Avry’s Heart Still Beats Through the Pain

This morning began with silence — the kind that settles before fear takes over.
Avry’s fever had climbed to 104.8°F, her small body burning from within.
Her mother’s hands trembled as she held the thermometer, praying it was a mistake, praying it was just another passing spike.

But it wasn’t.
The doctors moved quickly, increasing her steroids to fight the inflammation, hoping her body would respond.
They still didn’t know where the fever was coming from, but there was a fragile sliver of hope — maybe, just maybe, it was because her white blood cells were finally starting to return.

Hope and fear have a strange way of living side by side in a hospital room.
One moment you thank God for a heartbeat; the next, you beg for another.

Dr. Miah, calm but somber, explained what was coming.
The next few days would be critical — like the whiplash after a crash, he said.
Today was just the beginning of that impact.

Her liver numbers were rising, signaling VOD — veno-occlusive disease, one of the most dangerous complications after a bone marrow transplant.

The doctors explained what was happening:
Her liver cells, damaged by the intense chemotherapy, were now blocking blood flow.

The bile couldn’t move properly, and toxins were building up in her tiny body.

They had a medicine that could help — one that could open the blood vessels and relieve the pressure — but it came with terrifying risks.
The biggest one: bleeding.

So every lab, every number, every small change was double-checked, then checked again.
Nothing could be missed.
Her doctor — with decades of experience — was careful, deliberate, steady.
And yet, even with all that skill, the room was filled with something no science could touch: prayer.

Later that morning, Janessa, one of the nurses, came in carrying a small string of beads of courage.
Each bead represented a step in Avry’s journey — a treatment, a transfusion, a night she made it through.

She didn’t say much.
She just listened, her eyes half-closed, comforted by Janessa’s familiar voice.

Her pain had worsened.

The mucositis — painful sores caused by chemo — had spread, making it hard to open her mouth or even smile.
They increased her morphine, hoping it would bring her peace.

But by late afternoon, she stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion.
“Mom,” she whispered, “can we watch Samantha?”

It was her favorite story — about a little orphan girl from the early 1900s who finds family, friendship, and love.

Her mother climbed into bed beside her.
They started the movie.
Ten minutes later, Avry’s head rested against her mother’s arm, her breathing deep and slow.
The story played on, the little girls laughing on screen, while another little girl — a fighter named Avry — drifted to sleep.

Hours later, as night fell, the doctors returned with the latest results.
The blood cultures came back positive.
It wasn’t just inflammation anymore — something else was wrong.
The steroids weren’t helping because her body was fighting something new, something unseen.

Her mother sat there in the dim light, watching her daughter sleep, her hand still resting on that tiny arm.
The machines beeped softly, the air heavy with both dread and hope.

She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But she knew this — Avry had made it through another day.
And in a world where every hour mattered, that was everything.

Because sometimes, love isn’t loud.
It’s quiet — measured in whispered prayers, in sleepless nights, in the steady rhythm of a mother’s heartbeat beside her child’s.