“The Day My Strength Ran Out, but I Had to Keep Going for Her”.4092
Today has definitely been the hardest day of this cycle so far. From the moment the morning began, everything was meticulously timed, coordinated around Hazel’s immunotherapy infusion. Every step had to be perfect: oral medication administered, injection given, IV pre-meds in, and finally, getting her to sleep. But despite all the planning, nothing could prepare me for the chaos that awaited.
I hadn’t slept well the night before. Hazel was restless, tossing and turning, clearly uncomfortable. Her stomach was cramping from the relentless diarrhea, and she whined… all. night. long. I was up repeatedly, changing diapers, applying cream constantly, trying to stay on top of everything to keep her as comfortable as possible. Every movement, every sigh, every whimper pulled at me. It’s exhausting watching your child in pain, knowing there’s little you can do to stop it.
After what felt like an eternity, Hazel finally fell asleep—about 40 minutes before her infusion was set to begin. For a moment, I allowed myself a sigh of relief, hoping she could rest and be shielded from pain for a while. But five minutes into the infusion, she woke up, wide awake and alert, having used her nap as a “catnap.” My heart sank. Sleep is her ally; it’s the one thing that can delay the onset of pain. Today, though, the pain hit earlier than during any of her previous three infusions. I braced myself for the long struggle ahead.
Thankfully, she is tough. She only required one full rescue dose, no Benedryl, and a little supplemental oxygen. But her mood deteriorated rapidly. About an hour before we were due to leave, she became super crabby. And then, as if to remind me that there was no small way to handle today, she vomited all over me. I was spared the worst, only my shirt and blanket took the brunt. I stripped my outer layer—a blessing since I was wearing a tank top—and cleaned her as best I could.
Packing up to leave the hospital was another ordeal. Hazel was clearly uncomfortable, and it wasn’t yet time for any of her next medications. She screamed, inconsolable, a piercing sound that echoed in my chest. Her pain was bad, and there was no way to soothe it. Finally, when 5 p.m. arrived, I could give her oxygen. Almost immediately, she began to calm, and within ten minutes, she drifted into a short nap, curled against me, her tiny body still tense with lingering discomfort.
But the reprieve was brief. She woke a short time later, screaming again. She didn’t want to be held, yet she didn’t want to be put down. There was no happy Hazel at that moment—only anger, frustration, and pain. Finally, after much effort, we managed to settle her enough for some food: yogurt, mozzarella cheese, and probiotics mixed in to help her gut, which was completely wrecked from diarrhea.
The calm was fleeting. During a diaper change, she threw up everything she had just eaten. Naked, in my arms, she continued to vomit and soil herself. My poor girl. Her bottom, which had been relatively fine earlier in the day, was now raw from repeated diarrhea. Each change was a reminder of how relentless this cycle could be, how quickly her body could be torn down.
And if that wasn’t enough, the TPN distributor called today with more bad timing. They informed me that they would slow down her TPN to every other day—not starting the 19th as planned, but beginning tomorrow. Just as she was losing weight from diarrhea and inability to hold solid food, and just as she is not allowed to nurse until her CT scan, this news felt like salt in the wound. I immediately messaged the team, hoping to undo what had been scheduled. The timing couldn’t have been worse.
Amid the chaos, there are small blessings that keep me going. Gift cards we’ve received allow us to order meals from the lobby, so I can grab dinner while Hazel naps. They also help with necessities: bed pads, powders, antifungal creams in case of yeast infections—things that would otherwise add to our financial stress. These small acts of support are so deeply appreciated, a reminder that we are not entirely alone in this struggle.
I watch her sleep now, with no diaper on, hoping the oxygen helps her rest through the night. Today has been rough. Very, very rough. Her decline has been rapid, a reminder of how cruel delayed nausea and diarrhea can be. Every moment is a delicate balancing act: managing pain, keeping her nourished, ensuring she is clean, and protecting her skin.
