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 —
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. 💛
“The Ethics of Love — Brielle’s Family Faces the Hardest Choice”.2535
💛 Brielle’s Family and the Question No Parent Ever Wants to Ask 💛
There are moments in life that break all the rules — moments that no book, no doctor, no amount of faith or logic can fully prepare you for.
For Brielle’s family, that moment is now.
They are standing at the edge of a question that no parent should ever have to face:
When do you keep fighting — and when do you let go?
🌷 A Week of Soft Joys
This past week has been gentle in its own bittersweet way.
Brielle has been smiling more — not because she’s better, but because her family has made these days about living, not waiting.
There have been carnivals and late-night giggles, movie marathons and sleepovers.
She’s played her favorite games on her Switch, read stories cuddled under a blanket, and even celebrated Christmas early — complete with lights, music, and laughter that filled the house like a prayer.
Her friends brought flowers, the kind that last only a few days, but fill a room with life.
And her family — her mom, dad, siblings — have cherished every minute, every sound, every touch.
They know what’s coming.
They just don’t know when.
💉 The Question That Lingers
The doctors have been honest.
They’ve told the Birds that the blood transfusions and infusions aren’t curing Brielle anymore — they’re just prolonging the inevitable.
Each transfusion gives her a little more time: another day to smile, another morning to wake up to sunlight.
But each one also brings a difficult conversation — the kind that leaves a parent awake long after the house is quiet.
They’ve asked themselves the hardest question there is:
Is it ethical to keep going?
She isn’t in pain.
She’s tired — so very tired — and her legs no longer work like they used to. But she’s peaceful. Comfortable.
She laughs when her dad makes funny faces.
She listens when her mom sings to her softly at night.
And isn’t that the goal?
To make her days as warm, as safe, as beautiful as they can be — for as long as possible?
💔 The Weight of Love
When you love someone with your whole soul, “doing the right thing” becomes blurry.
The line between mercy and hope fades into a fog of hospital lights and whispered prayers.
To an outsider, it might seem simple.
But for a parent watching their child fade — every heartbeat, every breath, every flicker of strength feels like a victory.
So they keep going.
They hold her hand through every transfusion, not because they’re denying reality — but because they’re choosing love over fear, presence over finality.
No one wants to be the one to say “enough.”
No one wants to feel like they’ve given up when there’s still one more sunrise, one more hug, one more chance to say “I love you.”
🌙 A Family’s Grace
In the Bird home, there’s no anger in the air.
Only gratitude — deep, aching, holy gratitude.
Every visitor leaves knowing they’ve witnessed something sacred.
The way Brielle’s mom brushes her daughter’s hair, gentle as a prayer.
The way her dad adjusts the blanket around her legs, whispering, “You okay, sweetheart?”
The way her siblings hover nearby, trying to memorize her laugh.
They’ve created a space where love is louder than sorrow.
Where time — however short — feels infinite.
And when people reach out, offering prayers, meals, help in any form, the Birds feel it all.
They read every message, every letter, every post.
And they cry — not because they’re alone, but because they realize they aren’t.
🌼 A Letter for Brielle
Among the hundreds of messages that have poured in, one note has stayed close to their hearts.
It was simple. Honest. And it said everything that needed to be said:
To the Bird Family,
We are here for you. Always. Come to us for anything you may need.
Brielle,
Fight, fight!!
But if you can’t fight anymore — everyone will understand.
We all want you happy, in every way possible.
Those words have become a quiet anthem for the family.
Because they capture what everyone feels: the hope, the helplessness, the love that refuses to fade.
🌈 A Love That Outlasts Time
No one knows how many days Brielle has left — not even the doctors.
But her family has stopped counting.
They measure life now in moments: in smiles, in stories, in the warmth of her hand against theirs.
They know her time may be short.
But they also know that love doesn’t end when the body grows tired.
Love stays. It lingers in laughter, in photographs, in every person who’s ever known her name.
And when the day comes that Brielle can no longer fight, they’ll hold her close and whisper, “It’s okay. You’ve done enough.”
Because love doesn’t mean letting go too soon.
It means holding on — just long enough — to make sure the one you love feels nothing but peace.
💛 Brielle’s family isn’t looking for answers.
They’re just trying to make the most of every heartbeat, every sunrise, every breath they have left together.
And in that quiet, unspoken faith, they’ve already found what most of us spend a lifetime searching for —
the purest form of love there is. 💛
