Hello, my name is Anna, and this is my husband Jonah.

Our journey started in February of 2023. After a year and a half of endless disappointment with pregnancy tests, and a few trips to the doctor, we decided we were meant to adopt. During our research, we were heartbroken to learn that adoption is generally a long, expensive, and arduous journey. We were especially devastated to know that in best-case scenarios, adoptions generally take an average of three years.

In February of this year, we started looking for an adoption agency to put us in touch with our child. Jonah and I agreed I needed to take a break from my Ph.D. to ensure we had the money saved up. There were a lot of hoops to jump through to be placed into the waiting pool of adoptive parents. We were dedicated to finding our child as soon as possible. By April 2023, we had completed our final step to be presented to expectant parents. Not long after we completed our final step, our adoption agent asked if they could present us to an expectant couple. Of course, we were delighted by the idea and greenlit the venture. A week and a half later, we learned that the couple wanted to meet us! Jonah and I drove four hours and twenty minutes to meet them. We ended up visiting with them for three hours. We returned to our home after 10:00 p.m. that night. This was just the first of many trips.

The birth mother was a little over eight months pregnant when we first met her. By late April, she was asked by her doctor to come in for a check-up on the baby twice a week every week. In the interest of taking care of her and our son, Jonah and I would go pick her and her boyfriend up and take them to the doctor's appointment. These trips became our normal weekly routine every Monday and Friday for six weeks, while continuing to work. We would also treat them to a meal while we were there to continue getting to know each other. The time spent in our car alone, not counting time at the doctor's appointment or time visiting with them, totaled 11 hours and 10 minutes. Regularly resulting in 16-to-17-hour long days of travel. Jonah and I were dedicated to our son-to-be.

In late May, Jonah and I traveled to take the birth parents to the hospital. She was induced that night. Our son, Hank Minh Henn, was born the next day at 1:59 p.m. He spent the first few days of life in the NICU because he had difficulties regulating his body temperature and was struggling to breathe independently. We spent three nights and two days in the NICU before Hank was stable enough to be discharged.

The adoption was finalized mid July, in Spokane. Jonah's parents, Jonah, Hank, and I all piled into the car for yet another road trip. Many friends and family tuned in to the court live online to watch the adoption hearing. Our adoption request was granted, and Hank legally became our child. It was a complete dream. We had been told it would take at least three years to make it through the adoption process. Yet there we stood, nearly five months to the day since we started the journey. We were in paradise. Everything had fallen in place perfectly. It was clear to us that Jonah and I had to spend a year and a half trying to have a biological child to make sure we were in the right place at the right time for Hank to enter this world. Something being "meant to be" never felt so true.

Unfortunately, the dream state fled faster than we expected, and we soon found ourselves in a nightmarish situation. On July 30th, Hank, who is normally very happy and rarely a fussy child, was in an inconsolable state. Our pediatrician wanted to err on the side of caution and sent us to the ER. This likely saved Hank's life. What was wrong wasn't immediately apparent, so they did several tests on him that night, including drawing spinal fluid from a lumbar puncture. They checked for meningitis, Leukemia, and many other things. We didn't make it from the ER to a room in the pediatric ward until almost 3:00 a.m. One of many late nights to come.

We were still in the hospital with Hank here in town when our 4th wedding anniversary came on August 3rd. Unfortunately, it will be one of the most memorable anniversaries we will ever have—for all the wrong reasons. He had been in the hospital for five days, and they still didn't know what was happening with him. At about 10:00 p.m., the doctor came in. She explained to us that Hank would require another transfusion and that Hank's needs had outgrown our local hospital. Hank would need to be sent by helicopter to Mary Bridge Pediatric Hospital in Tacoma. With five days in the hospital now and still no idea what was happening with him, we were beginning to fear the worst. The concept that Hank had cancer and the doctors were withholding information until the results came back loomed over all of us.

At fifteen minutes past midnight, I found out that the helicopter didn't have room for an additional passenger. I think my heart ended up in my throat because I couldn't get any more words out of my mouth without painfully forcing them. The dread set in, knowing that Hank would be flying to Tacoma, three hours away from our home in Yakima, with no family to meet him when he arrived. He would be alone, with complete strangers to him. Jonah and I were able to walk with Hank to the helicopter pad and say what could've been our final goodbye to our two-month-old son, who we had waited for so long and fought so hard to bring into our lives.

Without question, the hardest moment of our life was on August 4th at 1:00am in the morning. Jonah and I embraced each other and sobbed, watching the helicopter lift off and disappear into the starry night with Hank. After finally making it to the hospital, we found Hank to be in a stable condition. We spent more painful days in the hospital as test result after test result came back negative. The doctors became more perplexed about what was going on with Hank. All his tests had come back clean for Leukemia and other cancers. With cancer ruled out, there was a massive sense of relief, but we still didn't know what was happening. Hank was officially diagnosed on August 15th with Hemophagocytic lymphohistiocytosis. This is also known as HLH; when the body is inflamed, it stops producing blood cells, causing Hank's anemia. We were told HLH is very rare, affecting maybe 1 in 100,000 infants. When left undiagnosed and untreated, it can cause organ failure and death. We were all fortunate they found it when they did. They started him on treatments immediately and told us to expect we would have an extended hospital stay. At least thirty days, with a bone marrow transplant to follow, which would be at least another 100 days in the hospital.

Even though he was cleared of Leukemia initially, on September 10th, Hank was diagnosed with Acute Erythroid Leukemia (AEL). We were told that AEL is so rare that there have only been 40 documented cases globally in the last 30 years. Hank is the youngest of them. For the unforeseeable future, Jonah and I will only be able to see Hank for half of the week while we work the other half of the week, 200 miles away. Leaving Hank would be (and is) the hardest part of every week.

Since the adoption went through so fast, it set us back in our financial situation. To avoid entirely financially crippling ourselves and to make sure Hank had somewhere to go back home to, we had to return to work. Even with FMLA and working, we are starting to feel the pressure of bills and expenses adding up. The cost of traveling weekly over the mountain pass alone, is high. For both us, and Jonah's mom who is staying with Hank when we are away working. In the last month, we had to replace the tires on our car to ensure safe travels during the winter. The same car had to go to the mechanic recently for work. We are grateful for any assistance you can provide. Our family is young and has been put through the wringer. It would be a massive weight off our shoulders to be in a spot we feel financially stable in again. Allowing us to wholly care for and be with Hank while we are in the hospital with him. Hank is our world and our love.

Thank you for taking the time to read this.