Hendrix’s First Victory: Chemo and Stem Cell Transplants Complete.
Hendrix’s Journey: One Chapter Completed, Another Begins
There are moments in life that feel like the end of a marathon—exhausting, emotional, and yet filled with a profound sense of accomplishment. For Hendrix and his family, this week was one of those moments. After months of grueling treatment, hospital stays, and prayers, the little boy who has endured more than most adults ever will has officially been
discharged from the hospital.
The First Leg of the Journey
Hendrix has completed all of his stem cell transplants and rounds of chemotherapy.
To read those words is to understand just how far he has come. Stem cell transplants and chemotherapy are not just treatments—they are battles fought on every level of the body and spirit. They strip strength, steal energy, and leave behind countless side effects.
For Hendrix, those treatments meant long days hooked up to machines, endless pokes from needles, and the difficult reality of spending so much of his childhood inside hospital walls.
But now, he has finished this part of his fight. And for the first time in months, his family was able to bring him back—not home just yet, but to a
rental house where they can find a little more comfort, a little more peace, and a little more normal.
A Happy Boy
The update from his family couldn’t be more uplifting:
“We are in our rental house and he is a HAPPY boy.”
Those words carry the weight of months of fear and struggle. To see him smiling again, to see joy on his face after so many difficult days, is a blessing no words can fully capture.
Hendrix is not just surviving—he is thriving in his own way. His laughter, his smiles, his energy—they are proof of his resilience, proof that even in the toughest circumstances, a child’s spirit can shine brighter than the darkness around him.
What Comes Next
Though the family is celebrating, the journey is far from over. Tomorrow, Hendrix will return to the children’s hospital for a trial run for radiation. This is a crucial step in the next phase of his treatment.
Part of the process includes being fitted for his radiation mask—a custom piece designed to keep him perfectly still during treatments so that the radiation can target exactly where it is needed, without harming other parts of his body.
It’s a daunting process for anyone, let alone a child. But Hendrix faces it with the same quiet courage he has shown since day one.
On Friday, the journey continues with a full day back at
Cardinal Glennon Children’s Hospital. MRIs and extensive testing will fill the schedule, each scan and result offering another piece of the puzzle. The family is hoping for great results, praying that the cancer is shrinking, that the treatments are working, and that Hendrix’s little body is beginning to heal.
A Warrior’s Strength
There’s a phrase his family keeps coming back to:
“This kid is so strong and resilient.”
It’s true. Hendrix has faced things no child should ever have to endure—endless needles, harsh medicines, days when he felt too weak to even sit up. And yet, through it all, he has kept going.
Resilience doesn’t mean he hasn’t been scared or tired. It means that even when he was scared, even when he was tired, he didn’t stop. He kept fighting, step by step, day by day.
His strength is not only in his body but also in his spirit. He continues to find joy, continues to bring light to those around him, and continues to inspire everyone who follows his story.
Gratitude for the Village
No journey like this is ever walked alone. Hendrix’s family knows this truth well.
They shared a heartfelt message of thanks: “Thank you all again for continuing to support us and pray for us. We truly couldn’t do this without you all.”
Friends, neighbors, extended family, and even strangers have formed a community around Hendrix—lifting him up in prayer, sending words of encouragement, and offering practical help in countless ways. Every message, every donation, every prayer has mattered.
And then there are the people who stand closest, like Cindy Davis Bakalar, who received a special shout-out from the family. Cindy has been by their side daily, helping care for Hendrix, providing selfless support, and giving the kind of love and dedication that cannot be measured.
His family put it simply: “I personally could not survive without her.”
That gratitude is not just for Cindy, but for everyone who has joined this fight. Hendrix’s battle may be his own, but it is one carried on the shoulders of an entire community.
A Journey Still Unfolding
The first chapter—chemo and stem cell transplants—is complete. The next chapter—radiation and testing—has begun.
There will still be challenges. There will still be long days and nights filled with worry. But there will also be victories, smiles, and reasons to celebrate.
Hendrix’s story is not finished. It is still being written, day by day, moment by moment. And at the heart of it all is a boy whose strength and resilience continue to astonish everyone who knows him.
A Message of Hope
For those following Hendrix’s journey, his family has one request: keep praying.
Pray that his radiation treatments go smoothly.
Pray that his MRIs show healing and progress.
Pray that his spirit continues to shine bright, no matter how hard the road gets.
Because Hendrix is more than a patient. He is a son, a friend, a light, and an inspiration. His story is proof that even the smallest among us can fight the biggest battles—and win.
Conclusion: The First Victory
Being discharged after stem cell transplants and chemo is not the end, but it is a victory worth celebrating. It marks the close of one brutal chapter and the beginning of another.
Hendrix is home—smiling, happy, and strong. His family is grateful beyond words, surrounded by love and prayer. And his story continues to unfold, reminding all of us that even in the hardest battles, resilience and faith can carry us through.
