Today marks another chapter in Castiel’s fight—a day we were not quite ready for.
This morning, instead of waking up to another quiet day at home, soaking up every bit of normalcy we could find, we packed up for the hospital once again. Round 4 of chemotherapy is here, and it arrived a day earlier than expected.
That one day may not seem like much to someone outside this journey, but for us, it felt like everything. Every extra morning waking up in his own bed, every extra hour spent without the beep of monitors, every quiet moment where laughter fills the living room instead of hospital corridors—it’s a treasure. Losing that extra day hurts. It’s a reminder of how cancer robs not just health, but also time.
His hospital bag is ready, a tangible symbol of both preparation and resilience. This bag, though practical, is also a gift—lovingly given by our dear friend Kerianne. She has become more than just a friend; she is part of the circle that holds us up when the weight feels too heavy to bear. Her generosity, her thoughtfulness, and her constant reminders of love are a beacon in the storm. That bag isn’t just filled with clothes and necessities—it’s filled with love, prayers, and hope carried with us into every appointment, every procedure, every long hospital stay.
Round 4 is tough, but what waits on the other side may be even harder. After this round of chemo, Castiel will undergo his 7th surgery on July 25. Seventh.
For most children, the thought of even one surgery is frightening. For Castiel, surgery has become an all-too-familiar reality. Yet this upcoming operation is different. The doctors will go after one of his tumors, a high-stakes procedure that comes with both risk and possibility. It is necessary—it could change the course of his treatment—but it’s not easy to walk into with steady hearts.
We know what surgery days are like. The long hours of waiting in sterile waiting rooms. The endless cups of lukewarm coffee. The sound of footsteps echoing down halls as we count them, waiting for the moment a surgeon will come through the door with news. The anxious prayers whispered over and over, bargaining with God, begging for steady hands, begging for another chance. This surgery will be no different. Except that every surgery feels heavier than the last, because we carry the memories of the ones before, and the knowledge that this tiny body has already endured so much.
But Castiel is not done. His road doesn’t stop there. Once surgery is behind him, Round 5 of chemotherapy waits. Another round of poison and hope combined—medicine that takes as much as it gives, but medicine we cling to because it offers life.
After that comes an appointment with an audiologist. This is one of those appointments that breaks my heart before it even arrives. Chemotherapy doesn’t just attack cancer—it attacks healthy cells too, and hearing is one of the casualties we fear most. Will my little boy still hear the sound of his favorite lullaby? Will he still recognize the voices of the people who love him most? Will laughter still sound like laughter to him? These are the questions that hover, unspoken, as we walk toward that appointment.
Then come the scans—the ones that feel like judgment days.
The scans will tell us how his tumors are responding to treatment. They will map out the battlefield inside his body and give us the answers we both desperately want and deeply fear. Every parent of a child with cancer knows this tension: the hope that the treatment is working, and the terror of what it means if it’s not. These results will determine what comes next, shaping the next phase of Castiel’s care, the next steps of this marathon journey.
We are walking into a difficult stretch. There’s no way to soften that truth. The weeks ahead are filled with challenges that feel bigger than us, bigger than any family should have to bear. Yet, even in that, we know we do not walk alone.
Castiel’s strength astounds us daily. He is not even old enough to fully understand what’s happening, and yet he faces it with courage that humbles us. His smile, when it comes, is brighter than any hospital light. His laughter, when it breaks through, feels like a miracle in itself. And his grip, when he holds onto our hands, tells us he’s still fighting, still here, still choosing to push forward.
But even the bravest warriors need an army.
That is where you—our village—come in.
We are asking for your prayers. Not because they are easy words, but because they are powerful ones. Pray for Castiel’s strength, that his little body will hold on through the chemotherapy, through the surgery, through the long nights of nausea and exhaustion. Pray for his doctors, that their hands will be steady, their minds clear, their wisdom sharp as they make life-saving decisions for him. Pray for our family, for his siblings who miss him when hospital days pull us away, for parents who juggle exhaustion and fear while trying to remain strong for everyone.
Please—pray.
Because in those moments when we cannot stand, it is your prayers that hold us up.
We believe in the power of this village. We believe in the love that surrounds us. Every card, every message, every donation, every whispered prayer—they remind us we are not alone. They remind us that while cancer has stolen much, it has not stolen love.
As we step into this next chapter, we carry all of you with us.
We carry your strength, your faith, your hope, woven together with ours into a net strong enough to catch us when we fall.
Round 4 begins today.
Then surgery.
Then Round 5.
Then tests, appointments, decisions.
A road too heavy for one family alone, but lighter because we walk it together.
So tonight, as I watch Castiel sleep in his hospital bed, his bag by the corner filled with love from Kerianne, I whisper my prayer:
“Please, God, give him strength. Please guide the hands that care for him. Please surround him with love stronger than fear.”
And I hold onto this truth: we are not walking alone.
Thank you, village. From the bottom of our hearts—thank you.