Huey was only ten weeks old when life changed.
He was born into a family with dreams as soft as lullabies. His big brother Leo, two years older, waited beside him. Jill and Lindsay, his parents, held Huey in their arms, sleepy and content. Everything seemed peaceful.
Then around six weeks, Huey began to change.
He stopped putting on weight.
He cried more.
He snored.
He wouldn’t sleep well.
Every day seemed harder. Mom Jill remembers staring at him, heart tightening: “He wouldn’t settle. Waking up screaming, high-pitched squeals… I knew something was wrong.”
Dad Lindsay holds him close. They took him to doctor after doctor. “They said maybe reflux. Maybe gas. Maybe nothing serious,” Jill whispered.
But deep down, Jill knew. “Something inside me wouldn’t let me believe it was ‘nothing’.”
At ten weeks, they got the diagnosis that shook their world.
Stage 4S neuroblastoma.
A 5 cm tumour in his neck impeding breathing.
The cancer had spread to his liver. His liver had swollen to five times its normal size. Organs pushed downward. Risk of liver failure.
Pain. Discomfort. Terrible fear.
Jill’s voice cracks: “He could barely breathe… puffy belly, stretched skin, cries that pierced the heart.”
Lindsay holds Huey tight. “We’ll fight this. We don’t have choice. We love you, little man.”
Treatment began immediately.
Eight rounds of chemotherapy, every three weeks. Blood transfusions. Sleepless nights. Pillows soaked in tears.
Tiny Huey, wrapped in blankets, writhing from nausea. Parents gently rubbing his feet. Soft lullabies. Whispered prayers.
After eight rounds, the tumour had shrunk significantly. The liver returned to near-normal size. But there was still tumour cells encasing his carotid artery — inoperable.
Doctors said they couldn’t remove that part. Too risky. Too delicate.
Once treatment ended, the monitoring began.
Scans every three months. Blood tests. Catecholamine levels tracked monthly.
Parents held their breath at each appointment. Every “all clear” felt like a gift. And every scan with shadows still in view felt like walking on glass.
Jill looks at Huey sleeping, tiny fingers curled. She murmurs: “Son, you’re a miracle.”
Leo pokes his little brother. “You’re my brave brother,” he says. Huey gurgles. Smiles in a way that fills the room with light.
Today, the prognosis seems positive — hope tempered by caution. The cancer is not fully gone, but the fight has given them moments: giggles, cuddles, growth, the way Huey’s whole body relaxes while sleeping without pain.
Lindsay says: “We’re never forgetting what’s behind us, but we’re grateful for every day ahead.”
Jill adds: “Research saved him. Every paper, every clinical discovery — they held us in that darkness.”
Huey’s story reminds us that courage can be born in ten weeks.
That love is something that fights.
That miracles aren’t always thunderclaps: sometimes they’re soft breaths, small victories, an innocent child finally able to sleep.