Five Months of Courage – The LaValle Family’s Journey.2480
Iris LaValle – A Fighter Born With Hope
Iris LaValle is only five months old, but she has already shown the world what it means to be a fighter. Born with a rare and unnamed mitochondrial disease, Iris has spent much of her short life in and out of Children’s Hospital in Pittsburgh, facing medical challenges most adults could hardly imagine. Despite her tender age, Iris’s resilience and fighting spirit have inspired everyone who meets her. Her middle name, Hope, seems to fit her perfectly, a beacon for her family, friends, and caregivers, reminding them of the courage it takes to face each day when the path ahead is uncertain.
Iris’s parents, Casey and Amanda LaValle, have been unwavering advocates for her since the moment she was born. Their love and determination guide every decision they make, whether it’s navigating complex medical protocols, managing medications, or coordinating care with a team of specialists. Amanda, a speech and language therapist, draws upon her professional experience to ensure Iris’s developmental and communication needs are being met, while simultaneously balancing her new job and caring for the family’s other two children: Owen, 7, and Eliana, 2. She has become a master of multitasking, balancing feeding schedules, therapy exercises, and hospital visits with the everyday demands of a growing family.
Casey, a devoted baseball coach and new business owner, has his hands full as well. Between running his business, coaching, and managing the daily responsibilities of home life, he makes time to accompany Iris to appointments, hold her hand through procedures, and provide steady support to Amanda and their older children. The LaValle family’s life is a careful balancing act, filled with travel expenses to the hospital, meals on the go, and the mounting weight of medical bills. They rely heavily on Medicaid and community resources to manage Iris’s care, including medications, feeding supplies, and specialized equipment necessary to support her fragile health.
Despite these hardships, the LaValles radiate love, hope, and determination. Their days are long, often beginning before sunrise and stretching late into the night, filled with hospital trips, monitoring Iris’s health, and caring for Owen and Eliana. Yet, within the chaos, there is laughter, tenderness, and a deep sense of family unity. Owen and Eliana bring light and joy into the family’s world, offering moments of normalcy and comfort to Iris. They play quietly beside her, talk to her in gentle voices, and cheer for her during difficult times, reminding everyone that even in the darkest moments, there is still room for love and happiness.
Iris’s fighting spirit is remarkable. Even in the hospital, she shows a feisty determination, a personality that shines through every tiny movement, every little smile, and even in the way she refuses to give up during treatments. Her parents marvel at her resilience, often calling her their little warrior, and their hope for her future fuels their own perseverance. Amanda and Casey have learned to navigate the complex medical system with grace and determination, advocating for every treatment, every intervention, and every resource that might improve Iris’s quality of life.
The challenges are enormous. Every day brings new obstacles — feeding tubes, medications, therapy sessions, and the emotional toll of watching a child endure pain. Financial pressures mount alongside medical needs, and both Amanda and Casey work tirelessly to ensure that Iris receives the care she deserves. Hospital stays are punctuated by paperwork, insurance calls, and endless coordination with specialists. Yet, amidst the exhaustion and stress, the LaValle family’s love for each other and for Iris remains steadfast. They have built a network of support around them, friends, family, and community members who lift them up, pray for them, and offer help wherever possible.
Even in this season of difficulty, there is hope. Iris’s name is a reminder, a living symbol of perseverance and strength. She teaches her family, her community, and all who meet her about courage, resilience, and the power of love. Her siblings, Owen and Eliana, provide both comic relief and emotional grounding, reminding everyone that childhood and joy continue, even in the shadow of medical challenges. The LaValles’ story is one of unwavering faith, love, and determination — a testament to what a family can endure and accomplish when united by a common purpose: the care and comfort of their precious child.
Now, more than ever, the LaValle family needs the support of their community. They need people to lift them up in prayer, to offer resources, and to provide practical help so that they can focus on what matters most: Iris’s care and well-being. Every act of support, no matter how small, makes a real difference — whether it’s donating to help cover medical costs, volunteering time, or simply sending messages of encouragement and love. The LaValles have spent months navigating a challenging journey, and the road ahead will require all the strength and hope they can muster.
Iris is only five months old, yet she embodies courage and resilience beyond her years. Her story reminds us that even the smallest among us can teach the greatest lessons about hope, love, and determination. She is a fighter, a source of inspiration, and a living reminder that the strength of the human spirit is limitless. Her parents, Casey and Amanda, stand by her every step of the way, balancing the demands of medical care, family life, and financial pressures, while nurturing hope and love in every moment.
Through community support, prayers, and acts of kindness, we can help the LaValle family continue to care for Iris, allowing them to focus on her comfort, her joy, and her small but mighty victories. Iris LaValle’s journey is just beginning, and with the love and support of those around her, there is hope that she will continue to shine as a bright, resilient little warrior for years to come.
The story of Iris LaValle is not just a story of illness — it is a story of love, resilience, and hope in the face of unimaginable challenges. By rallying together, we can ensure that Iris and her family have the resources, support, and encouragement they need to navigate this journey, and remind them that even in the hardest times, they are not alone.
