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Ringing the bell

  Zack’s chemo bell day felt surreal from the very beginning. After months of appointments, treatment rooms, blood tests, exhaustion, and trying to stay strong through something no child or family should ever have to face, there we were standing in the exact same hospital corridor that had become such a huge part of our lives but this time for something different. Something beautiful. The nurses lined up along the ward waiting for him. These weren’t just nurses anymore. They were the people who carried us through the darkest days. The people who knew Zack beyond his patient wristband. They knew his smile, his bravery, his quiet days, his tired days, and the moments where chemo had completely drained him. They celebrated the tiny victories with us and somehow always knew exactly what to say when things felt overwhelming. And then they all started clapping. The sound echoed down the corridor while Zack stood there, about to ring the bell that had probably felt impossible to reach at ...
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April

  April is a strange time in our household. Life carries on as it always doe, school runs, meals, laughter, the everyday rhythm we’ve rebuilt but underneath it all, we remember. It’s been three years since Zack’s brain tumour diagnosis. In many ways, life is different. In many ways, it looks the same. But everything has shifted—the pace we move at, the direction we take, the way we measure time. These days, time isn’t counted in months or seasons, but in scans. Three months at a time. Waiting, watching, wondering. We live in the in-between. The space where every small change can feel significant. A headache, a quiet day, a moment that feels just slightly “off” and the questions begin: Is he okay? Is something different? That quiet vigilance never really leaves. The fear of the tumour returning sits in the background, a constant undercurrent to even the brightest days. And yet, here we are. Tomorrow, we’ll receive the results of his latest scan. It’s been a full year since ...
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Scan

  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 ...
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Zack - port removal

  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...
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2025

  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 — ...
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Two years today

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...
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Scan life

  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...
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