Hendrix’s first leg of the journey is complete. The next awaits. And with every prayer, every ounce of support, and every moment of courage, he will keep moving forward.
Fighting Through the Darkness: Branson’s Battle.1671
I know it’s been a few days since I’ve updated, and truthfully, I just haven’t had the mental capacity. Some days, even putting one sentence together feels impossible. I know so many of you wait for updates, praying alongside us, hoping for good news, and I’m sorry for the silence. But it’s hard to share when things are not going well. Some moments, it feels like the words themselves would break under the weight of what we’re living.
Branson is in excruciating pain. There is no easy way to describe it. Even morphine around the clock barely touches what his little body is feeling. He curls into himself, his small frame tense with agony, and I am helpless. Watching him struggle, unable to take the pain away, feels unbearable. Every parent’s instinct is to protect, to shield, to absorb their child’s suffering, and yet I cannot. I can hold his hand, stroke his hair, whisper reassurances—but the pain is his, and I cannot carry it for him.
Every part of this journey has brought its own challenges—the diagnosis, the treatments, the uncertainty—but post bone marrow transplant has been by far the hardest and darkest chapter yet. The recovery we imagined, even hoped for, is complicated by this relentless virus. Branson’s vision remains unchanged, which is a relief, but it is small comfort compared to the magnitude of what he is enduring. His white blood cell count has begun to rise again, slowly, inching up to 1,200 today, a small victory amid the storm. But the adenovirus levels are now at 12 million, and it feels impossible to see a clear path through the fog of worry.
This morning brought a glimmer of hope. I received a call from Donald and the doctors urging me to get to the hospital immediately. They needed to take my lymphocytes, my white blood cells, because my immune system is strong enough to help fight Branson’s virus. I felt a mix of anxiety and relief. Anxiety because it’s yet another medical procedure to endure, relief because it’s the best chance we have to give him a fighting shot. The cells were collected, incubated overnight, and will be infused into Branson tomorrow. The doctors explained it could take about four weeks for these cells to activate and start effectively combating the virus, so we are praying, every single second, that they work exactly as they are supposed to.
The doctors have been honest with us. Right now, Branson is receiving the only medication available for the adenovirus, but it hasn’t been responding as hoped. And the medicine carries risks—especially to the kidneys if used too aggressively. That is why the lymphocyte collection was necessary: it is his best shot at a real immune response. And even as we face these terrifying unknowns, there are moments of gratitude. Branson’s sepsis is much improved. Clinically, aside from the adenovirus, the doctors say he’s “okay.” That small piece of stability feels like a lifeline, even if the rest of the journey is so uncertain.
Emotionally, it’s exhausting. Donald will be leaving us soon, and the thought of navigating these next critical days without his support feels overwhelming. He is half of our family team, the anchor I rely on to breathe, think, and process in moments when fear threatens to consume me. But at the same time, I know Maddox and Magnolia need him back home, and I am grateful that they will finally have him there. Still, the weight of responsibility, the isolation, and the constant vigilance are almost too much to bear. Every monitor beep, every nurse’s update, every fluctuation in Branson’s vitals becomes a test of endurance, of faith, of hope.
Through it all, I try to be present for Branson, even when I feel like I am running on empty. I hold his hand, brush his hair from his forehead, and whisper to him: “I wish I could be half as strong as you are.” And the truth is, he is strong—stronger than anyone could imagine. Every tiny blink, every managed breath, every moment of stillness amidst pain feels like a victory. He teaches me daily what courage truly looks like, even when his body is failing him.
I ask, again and again, for prayers—not just for Branson, but for our family. For his healing. For this virus to be destroyed. For endurance, for clarity, for peace in the midst of chaos. Every prayer matters. We feel them all. They lift us in ways words cannot describe. And in these long, lonely nights, with only monitors and the soft hum of the hospital around us, they remind me that we are not walking this path alone.
It’s difficult to reconcile the fear with the gratitude. There are moments when I am angry at the unfairness of it all, at the cruel reality that no child deserves this kind of pain, that no parent should have to witness it. And then, in the same breath, I am grateful for the small victories, for the medical advancements that give Branson a fighting chance, for the team of doctors and nurses who fight beside him, and for the love and prayers that surround us from every corner.
I cannot predict the future, and I cannot control the virus. But I can be here. I can breathe alongside him. I can remind him of love, of hope, of life beyond the monitors. I can be a constant in a world that feels anything but certain. And I cling to that as tightly as I cling to him.
Please, continue to pray for Branson. Pray for miracles, for progress, for the medical teams guiding his care. Pray for endurance for our family, as we walk through this nightmare one day, one hour, one minute at a time. Every prayer matters, every ounce of hope counts. And to those who love us and hold us up during this, thank you. Your support carries us in ways we can’t always put into words. We feel it. We are grateful beyond measure.
Branson, my sweet boy, I see you. I see your courage. I see your fight. And I promise you, we will keep walking through this together. Every step, every breath, every day, we are with you, and we are not giving up.
