Kevin Stanford

UPDATE 15 One of the reasons we have chosen to share our journey so openly is because we want our story to be about more than just advocating for yourself, asking questions, and bringing awareness to this disease. I want to be honest about the whole journey - the victories and the setbacks, the good days and the really hard ones. Today was a hard day. Kevin and I are headed to Nashville for infusion #7 tomorrow, and our precious boy had an emotional breakdown as we were leaving; his granny had to pull him off of me, and I almost didn't have the strength to walk out the door. My mama heart is broken. In some ways, we've gotten pretty good at this whole treatment thing. We know how infusion days work. We know what the days afterward may look like. We've learned how to navigate the side effects. We've adjusted medications, changed routines, and we're even trying some new cold therapy gloves and slippers that Jenneth recommended to help with the neuropathy and cold sensitivity during infusion. The physical part is hard, but it's becoming familiar. The emotional part? That's the battle we're struggling with the most right now. It's the quiet questions that sit in the back of my mind - the ones I'm sometimes too scared to say out loud. It's the constant battle between hope and fear. Between believing that we're going to see the outcome we're praying for and that little devil of fear sitting on my shoulder, creeping in when everything gets quiet and steals my peace. I can be incredibly hopeful one minute and completely overwhelmed the next. And then there's our sweet Summit. He's six years old, and he's trying to navigate something that even grown adults struggle to understand. He's having big emotions that he doesn't always know how to explain. He knows Mom and Dad have to go to Nashville. He knows Daddy is fighting cancer. He knows treatment means we're gone sometimes. And I think sometimes his little heart is just scared that if we leave, we might not come back. Oddly enough, there is no chapter in the parenting manual titled, "How to guide your six-year-old through having a parent with cancer." No instructions. No study guide. No right answers. It's one of those times when life gives you a test you didn't study for, for a class you never signed up for. And as his mama, I feel so helpless. I'm still trying to understand all of this myself. I'm still learning how to carry the fear, how to find peace when there are so many unanswered questions, and how to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And now I'm trying to figure out how to teach my little boy that it's okay to be scared, while somehow helping him feel safe in a world that suddenly feels a lot less certain. But even on the hard days, there is still so much to be thankful for. Kevin is still fighting. His treatments are continuing. We're learning how to manage the side effects. His scans have given us reasons to celebrate. We're still seeing moments of hope. And we're still climbing. We've said from the beginning that no one climbs this mountain alone, and I think we're understanding that more deeply with every step. So in lieu of tomorrow's treatment, our biggest prayer requests aren't just for the medicine to work or for the scans to continue moving in the right direction. Please pray for our hearts. Pray for Kevin's continued strength and for smooth treatments with manageable side effects. Pray for the neuropathy and cold sensitivity to ease. Pray for our nerves and anxiety to calm. Pray that the fear that creeps in when I'm not expecting it will be replaced with peace. Pray for Summit - for his little heart, his big emotions, and for us to know how to help him navigate something no six-year-old should ever have to understand. And pray that we can keep choosing hope even when fear is loud. Because we aren't going to let the hard days win. Today may have been a hard day. BUT. We're still believing. We're still praying. We're still fighting. We're still climbing. One treatment, one scan, one one prayer, one hard day at a time.