A Tiny Warrior Facing ATRT—Cruz’s Battle for His Life.

Cruz was born in August 2024, five weeks early.

At first, his parents thought the hardest part of his story would be the NICU stay.

He was tiny, just two kilograms, but strong, and in those first weeks he amazed everyone by meeting his milestones and fighting like a little warrior.

They were in awe of him, completely in love.

For a short time, life felt normal.

But slowly, things began to change.

Small signs appeared—vomiting, high fevers, weight loss, refusing bottles.

They thought it was just minor sicknesses, but the list kept growing.

By November, the vomiting came every morning, without fail.

It became impossible to ignore.

In the days before Christmas, everything escalated.

Cruz could not keep any food down.

Every feed ended with him throwing it back up.

Then his eyes began to drift, turning inwards and outwards, until they no longer aligned.

His parents knew something was terribly wrong.

The GP referred them immediately, and after six days of waiting, the big day came.

Brain surgery.

Their hearts were broken, but it was the only path forward.

The tumour was large and aggressive.

She remembers thinking that as they wheeled Cruz away, at least they were following his hospital bed, not his coffin.

It was a horrifying thought, but also the truth—this surgery was the only way to give him a chance.

The team working on him were the best of the best.

They placed their faith in them, even as fear consumed them.

The surgery lasted over seven hours.

They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, trying to distract themselves with the dogs at home, with a quiet meal, but nothing could keep their minds from their baby boy.

When the call finally came, Cruz had survived the operation.

But with surgery in the cerebellum came new risks—Posterior Fossa Syndrome.

Children can lose the ability to move, to eat, even to speak.

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Cruz lost his ability to swallow for a few days, but then slowly regained it.

They breathed relief.

But then came the words no parent should ever hear.

ATRT.

Atypical Teratoid / Rhabdoid Tumour.

All ATRTs are grade 4.

Cruz was only the fifth child in Western Australia to be diagnosed.

It is rare.

It is aggressive.

And it is cruel.

The doctors explained that ATRT comes from embryonal tumours—stem cells that should have stopped dividing after birth but continued to grow, turning into cancer.

They explained about genes—SMARCB1 and SMARCA4—tumour suppressor genes that had failed.

Maybe inherited, maybe spontaneous.

If inherited, it meant the cancer could come back in different parts of the body.

That possibility was called Germline, and it was terrifying.

His parents clung to hope that this was not inherited, that this was just one tumour, and that once removed, they could fight.

The waiting for test results was torture.

Every day, every moment, they prayed.

They prayed this nightmare would be one tumour only, and that Cruz would be given the chance to grow up.

They prayed that fate would give them mercy.

In the middle of this chaos, his mother found other parents.

Two women in Perth who had walked this same road, who had fought ATRT with their children—and won.

Their children were now doing well.

She held onto their stories like lifelines.

Because in this journey, it felt like joining a secret club of parents.

A club no one would ever choose, but once inside, the bond was unbreakable.

Each story was both hope and heartbreak.

For now, Cruz continues to fight.

His parents continue to hope, to pray, to believe.

Every fibre of their being wants one thing—for their baby boy to have a chance.

Cruz is extraordinary.

Cruz is precious.

And though the road ahead is uncertain, he is not walking it alone.