The Endless Loop — A Mother’s Faith in Her Son’s Fight.2539
💛 Camilo — The Endless Loop, and the Boy Who Still Holds On 💛
“Groundhog Day.”
That’s what today feels like.
Same questions.
Same symptoms.
Same heartbreak playing on repeat — just dressed in a slightly different shade of exhaustion.
It’s as if time has stopped inside these hospital walls, and all that moves is the steady drip of IV fluid into my son’s fragile veins.
Yesterday, it started again.
The vomiting. The diarrhea.
The kind that leaves you holding your breath, praying it slows before the next wave hits.
By evening, there was blood in his stool.
That word — blood — never gets easier to hear. It cuts through everything, even after all these months of battles, tests, and whispered reassurances.
The team came quickly, calm but concerned. They think it’s probably colitis again — his poor gut, inflamed from months of antibiotics and endless treatments.
We’ve seen this before.
Too many times.
Still, they ordered more labs, an X-ray, and stool tests — making sure there’s no infection hiding beneath the surface.
We can’t afford to assume anything, not when every new symptom could be another storm waiting to break.
This morning, the bleeding seems to have slowed.
Maybe because they’ve stopped all his feeds, giving his digestive system a break.
Maybe because they paused the blood thinner he takes for the PICC-line clot — a medication meant to keep him safe but now turned into another tightrope we have to walk.
It’s all a balancing act.
One wrong step, and everything can tip over.
Camilo is tired — the kind of tired that sits deep in the bones.
His skin looks pale, his eyes half-closed even when he’s awake.
He’s drained, worn down to the edge of what a body should have to endure.
And yet, he doesn’t complain.
He just lies there, silent, watching the light flicker on the ceiling as nurses come and go.
General Surgery came by today. They’re being consulted to see if we can finally switch antibiotics — the one thing he needs, but that’s destroying his gut in return.
GI stopped in too, confirming once again what we already know in our hearts:
It’s the medication.
It’s always the medication.
Yesterday, they replaced his G-tube and checked the placement, making sure there were no leaks or blockages adding to his pain. Everything looked fine.
Everything looks fine — except for him.
He was supposed to have an endoscopy tomorrow.
It’s been on the schedule for days.
But now they have to wait.
They can’t risk doing it while an infection is still a possibility — it could change the results, or worse, make things even harder for him.
So we wait.
We sit in the limbo that has become our normal, caught between “too soon” and “not yet.”
And while we wait, I write.
Because that’s what I do when I feel helpless — I write it out, line by line, as if words could somehow hold back the tide.
As I type these words, I feel like a broken record.
We’ve been here before.
Not even two weeks ago, we were in this same place — IVs beeping, test results pending, the same hollow ache in my chest.
Sometimes I wonder how many more loops we’ll have to go through before we find a way out.
But then I remember: we always find a way out.
It might take days, or weeks, or endless nights of whispered prayers — but somehow, Camilo always finds his way back to us.
He starts eating again.
He starts smiling again.
He starts laughing at the little things, like the sound of his nurse’s squeaky shoes or the stuffed penguin that somehow ended up wearing his hospital bracelet.
It’s the cycle we’ve come to know:
Break. Heal. Break again. Heal again.
Each time a little slower, a little harder — but still, he heals.
Yesterday, I took a picture that shattered my heart.
Camilo was sitting quietly in his chair, just a few steps away from the bathroom.
He wanted to stay close so he wouldn’t have to rush every time his stomach turned.
He sat there, his little shoulders slumped, IV lines snaking from his arms, his face pale and still.
It was such a simple image — but it said everything.
It said, “I’m tired.”
It said, “I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
It said, “I’m fighting, Mom, but I’m so tired of fighting.”
And I felt my heart crack in two.
Because as a mother, there’s nothing more unbearable than watching your child hurt — not once, not twice, but over and over again.
You can hold them, you can whisper comfort, you can stay up all night by their side — but you can’t stop the pain.
You can’t take it for them.
And that’s the cruelest part.
Still, even in the quiet of this morning, I can feel that familiar whisper deep inside:
This too shall pass.
We’ve been here before, and we’ve made it through.
We will make it through again.
The cycle may feel endless — a Groundhog Day of pain, tests, and waiting — but every storm eventually breaks.
And when it does, Camilo will breathe easier, eat better, laugh again.
He’ll take another small step forward.
And I’ll be right beside him, matching every breath, every heartbeat, every prayer.
Tonight, when the hospital lights dim and the hallways grow still, I’ll hold his hand and remind him — and myself — that healing doesn’t always come fast or easy.
Sometimes it comes in whispers, in tiny victories we almost miss:
a calmer night, a quieter stomach, a single meal kept down.
Those are the miracles we live for now.
And until the next sunrise, I’ll keep believing in them.
Because that’s what hope looks like in this life — fragile, persistent, and endlessly brave.
💛 Praying for quick healing. Praying for strength. Praying for peace for my sweet boy. 💛
