean.
No visible cancer.

For a brief moment, I let myself breathe again.


Then came the reminder — the glowing lymph nodes in his abdomen.
The ones the surgeon couldn’t remove because of internal bleeding during his last operation.
The ones that still haunt us, lingering like shadows on every scan.

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They are the reason we’re here again.
The reason we can’t rest.
The reason I keep whispering to myself: Please, let this work. Let this be the one that heals him.

 

Frans will go through two high-dose treatments in total.
The first begins tomorrow — three intense days of chemotherapy, followed by the stem cell reinfusion on day four.

Even writing it down feels surreal.


To think that this tiny body, this boy with his gentle laugh and curious eyes, is about to face something so cruel and powerful… it takes my breath away.

The paradox of cancer treatment is brutal — the medicine that kills the disease also hurts the child.


You pray for the poison to do its job, even as you watch it take away their strength, their appetite, their spark.
You pray for healing while knowing that healing often looks like breaking first.

Before starting, the doctors ran a full check-up today — a chest X-ray and a heart ultrasound.
Routine, they said. Just to make sure he’s strong enough to handle what’s coming.

Both results came back clear. 🙏
Strong heart. Clear lungs.
For a moment, I could almost smile.

But the truth is, I’ve learned to be cautious with relief.
Every good result feels like standing on thin ice — you’re grateful, but you don’t dare move too fast, don’t dare celebrate too loudly.


Because you know how quickly everything can change.

The doctor spoke gently as he explained what to expect.
Two to four weeks in the hospital, depending on how Frans responds.


Two to four weeks of side effects — nausea, exhaustion, fragile immunity.
Two to four weeks of waiting, praying, watching.

He looked me in the eyes and said, “It’s going to be hard. But we’ll get through it together.”


And I nodded, because what else can a mother do but nod and hold on to those words like a lifeline?

When we got to the room, Frans climbed onto the bed, pulled his stuffed dinosaur close, and looked out the window.


“The clouds look slower here,” he said.
I smiled. “Maybe they’re waiting for you.”
He grinned faintly, then started talking about T-Rex and fossils, his voice soft and steady — as if we weren’t sitting in a cancer ward at all.

That’s his magic.
No matter how heavy the world becomes, Frans always finds a way to bring light into it.
To talk about dinosaurs, or stars, or how he wants pancakes when this is all over.
He reminds me, over and over again, that even in the darkest places, childhood finds a way to survive.

As night fell, I unpacked our things.
I placed his stuffed animals on the pillow, set up his little nightlight that projects stars across the ceiling — the same one that’s followed us from room to room, hospital to hospital.
It’s our small piece of home, our way of saying: we’re still us, no matter where we are.

Frans drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and slow, the faint glow of the machines reflecting off his cheeks.
I sat beside him, as I always do, listening to the rhythmic hum of the monitors — that fragile, mechanical reassurance that he’s still here, still fighting.

And in the quiet, memories flooded in — the surgeries, the scares, the long nights where sleep was a luxury and hope was a whisper.
I used to think I knew what strength was.
But then I became a mother.
And then I watched my child fight for his life.

Now I know:
Strength isn’t about being fearless.
It’s about being terrified and showing up anyway.
It’s about holding your child’s hand while your heart shatters — and still whispering, “You can do this.”

Tomorrow, the real fight begins again.
Three days of chemo. Then the reinfusion.
Then waiting — for side effects, for numbers, for any sign that it’s working.

I know it will hurt.
I know there will be tears, sleepless nights, days when it feels impossible.
But we’ve faced the impossible before.
And somehow, we’re still here.

So tonight, I’ll sit here a little longer.
I’ll trace my fingers over his tiny hand, watch his chest rise and fall, and remind myself — we’re not done yet.
Not by a long shot.

I’ll hold my breath.
And I’ll hold hope, tight and trembling, in both hands.

Because this is what love looks like.
Because this is what it means to be Frans’ mother. 💛