Branson’s Small Victory, Big Challenge.

Yesterday brought a small shift in our family’s rhythm.

 Donald and I swapped turns at Branson’s side, and for the next couple of weeks, he will have his daddy with him day and night.

 For Branson, nothing brings more comfort than being surrounded by his people—the ones who know his smiles, his tears, and his every breath.

 Having his dad there is not just a change in schedule; it is a gift of peace for a little boy who has endured more than any child should.

And today, we have both good news and hard news to share.

The good news first—because hope deserves to be spoken before fear.

 Branson’s white blood cell count is up to 230, and his neutrophils are at 90.

🙌🏼 For most people, those numbers may not mean much, but for us, they mean everything. It is the sign we’ve been praying for:

 Branson’s new immune system is slowly waking up, inch by inch, beginning to do what it was designed to do. After the bone marrow transplant, this is exactly what we had hoped to see. It’s a flicker of light in the middle of a long, dark tunnel.

But then there’s the hard news. Branson’s adenovirus levels, which had been concerning but manageable, have suddenly jumped from 13,000 to 500,000.

The number itself is staggering, and it feels like a shadow threatening to swallow up the little progress we’ve celebrated.

The doctors are watching him closely, monitoring his blood every two days. If the levels don’t improve soon, they will take the next step—pulling more lymphocytes from me, his mom, to specifically target and fight the virus inside him.

This is the reality of Branson’s fight: it is never straightforward.

For every piece of good news, there is often another challenge waiting around the corner. It is exhausting. It is heartbreaking.

But it is also teaching us what it means to truly cling to faith.

When you are the parent of a sick child, the days become heavy in ways words can hardly describe.

 You wake up each morning with hope, and you go to bed each night with prayers that tomorrow will be gentler. Some days bring relief—small victories like rising blood counts or a smile breaking through the pain.

 Other days bring crushing weight—like virus levels spiking when you least expect it. Through it all, we are holding tightly to every single prayer being spoken for our boy.

Donald’s presence at Branson’s side has been a balm.

 He reads to him, holds his hand, and whispers encouragement in moments when the machines beep and the nurses move swiftly.

 A father’s love is quiet but powerful, and Branson feels it. He leans into his daddy’s strength, drawing comfort in ways even medicine cannot provide.

For me, knowing Donald is there gives my own heart space to breathe.

It reminds me that we are not alone in carrying this burden.

We have learned to celebrate what might look like small victories to others.

A white blood cell count of 230 might not mean much in a textbook, but in our story, it is a miracle.

A neutrophil count of 90 is the sound of hope knocking at the door. Each number, each piece of progress, is a reminder that prayers are being answered, even if the answers come slowly.

But the truth is, we also carry fear. Numbers like 500,000 haunt us.

The unknowns keep us awake at night.

 And yet, we are learning to live in the balance—rejoicing in the good, acknowledging the hard, and trusting that love and faith will carry us through.

Branson is still so uncomfortable.

His vision has not yet returned.

The virus weighs heavily on his small body, leaving him restless and weary.

But even now, he fights. He is resilient in ways that humble us as parents.

When we feel like crumbling, we remember that if he can keep fighting, so can we.

So today, we ask again—please, please keep praying. Pray that the virus clears quickly. Pray that Branson’s body grows stronger each day.

 Pray that his new immune system will continue to wake up, rise, and fight on his behalf.

These days are heavy, yes. But they are not without hope. We cling to every flicker of good news, every sign of progress, every prayer lifted on our behalf.

And we believe that one day soon, these hard days will give way to brighter ones, when our boy can run, laugh, and live the childhood he deserves.

Until then, we hold on—with faith, with love, and with the unshakable hope that healing is coming.