On September 28th (my dad’s birthday), our lives quietly and profoundly changed when our spunky little Jossy, was diagnosed with Pre B-cell acute lymphoblastic leukemia (B-ALL). It’s quite frankly a nightmare no parent ever expects to live. And yet, here we are.

This is Joss’ story.

About two weeks before the diagnosis, Joss came home from school one Friday afternoon complaining of pain in her upper left arm. There was no fall, no bump, no story to go with the ache. It came and went, mostly in the evenings, so we chalked it up to a pulled muscle from the monkey bars or maybe growing pains.

But a week later, on Saturday, she changed. Out of nowhere she became extremely lethargic, feverish, and just not herself. We tried to manage it with Motrin every 6-8 hours, but the fever wouldn’t break. On Wednesday, I called the pediatrician. With only a fever and body aches, they assured me it was likely just a virus and told me to continue supportive care.

But by Thursday morning, after several sleepless nights and something deep in me stirring, I knew I couldn’t wait. I called again and took her in. Her exam looked normal, but our pediatrician—God bless her—ordered bloodwork and an arm x-ray, just to be thorough.

We had both tests done Friday. The x-ray was normal. We were told to watch for bloodwork results in MyChart and call immediately when they came in. So we waited.

Another sleepless night. No updates. I was restless and uneasy. Joss was clearly not okay, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong. We decided to call anyway, just in case. Thank God we did.

Our pediatrician picked up right away—she literally pulled over on the side of the road to check Joss’s labs. Somehow, she could see them even though I couldn't. Her voice dropped as she explained that Joss’s white blood cell count was alarmingly high. She was calling Levine Children’s Hospital in Charlotte immediately to help get us in.

In that moment, my world tilted. I didn’t say anything out loud—I couldn’t. But something inside me already knew. It was a quiet, cold certainty I didn’t want to name. I didn’t want to make it real.

Saturday, September 27th – My mom’s 60th birthday

We arrived at Levine’s ER around 2:00 PM. The hours blurred into one another. There were more x-rays, more questions, more pokes and prods. They told us she’d need an MRI. I’d never had one myself, so I didn’t know what to expect.

They asked if she could lie still for 15 minutes—she could. I was assured it would be fine, no sedation needed, just headphones and relaxing music.

At 10:30 PM, we were finally taken down to the adult MRI suite because the pediatric one was closed for the weekend. And that’s when things took a turn.

The tech who met us outside the room immediately scolded me in front of Joss, questioning why I hadn’t asked for sedation. She said it would be loud, terrifying, and traumatizing—especially for any child under 10. Joss looked up at me, wide-eyed and scared, and I fought every urge to break down. Chance was ready to call it all off. But I knew we needed answers. We needed that MRI.

They ended up giving her two doses of medication to help her relax. She dozed off… but as soon as the machine started, she woke up. It was too much. We’d have to try again in the morning—with full anesthesia. Exhausted, emotionally drained, and scared, we were finally admitted to a room around 2:30 AM.

Before the MRI, the doctors suspected a deep joint infection—perhaps in her shoulder bone or joint, based on the inflammatory markers shown in her bloodwork. If they saw it clearly in the MRI, they planned to take her straight to surgery while she was still under.

When they called us from the waiting room sooner than expected, I allowed myself a moment of hope. Maybe no surgery meant good news?

Then three doctors met us in a small room next door. They sat us down. The MRI didn’t show infection. It showed something else. Something worse.

They told us Joss had Pre B-cell acute lymphoblastic leukemia—a blood and bone marrow cancer that mostly affects children.

The words rang in my ears like a foreign language, and yet I understood every one.

I felt like I was falling. Like I was watching this moment happen to someone else. But it was me. It was us. It was her.

They told us the survival rate is very high. That children do incredibly well with treatment. And they already had a plan.

And while all of that is true—and we hold onto that hope with every fiber of our being—none of it softens the blow of hearing that your child has cancer. Nothing prepares you for this road. It's like a fast-moving train you can't get off of.

This is the beginning of a long, grueling journey for our brave, sassy, bright-eyed Jossy. She is strong. So much stronger than we ever imagined. And we will walk this road beside her—every step, every setback, every triumph—until she is healed.

Thank you for your love, your prayers, and your unwavering support. We can’t do this without our village.

If you want to learn more about B-ALL, you can read about it here.

https://www.healthline.com/health/leukemia/pre-b-acute-lymphoblastic-leukemia#summary