Yet, even in these moments of exhaustion, despair, and frustration, I see her strength. Hazel is a fighter. Her resilience is astonishing. Even when her tiny body is wracked with pain, she still finds ways to show her personality, her defiance, her spark. I hold onto that spark like a lifeline, a reminder that while the disease is cruel, it has not claimed her spirit.
I am grateful for those walking this journey with us. Your prayers, your encouragement, your gifts—they matter more than words can convey. Please pray for Hazel’s recovery. Pray that she rests. Pray that she is cleared of cancer and that God would miraculously heal her.
Today was one of the hardest days, yet we survived it. Hazel’s journey is relentless, painful, and exhausting. But so is our love for her, and our determination to do everything possible to keep her safe, comforted, and cared for. Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to hope. Another chance to celebrate the small victories: a short nap, a quiet moment, a smile that flickers through the pain.
And we will take those moments. One breath at a time, one hug at a time, one day at a time. Because this is Hazel’s fight—and we will fight with her.
A Morning of Laughter Turned to Tragedy: Honoring the Lives of Bebe, Elsie, and Alice.4107
The classroom was alive with music, laughter, and the innocent energy that only children can bring. Little girls twirled and spun to the beat of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off,” their hair bouncing, ribbons flying, and shoes tapping against the floor. Each movement was a celebration of life, a small universe of joy contained within the walls of the room. Teachers watched with fond smiles, clapping along, joining the children in their happiness. It was a scene of pure, unfiltered delight, a morning that promised nothing but sunshine and smiles.
Among the children were three bright lights who shone with particular brilliance. Bebe King, just six years old, radiated joy wherever she went. Her laughter was contagious, a melody that lifted spirits in seconds. She loved sunshine, playing outside, and dreaming big, always with her older sister Genie by her side. Genie often described Bebe as a “little sunshine,” a child whose laughter could warm even the coldest hearts.
Elsie Dot Stancombe, seven years old, was the soul of the classroom. She had a way of noticing when someone was sad and would instantly find a way to make them smile. Her caring nature extended to her friends, teachers, and even the younger children in the school. Elsie had a spark in her eyes that seemed to promise that she would grow up to make the world a better place, one small act of kindness at a time.
Alice da Silva Aguiar, nine, carried herself with a grace unusual for someone her age. She had dreams that stretched far beyond her years, imagining worlds where creativity, empathy, and courage shaped the lives of those around her. She was kind, patient, and fiercely intelligent, always ready to help others and share her insights. Alice’s teachers often spoke of her potential, marveling at the maturity and empathy she displayed daily.
Then, in a moment, everything changed.
A man entered the classroom, and the atmosphere shifted from music and laughter to shock and terror. The sound of the knife cutting through the air was accompanied by screams, panic, and confusion. Children froze, some crying, some trying to hide. Teachers instinctively tried to shield their students, placing themselves in harm’s way, their voices pleading for calm amidst the chaos.
The scene was one of unimaginable horror. Ten people were injured in those moments, bodies scattered across the room, the innocence of the morning shattered irreparably. Among them, three little girls would not survive: Bebe King, Elsie Dot Stancombe, and Alice da Silva Aguiar.
Bebe’s sister Genie escaped, but the trauma she carries will be with her forever. She remembers Bebe’s laugh, the way her little fingers would curl around hers when they held hands, and the way her sister’s eyes sparkled when she danced. Genie’s memories are filled with light that was extinguished too soon, a presence that will always linger in her heart.
Elsie Dot Stancombe’s absence left a silence in the classroom that could never be filled. Her classmates remembered her smile, the gentle encouragement she gave to everyone, and the laughter that could turn a frown upside down. Teachers and friends alike struggled to reconcile the bright, caring girl they knew with the void left behind. Her life, though brief, was a testament to compassion, empathy, and joy.
