It's hard to believe that it hasn't even been a week since Nevaeh and I left New York.

 Last Wednesday, July 8, we flew to Houston so she could be admitted to MD Anderson. Walking into this hospital after everything we've been through over the last year felt like taking one last leap of faith.

From the very beginning, the doctors and nurses here have treated Nevaeh with so much compassion. The atmosphere is completely different than what we experienced in New York. For the first time in a long time, we feel like we're surrounded by people who are still looking for ways to help instead of reasons to stop trying.

 Since arriving, it's been a whirlwind of tests, procedures, and difficult news. Nevaeh's bone marrow biopsy showed that her marrow is now 93% leukemia, and her circulating blasts in her blood were 98% leukemia. Almost every white blood cell in her bloodstream is leukemia. It finally explained why she had been hurting so badly. Her legs, arms, elbows, jaw—every bone in her body has been aching because the leukemia has crowded out her healthy bone marrow.

Watching your child hurt like that and knowing there's nothing you can do to take the pain away is something no parent should ever experience. She's also had chest and abdominal X-rays, along with Doppler ultrasounds of both her arms and legs to make sure she didn't have any blood clots. Thankfully, all of those came back clear. Tomorrow she'll have a PICC line placed in her arm, and her chest port will finally be removed. The doctors here believe the bloodstream infections she's been fighting over and over are most likely coming from the port itself. I actually brought up removing it while we were still at MSK, but they didn't think it should come out. Here, they believe it's the right decision. Once her body has had time to recover, they'll place another port when it's safe.

We're hoping she can begin a new treatment regimen tomorrow or Wednesday. What gives me hope is that the doctors here aren't putting all of their faith into one medication. They have a plan. And if that plan doesn't work, they already have others waiting. After spending months hearing words like "incurable" and "there's nothing left," hearing a doctor say, "We still have more options," is something I will never take for granted. But while we're finally fighting for Nevaeh's life again, we've found ourselves fighting someone else.

 Our insurance.

 Because Nevaeh has New York Medicaid, they're refusing to cover her care here in Texas because MD Anderson is considered out of network.

The hospital has tried multiple times to get a case agreement approved, and every request has been denied. I called Medicaid myself and asked for a case manager. I was told it could take months because this "isn't an emergency." I honestly sat there speechless. How do you tell the parent of a child with 93% leukemia in her bone marrow that this isn't an emergency? I explained that we've already been to every hospital in New York that offers treatment or clinical trials for her leukemia. We exhausted every option they had. Every one of those hospitals eventually told us to bring our daughter home so she could pass away comfortably with her family.

MD Anderson is treating her because they still believe they have options. This isn't about wanting a second opinion. This isn't about choosing a different hospital. This is about getting medically necessary treatment that simply isn't available for her anywhere else. Then another phone call came. Our hospital bill has already reached $86,000, and we haven't even been here for a week. If this treatment starts working and she's well enough to leave the hospital, we still won't be able to go home. We'll have to stay here in Houston because she'll need constant clinic visits for blood work, platelet and blood transfusions, medications, and monitoring. Without insurance approval, every one of those visits has to be paid up front, ranging anywhere from $3,000 to $8,000 depending on what she needs that day. And if these doctors can accomplish what everyone else said couldn't be done—if they can get her into remission or close enough to receive another transplant—Texas cannot perform that transplant unless her insurance approves her care here. That would mean going back to New York. Back to the same hospitals that told us our daughter was incurable. Back to the same places that told us to prepare for the end. As her mom, I just can't accept that. I'm going to keep fighting until someone finally says yes.

 Children shouldn't lose access to lifesaving treatment because they crossed a state line. Parents shouldn't have to spend precious time arguing with insurance companies while their child is fighting for their life. As hard as all of this has been medically, being away from home has been just as heartbreaking. The babies FaceTime us constantly—sometimes 30 times a day. Victoria asks me every single day when I'm coming home. They keep asking if Ava's hair has grown back yet because they truly believe that once her hair comes back, she'll be healthy again. They don't fully understand why Mommy and Ava had to leave. They just know someone they love isn't home and that Nevaeh needs the doctor’s help. We miss them more than words can ever describe.

 This journey has tested our family in ways I never imagined possible. There are moments that feel impossibly heavy, but then I look over at Nevaeh and remember exactly why we're here. As long as there is another treatment to try, another door to knock on, another doctor willing to fight for her, we are not giving up.

 Thank you to every single person who has checked on us, shared Nevaeh's story, sent a message, helped our family, or simply thought about us. Every act of kindness reminds us that we're not carrying this alone, and we'll never be able to express how much that means.