I am writing this with a heart breaking all over again. Please, stop for a moment and pray for Hazel. Right now, she is being sent downstairs for an emergency CT scan to determine if there is internal bleeding. For days, I have been speaking up about her abdomen—its distension is worsening, the bruising spreading, and every time I look at her, I feel the sharp pang of helplessness that no parent should ever feel.

A few days ago, the doctors started her on blood thinners in an effort to dissolve the clot in her brain. But Hazel is suffering in ways that are almost impossible to describe. Her eye, which has been bulging due to the tumor, is bleeding more than ever. Her little body is under immense pressure. Her abdomen, tender and swollen, now looks painfully worse, a silent indicator of the battle raging inside her.

Watching her struggle to eat, to breathe comfortably, and to even find a moment of rest is unbearable. Hazel’s pain is significant—so much so that we have requested morphine to help ease her suffering. She is miserable. Every whimper, every movement of discomfort, is a reminder of how delicate and precious life is, and how cruel cancer can be, especially for someone so small.

Her blood counts are dropping rapidly, and with each passing hour, the urgency intensifies. The combination of Neuroblastoma, the clot in her brain, the bleeding in her eye, and the growing abdominal distension creates a storm that threatens her fragile little body. And yet, she remains here—fighting, breathing, existing with a courage that defies her tiny frame.

We are asking for prayers, not just for Hazel’s safety and comfort, but for the wisdom of the doctors who care for her, for the strength of our family to endure these long, harrowing days, and for moments of relief in the midst of suffering. Every prayer, every thought, every shared hope matters. Hazel is a fighter, but even fighters need the support of a community lifting them up.

Seeing her like this, I am reminded that childhood cancer is not just statistics, protocols, or treatments—it is the very human experience of pain, love, and relentless hope. Each procedure, each medication, each intervention is a small step in a battle that feels endless. And while I am here, terrified and exhausted, I cling to the faith that Hazel’s story is not finished, that miracles are possible, and that we are not walking this path alone.

So I ask you again—please, stop and pray for Hazel. Pray that she is safe. Pray that her pain is eased. Pray that the bleeding stops, that the treatments work, and that her tiny body finds the strength it so desperately needs. Pray for her comfort, her courage, and for the peace of mind of all of us who love her. Hazel is fighting for her life, and she cannot do it alone. She needs every prayer, every positive thought, and every ounce of love we can send her way.

Right now, she rests, waiting for the results of the CT scan. And we wait with her, hearts heavy, hands clasped in prayer, holding onto hope with everything we have. Hazel is a beacon of resilience, and even in the darkest hours, we know she is not alone. 💖