3. “A 4-Year-Old’s Battle with Cancer: Alan’s Story”.2323
A Mother’s Cry for Her Little Boy: Alan’s Fight for Life 💔
I wish it were different.
I wish someone would tell me that it was all a mistake, that my son isn’t dying, that the doctors were wrong.
But they weren’t. And in one terrible instant, almost my entire world collapsed.
The Birthday That Changed Everything
On October 18th, we celebrated Alan’s 4th birthday.
There were balloons, little paper balls, laughter, and children running around the living room. He blew out his candles, eyes full of joy, his face lit up with that bright smile I loved so much. There was no warning, no shadow, no sign that a nightmare was waiting just around the corner.
At the end of October, I noticed a small bump above Alan’s eyebrow. He’s always been an energetic little boy, always running, climbing, exploring — so I thought nothing of it. “He must have bumped into something,” I told myself. “He’s four. That’s what kids do.”
But after a few days, the bump didn’t go away. It grew. Slowly at first, then faster. I felt a knot in my stomach — something wasn’t right.
We went to the doctor. After examining Alan and looking at his perfect blood work, the doctor reassured us that everything was fine. “Most likely just a bruise,” he said, smiling. We left with a referral to the ophthalmologist and a bit of relief.
But by the weekend, the bump had grown so large it began to deform and close Alan’s eye. Fear overtook us. We couldn’t wait until Monday. We rushed him to the hospital emergency room.
The Words That Shattered My Heart
At first, the doctors saw nothing wrong with his eye. We sat quietly in the corridor, waiting for paperwork, trying to calm our nerves. I promised Alan we would get ice cream afterward — strawberry, his favorite.
That’s when another doctor walked by. He looked at Alan, frowned, and came closer. “May I take a look at the lump?” he asked gently. Something in his tone made my heart drop.
He examined Alan carefully, then stood up and said firmly, “You need to go for a CT scan right now. I’ll bring the referral myself.”
We didn’t understand. We didn’t know that this moment would divide our lives into “before” and “after.”
Alan was admitted for tests. While we waited, he was smiling, asking what flavor of ice cream we’d get after all this. I smiled too, pretending to be brave, pretending not to be terrified.
Then the doctors came in. Their faces were serious.
“Please sit down,” one of them said softly.
“Your son has a tumor.”
I laughed — not because it was funny, but because I couldn’t comprehend it. “Of course he has,” I said, touching his forehead. “I can see it.”
“No,” the doctor said. “You don’t understand. Alan has a 20-centimeter tumor in his adrenal glands. The lump on his forehead is a metastasis. It’s cancer. We’re so sorry.”
The world went dark.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on a hospital bed. I had fainted.
All I could think about was that just minutes before, I had promised him ice cream. Now, I didn’t know if he would live to eat it.
The Diagnosis: Stage IV Neuroblastoma
Neuroblastoma.
I had never even heard that word before. But now it was the word that haunted every breath I took.
Stage IV.
The cancer had spread from his adrenal glands to his eye socket, his sinuses, and his bone marrow. The doctors acted quickly. Alan was placed on the most aggressive treatment protocol available.
From the first round of chemotherapy, the suffering began.
There hasn’t been a single day without pain.
Within a week, my bright, joyful boy changed beyond recognition. His cheeks hollowed. His skin turned pale. He stopped eating, stopped drinking. He was so weak that I could feel his bones through his skin. He couldn’t walk — only sit in a wheelchair.
Blood streamed from his eyes during the worst nights. I sat by his bed, holding his tiny hand, watching as cancer drained the life from my child.
I tried to be strong. I told myself I had to be. But there were moments when I broke. Moments when I cried silently beside his bed, terrified that he might not open his eyes again.
No mother should ever have to watch her child fade like that.
Surgery and a Fragile Hope
On February 27th, Alan underwent an extremely difficult surgery. The doctors removed 98% of the 20-centimeter tumor from his adrenal gland. A month later, he received his final round of high-dose chemotherapy.
Then, on March 21st and 22nd, he underwent an autologous bone marrow transplant — a procedure that would hopefully restore his immune system and give him a chance to recover.
Now, we wait.
For weeks, Alan will remain fragile, regaining his strength, waiting for the scans that will tell us whether the cancer is gone — or if it’s still hiding somewhere inside him.
Next comes radiotherapy, and then immunotherapy — more months of pain, hospitals, and sleepless nights.
My Little Boy Has Changed
Alan is no longer the same child he was. The tumors and the strong medications have changed him — his emotions, his body, his spirit.
He gets frustrated easily, he cries often, and he refuses to cooperate with nurses. Sometimes he lashes out, not because he wants to, but because he’s scared and exhausted.
I hold him. I tell him that everything will be okay. I whisper that I will never stop fighting for him.
But deep down, I’m terrified. Because Alan’s case is extremely high-risk. His cancer is N-MYC positive, which means that even if he survives this round of treatment, the cancer will almost certainly return.
And that’s something I cannot allow to happen.
The Only Hope Left
There is a new therapy in the United States — one that targets recurrence in children like Alan. It is his only real chance of long-term survival. But the cost is enormous — far beyond anything we can afford.
Still, how could I ever stop trying, knowing there is a treatment that might save him?
I can’t sit and wait for death. I can’t stand by while this disease tries to steal the only thing that gives my life meaning.
Alan is my life.
I am begging — as a mother to another mother, as a friend to another heart — please, help me save my son.
We are living a nightmare I wouldn’t wish on anyone. No parent should ever have to imagine a world without their child.
If I lose him, my life loses all meaning.
Please, I am asking for any help, any support, any hope.
So that one day, I can tell Alan that he did make it — that love, kindness, and hope were stronger than cancer.
💔
“A Team Behind Him: Braves Bring Hope to an 11-Year-Old Fighter”.249
The words “Fighting with every ounce of strength” weren’t just a slogan. They were a reality for an 11-year-old boy whose childhood had been interrupted by leukemia. While most kids his age were chasing baseballs in the park or collecting trading cards, he was learning to navigate hospital rooms, endless treatments, and the exhausting rhythm of a fight far bigger than himself.
But in the middle of the hardest battle of his young life, a surprise arrived—one wrapped not in medicine or charts, but in kindness. The Atlanta Braves, his favorite team, had heard his story. They knew he was a fighter, a boy holding onto hope with everything he had. So they did what they could to bring a little light into his world.
They sent him a care package.
Inside wasn’t just merchandise—it was a message. A jersey with his heroes’ names stitched proudly across the back, a cap bearing the Braves’ emblem, perhaps even a signed baseball touched by the very players he admired from afar. Each item was more than a gift; it was a reminder that he wasn’t fighting alone. That somewhere beyond the hospital walls, an entire team stood behind him, cheering him on.
For the boy, the package meant more than words could capture. In his eyes, the Braves weren’t just athletes anymore—they were teammates in spirit, believing in his fight the way fans believe in a ninth-inning comeback.
Leukemia is a cruel opponent, demanding strength no child should ever have to summon. But moments like this remind us that strength doesn’t only come from medicine or willpower—it also comes from knowing that others care, that your fight matters, and that even heroes you’ve never met are rooting for you.
As he put on the jersey and tipped the cap, he wasn’t just a boy in a hospital bed anymore. He was part of a team, part of something bigger than the disease trying to hold him down.
And with every ounce of strength, he keeps fighting—backed by his family, his community, and now, the Atlanta Braves.
