Today, for the first time in what feels like ages, we have some encouraging news to share.
It’s not the end of the road, not even close, but it is a sign that maybe, just maybe, the tide is turning.
Branson’s white blood cell count, which had been stuck at a worrisome level, has risen from 5,000 to 8,000 in a single day.
For most people, numbers like that don’t mean much, but for us, they mean everything.
These aren’t just numbers on a chart—they are markers of life, signs of a body slowly finding its footing again.
Even more encouraging is that the majority of those white cells are neutrophils.
Neutrophils are the body’s frontline soldiers, the ones that rush to the site of infection and fight with everything they have.
When you are neutropenic—when you have none of these cells—you are left defenseless.
A simple cold can turn deadly.
But now, seeing Branson’s neutrophil count rise gives us hope that his body is slowly rebuilding an army, one cell at a time.
And as if that wasn’t enough good news, we learned something even more remarkable.
His adenovirus levels, which had been terrifyingly high—over five million—have dropped to 800,000.
From five million to 800,000.
That is not just progress; that is a miracle in motion.
It’s a sign that the treatments are working, that his body is responding, and that maybe his exhausted immune system is finally getting some help.
We are thanking God for these mercies.
Every step forward feels like a gift.
Every drop in those viral numbers is an answered prayer.
These are the moments we cling to when the nights feel endless and the days blur together inside hospital walls.
In addition to these promising lab results, Branson is receiving albumin infusions.
Albumin is a protein that helps pull excess fluid out of tissues and into the bloodstream, where it can be processed and removed.
For a boy whose body has been battered by infection, chemotherapy, and countless medications, these infusions provide relief.
They ease the swelling, support his circulation, and give his weary body a fighting chance to keep healing.
These little pieces of progress—the lab results, the treatments, the small mercies—are what keep us going.
They remind us that even in the bleakest days, there is still movement, still reason to hope.
But I need to be honest: progress on paper does not erase the suffering in reality.
The truth is that Branson is still absolutely miserable.
His body has been pushed right up to the edge of what it can handle, and we see that in every movement, every expression, every moment of his day.
Watching it is gut-wrenching.
It feels like a cruel paradox: the numbers look better, but my boy still looks so broken.
His hair has fallen out again.
It wasn’t unexpected—we’ve been here before—but that doesn’t make it easier.
This time, though, it isn’t just his hair.
His eyelashes and eyebrows are starting to fall out too.
For a child who has already lost so much, this is another visible reminder of the war his little body is fighting.
When I see him without those small features that frame his face, I am reminded that cancer takes so much more than what lab results can measure.
There are no words to describe the helplessness.
Some days, I sit by his bed, holding his hand, wishing I could take every ounce of his pain into myself.
I want him to laugh again, to play again, to feel the lightness of childhood instead of the weight of survival.
I want my boy to be happy and healthy, free from the tubes and wires and endless pokes.
That desire is so strong that it aches.
And as if the physical battle wasn’t enough, there is an emotional one unfolding too.
Donald will soon be leaving to return home.
The thought of saying goodbye has cast a shadow over the small joy we’ve felt with today’s good news.
We are not ready for him to go.
We dread the days ahead without him here.
In the middle of all this uncertainty, having family close is what steadies us.
The idea of being apart again feels like another burden on a heart already too heavy.
So we ask, again, for prayers.
Prayers for Branson’s continued healing.
Prayers for strength in the days and weeks and months to come.
Prayers for our family as we navigate the separation, the exhaustion, the endless roller coaster of fear and hope.
We are clinging to faith, even in the darkest stretch of this journey.
Faith that these numbers are not just coincidences but signs of a comeback in motion.
Faith that God is holding Branson in His hands, even when we feel like we can’t hold ourselves together.
Faith that healing is possible, even when suffering feels overwhelming.
Your love, your support, your prayers—these are what carry us when our legs give out.
You are the hands holding us up when we fall.
You are the light that reminds us we are not alone in this fight.
We love you all more than words could ever express.
For now, we will hold onto the progress.
We will celebrate the rise from 5,000 to 8,000.
We will marvel at the drop from five million to 800,000.
We will be grateful for every infusion, every medicine, every sign of healing.
And we will keep fighting.
Because Branson is worth every battle.
He is worth every prayer, every sleepless night, every tear shed.
He is our boy, our heart, our warrior—and we will never stop believing that his comeback is near.