Riley’s Fight – A Superhero’s Battle Against the Odds

Riley’s latest scans brought heartbreaking news: the cancer has spread to his jaw, causing pain no child should endure. Doctors are starting another round of chemotherapy, followed by radiation, doing everything they can — but options are running thin.

Despite the constant pain and neuropathy that makes walking nearly impossible, Riley meets each day with courage. He sits up, stretches, and even takes a few steps, insisting, “I want to get strong again.” He jokes, tells superhero stories, and comforts his parents even when he’s hurting.

Some days the pain wins. Nights are long, filled with tears and whispered pleas. Yet in every small smile, every whispered “I love you,” Riley reminds everyone that hope and love endure.

We don’t know what the coming days will bring. But as long as Riley fights, so will we.
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Riley’s Story – Our Superhero’s Hardest Battle

Riley’s Fight – A Superhero’s Battle Against the Odds

We’ve been meaning to share an update for a while now, but the truth is… it’s been hard to find the right words. So much has happened in such a short time, and each day with Riley feels heavier than the last — but also more precious.

The most recent scans brought news no parent ever wants to hear: Riley’s cancer has spread again. This time, it’s in his jaw, causing swelling and pain that no child should have to endure.

The doctors have decided to start another round of chemotherapy — a five-day cycle beginning tonight, followed by radiation. They’re doing everything they can, pulling every possible string, searching for even the smallest chance to help him. But deep down, we know…

we’re running out of options.

Riley has faced so many battles already. Every hospital stay, every needle, every treatment — he’s handled them with strength far beyond his years.

 But this round feels different. The pain is constant now. The simplest things — smiling, talking, eating — have become struggles. Yet, somehow, he keeps trying.

He can no longer walk because of neuropathy — nerve damage from months of chemotherapy. His legs shake with pain whenever he tries to move.

 Still, every morning, he pushes himself to sit up, to stretch, to take even a few steps with help. He insists, “I want to get strong again, Mom.” And each time, my heart both breaks and swells with pride.

Watching him fight is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. There are moments when I step out of the room just to cry — where he can’t see me, where my tears won’t weaken his spirit. Because even now,

he still worries about me.
“Don’t cry, Mom,” he says softly. “I’m okay. I just have to rest a bit.”

But he’s not okay. The truth is, none of us are.

The doctors come in and out, their faces gentle but tired. I can see the weight in their eyes — the unspoken reality we all try to ignore. They’re still fighting for him, but the space between medical hope and miracle grows thinner by the day.

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Still, Riley finds ways to smile. When friends come to visit, he musters his strength to joke, to laugh, to make them feel comfortable. He tells stories about superheroes — because that’s who he believes he is. And honestly, he is right. Riley is a superhero in every sense of the word: brave, strong, and full of heart.

There are moments, though, when the pain wins. Nights where he can’t sleep because every nerve seems to burn. He grips my hand tightly, tears streaming down his face as he whispers, “Make it stop, please.” And I can’t. I can only hold him, stroke his hair, and pray that somehow, he finds relief.

Greg and I take turns sitting by his bed. We barely sleep anymore. The house has become quiet — too quiet.

 The laughter that used to fill these walls now feels like a distant memory. Our days revolve around medications, appointments, and the rhythmic hum of machines.

But amid the pain and exhaustion, there are still small moments of grace — a smile, a deep breath, a whispered “I love you.” Those moments are everything.

Lately, his spirits have been a little better. He’s started asking about his friends, about school, about the dog he misses playing with.

Sometimes, he even jokes with the nurses again. But I can still see the sadness behind his eyes. He knows his body is changing. He feels the weight of it all, even if he doesn’t say it.

We’ve had to start having conversations no parent should ever have — about pain, about heaven, about the possibility that the treatments might not work this time. But Riley listens quietly, nodding like an old soul, and then simply says, “It’s okay, Mom. You’ll be okay.”

How do you explain to an eight-year-old that it’s not supposed to be him comforting us?

Still, through it all, his strength amazes everyone. The nurses call him “the little warrior.” The doctors say his resilience is incredible. Every person who meets him feels it — that spark, that courage, that light that refuses to go out, no matter how dark things get.

We don’t know what the next days will bring. This new chemo cycle will be tough, and radiation right after will be even harder. But as long as Riley keeps fighting, so will we.

If you’re reading this and you’ve followed his journey — thank you. Your messages, prayers, and kind words mean more than we can ever say. Right now, he needs all the prayers, love, and positive energy you can send.

Please keep him in your thoughts.

And if you’d like to visit, please reach out to Greg or me first. Seeing familiar faces, hearing laughter, and feeling love makes such a difference for him. Even when he’s tired, he lights up when someone cares enough to come.

We’re still holding onto hope — even if it’s fragile. Because as long as Riley is here, there’s still love, still light, still a reason to keep believing.

So tonight, as the machines hum softly and he drifts off to sleep before the next round of chemo begins, I sit beside him and whisper the same prayer I’ve whispered every night:
“Please, God, give him strength. Let him stay a little longer. Let him smile again tomorrow.”

Our superhero may be tired, but his heart — and ours — still refuse to give up.