Zack

  The weeks leading up to your child’s scan are a kind of quiet storm. From the outside, life looks almost normal. School runs still happen. Dinners still get made. Conversations still fill the house. But underneath it all, there’s a constant hum , a tension that never quite switches off. It sits in your chest, in your thoughts, in the silence when the house finally goes to sleep… except you don’t. Sleep becomes a stranger in those weeks. You lie awake replaying everything. Every small symptom. Every “what if.” Every memory you wish you could forget but somehow feels sharper than ever. Your mind doesn’t rest it spirals. You tell yourself to be positive, to stay grounded, but anxiety doesn’t listen to logic. It just exists. Loud and persistent. The truth is, the anxiety is real. Deeply real. And it doesn’t matter how much time has passed. This was the time, three years ago,  when everything changed. When the word “tumour” entered your life in a way we could never have prepared ...

  Today marks the end of a chapter in Zack’s life and the beginning of a new one that feels just as hopeful as it does frightening. Zack is having his port removed. For many people, a port is just a medical device. A piece of equipment. Something temporary. But for Zack, it has been so much more than that. Since he was just nine months old, the port has been part of his body, it’s all he has ever known. To Zack, it wasn’t strange or foreign, it was normal. It was  him . It’s hard to explain what it means to say goodbye to something that has been part of your body for most of your life. The port wasn’t just there during hospital visits; it was there during growing up. Through learning, playing, healing, and simply being a little boy. It became so familiar that imagining Zack without it feels almost unreal. Don’t get me wrong,  the port hasn’t always been easy. It brought with it stress and worry, countless trips to the hospital, extra blood tests, and moments of anxiety no...

  As this year comes to an end, our hearts are full, full of gratitude, love, and deep appreciation for every single person who has stood beside us. This year has not been an easy one, but it has shown us just how surrounded we are by kindness. Whether you walked miles to raise money for GOSH, dropped off a home-cooked meal when days felt impossibly long, sent messages of support, or simply checked in when words were hard to find — every single gesture mattered more than you will ever know. During Zack’s chemo, when energy was low and emotions were high, your kindness carried us. We are eternally grateful for your friendship and love. We’ve also reached milestones that once felt impossibly far away. Zack finishing chemo. Zack turning three. Moments that, at one point, felt like distant dreams are now memories we hold close. Celebrating them has been emotional, joyful, and deeply meaningful. Ending a year since Zack’s diagnosis is complicated. There’s relief, pride, and gratitude — ...

Two years ago today, our world shifted  It was the beginning of Zack’s chemo journey a path no child should ever have to walk. We were suddenly thrown into a world of hospital rooms, results, beeping machines, and far too many medical terms. That day marked the start of something we never imagined we’d face, and yet, here we are  two years later, still standing, still fighting, still hoping. Since that day, Zack has been through more than most adults face in a lifetime. He’s lost his hair  not once, but multiple times. He’s had two ports placed to make treatments and transfusions a little easier, though there’s nothing truly “easy” about any of it. He’s braved countless hospital visits, endured painful side effects, and shown a strength that continues to leave us in awe. There were moments that brought us to our knees, reactions, fevers, setbacks, long nights with no sleep and longer days filled with waiting and worry. But through it all, Zack has remained our bright, bra...

  Finishing chemo isn’t the finish line you expect it to be. It’s a huge milestone, yes—but it also opens the door to a different kind of challenge: learning to live with the unknown. Recently, we had what they call a “follow-up scan”—the kind that checks to make sure nothing has changed since the last one. The results came back: everything has stayed the same. No new growth. That’s good news. That’s positive. Are we grateful. Truly. But here’s the thing: now we will  live scan to scan. Every few months and wait for a machine to tell me whether we get to keep moving forward—or whether we have to start fighting again. It’s hard to explain what that does to your mind. There’s a constant undercurrent of anxiety, even when things are going well. You become hyper-aware of your child's  body. Every ache, every headache, every strange sensation becomes a potential threat. And yet, alongside the fear, there’s hope—sometimes quiet and cautious, other times loud and defiant. Hope h...

Two Years Today: The Day Everything Changed Two years ago today, our world shattered. It was the kind of moment you never think will happen to you. You hear stories, you feel sympathy, but nothing prepares you for the moment a doctor looks you in the eyes and says the words: “It’s a brain tumour.” That was the day Zack’s diagnosis changed everything. The questions came rushing in before we could even catch our breath—What does this mean? What’s going to happen? Will he be okay? What does the road ahead look like? The truth was, no one had a clear answer. We were suddenly thrust into a whirlwind of appointments, scans, surgeries, treatment plans, and uncertainty. Life became about surviving the next hour, the next day, the next MRI. The road ahead was long. And it was hard. There were moments that knocked us flat—unexpected complications, sleepless nights, pain we couldn’t take away, and so many tears we lost count. We watched someone we love most face battles that no one sh...