I know it’s been a few days since I’ve updated, and truthfully, I just haven’t had the mental capacity. Some days, even putting one sentence together feels impossible. I know so many of you wait for updates, praying alongside us, hoping for good news, and I’m sorry for the silence. But it’s hard to share when things are not going well. Some moments, it feels like the words themselves would break under the weight of what we’re living.

Branson is in excruciating pain. There is no easy way to describe it. Even morphine around the clock barely touches what his little body is feeling. He curls into himself, his small frame tense with agony, and I am helpless. Watching him struggle, unable to take the pain away, feels unbearable. Every parent’s instinct is to protect, to shield, to absorb their child’s suffering, and yet I cannot. I can hold his hand, stroke his hair, whisper reassurances—but the pain is his, and I cannot carry it for him.

Every part of this journey has brought its own challenges—the diagnosis, the treatments, the uncertainty—but post bone marrow transplant has been by far the hardest and darkest chapter yet. The recovery we imagined, even hoped for, is complicated by this relentless virus. Branson’s vision remains unchanged, which is a relief, but it is small comfort compared to the magnitude of what he is enduring. His white blood cell count has begun to rise again, slowly, inching up to 1,200 today, a small victory amid the storm. But the adenovirus levels are now at 12 million, and it feels impossible to see a clear path through the fog of worry.

This morning brought a glimmer of hope. I received a call from Donald and the doctors urging me to get to the hospital immediately. They needed to take my lymphocytes, my white blood cells, because my immune system is strong enough to help fight Branson’s virus. I felt a mix of anxiety and relief. Anxiety because it’s yet another medical procedure to endure, relief because it’s the best chance we have to give him a fighting shot. The cells were collected, incubated overnight, and will be infused into Branson tomorrow. The doctors explained it could take about four weeks for these cells to activate and start effectively combating the virus, so we are praying, every single second, that they work exactly as they are supposed to.

The doctors have been honest with us. Right now, Branson is receiving the only medication available for the adenovirus, but it hasn’t been responding as hoped. And the medicine carries risks—especially to the kidneys if used too aggressively. That is why the lymphocyte collection was necessary: it is his best shot at a real immune response. And even as we face these terrifying unknowns, there are moments of gratitude. Branson’s sepsis is much improved. Clinically, aside from the adenovirus, the doctors say he’s “okay.” That small piece of stability feels like a lifeline, even if the rest of the journey is so uncertain.

Emotionally, it’s exhausting. Donald will be leaving us soon, and the thought of navigating these next critical days without his support feels overwhelming. He is half of our family team, the anchor I rely on to breathe, think, and process in moments when fear threatens to consume me. But at the same time, I know Maddox and Magnolia need him back home, and I am grateful that they will finally have him there. Still, the weight of responsibility, the isolation, and the constant vigilance are almost too much to bear. Every monitor beep, every nurse’s update, every fluctuation in Branson’s vitals becomes a test of endurance, of faith, of hope.

Through it all, I try to be present for Branson, even when I feel like I am running on empty. I hold his hand, brush his hair from his forehead, and whisper to him:

“I wish I could be half as strong as you are.” And the truth is, he is strong—stronger than anyone could imagine. Every tiny blink, every managed breath, every moment of stillness amidst pain feels like a victory. He teaches me daily what courage truly looks like, even when his body is failing him.

I ask, again and again, for prayers—not just for Branson, but for our family. For his healing. For this virus to be destroyed. For endurance, for clarity, for peace in the midst of chaos. Every prayer matters. We feel them all. They lift us in ways words cannot describe. And in these long, lonely nights, with only monitors and the soft hum of the hospital around us, they remind me that we are not walking this path alone.

It’s difficult to reconcile the fear with the gratitude. There are moments when I am angry at the unfairness of it all, at the cruel reality that no child deserves this kind of pain, that no parent should have to witness it. And then, in the same breath, I am grateful for the small victories, for the medical advancements that give Branson a fighting chance, for the team of doctors and nurses who fight beside him, and for the love and prayers that surround us from every corner.

I cannot predict the future, and I cannot control the virus. But I can be here. I can breathe alongside him. I can remind him of love, of hope, of life beyond the monitors. I can be a constant in a world that feels anything but certain. And I cling to that as tightly as I cling to him.

Please, continue to pray for Branson. Pray for miracles, for progress, for the medical teams guiding his care. Pray for endurance for our family, as we walk through this nightmare one day, one hour, one minute at a time. Every prayer matters, every ounce of hope counts. And to those who love us and hold us up during this, thank you. Your support carries us in ways we can’t always put into words. We feel it. We are grateful beyond measure.

Branson, my sweet boy, I see you. I see your courage. I see your fight. And I promise you, we will keep walking through this together. Every step, every breath, every day, we are with you, and we are not giving up.