Alice da Silva Aguiar’s death was felt not only in the classroom but across the wider community. Her dreams, ambitions, and intelligence had only begun to blossom. Teachers recalled her thoughtful questions, the books she loved, and the gentle way she approached every task. Alice was already demonstrating the leadership and kindness that would have carried her far in life. Her potential was immense, yet the world would never see it fully realized.
The immediate aftermath was a blur of sirens, frantic calls, and tearful parents rushing to the scene. Emergency responders worked tirelessly to tend to the injured, to comfort the terrified, and to restore order amidst the chaos. But no amount of heroism could reverse the loss of those three precious children. The classrooms, hallways, and playgrounds that had once been filled with laughter now echoed with grief and shock.
Families were thrown into unimaginable pain. Parents, siblings, and friends struggled to comprehend how a normal morning could end in such tragedy. Each of the girls left behind stories, dreams, and a unique presence that could never be replaced. Friends shared memories of Bebe’s bright laughter, Elsie’s acts of kindness, and Alice’s graceful intelligence. In classrooms and homes, their absence was felt like a physical weight, a reminder of the fragility of life.
The wider community came together in mourning. Vigils were held, memorials established, and support poured in from people near and far. Yet, amid the grief, there was also a determination to remember the children not for the way they died but for the way they lived. Stories of their laughter, their generosity, and their passions were shared endlessly, keeping their spirits alive in the hearts of everyone who knew them or heard of their lives.
Bebe’s love of sunshine and joy became a symbol for her community, a reminder that even in the face of darkness, brightness can endure. Elsie’s caring nature inspired initiatives in schools to encourage kindness and empathy, turning her memory into a living legacy that could continue to impact others. Alice’s dreams, though unfulfilled, became a beacon for other children, a reminder to pursue one’s ambitions with courage and grace.
Genie, Bebe’s sister, became a quiet emblem of resilience. Carrying the memory of her sister, she vowed to honor Bebe’s life by embracing joy, spreading laughter, and cherishing every moment. Families of the other girls worked to create scholarships, art programs, and community projects in memory of Elsie and Alice, ensuring that their lives continued to influence the world even in absence.
The tragedy also sparked a broader conversation about safety, mental health, and awareness in schools. Educators and policymakers grappled with how to protect children, prevent such violence, and provide support for those affected. While the pain of loss could never be fully mitigated, efforts were made to create environments where children could grow, play, and learn safely, honoring the memory of those who were lost.
Bebe, Elsie, and Alice were not defined by their deaths. They were celebrated for their laughter, their kindness, and the love they shared with the world. Their stories were retold in classrooms, at family gatherings, and in the hearts of those who knew them, a reminder that even the briefest lives can leave indelible marks. Their spirits continued to inspire courage, empathy, and joy in those who carried their memory forward.
In the years that followed, memorials for the three girls became spaces of reflection and hope. Families, teachers, and students shared stories of the girls’ unique personalities, their small but impactful actions, and the joy they brought to everyday life. Through these acts of remembrance, Bebe, Elsie, and Alice’s presence remained tangible, a reminder that love and kindness endure even after loss.
Though their lives were tragically cut short, the legacies of Bebe King, Elsie Dot Stancombe, and Alice da Silva Aguiar live on. They are remembered not for the horror that took them but for the light they brought into the lives of everyone they touched. In laughter, in art, in music, and in acts of kindness, their spirits continue to shine, inspiring generations to come.
Their story reminds us that life is precious, fragile, and infinitely valuable. It teaches that even in the darkest moments, the light of love, joy, and compassion can prevail. Through memory, action, and shared stories, the lives of these young girls continue to matter, proving that even in tragedy, hope and humanity endure.
Bebe, Elsie, and Alice were more than victims of violence. They were children full of potential, light, and dreams. And though the world lost them too soon, the mark they left behind — laughter, kindness, grace — continues to ripple outward, touching lives and reminding us all of the extraordinary impact one life, however brief, can have.
