Hospital Days, Hard Cuddles, & Hutton’s Big Heart

We headed up to UCLA last week for Hutton’s bloodwork, hoping she’d make counts so we could stay on track for chemo. We were quietly praying we could keep things on schedule and start her five-day round, but Hutton? She was not so secretly hoping her counts would be too low so we could head back home instead.

But the labs came back great—she made counts! So, five-day chemo it was. We even got our favorite hospital room and were surrounded by our favorite nurses, which made a tough week just a little easier. We knocked it out.

Usually, Hutton is super chill during hospital stays, but this admission was different. She was restless. She kept telling me, “I just want to go home.” And honestly, I felt the same. I didn’t want to sleep on that hard hospital couch, or be woken up every few hours, or fall asleep to the nonstop beeping of machines—but this is part of the journey. We got through it, just like we always do.

This time, Hutton needed extra cuddles. She kept asking me to lie next to her in the hospital bed and hold her close. And while I loved every minute snuggled up with her, it was hard. I could feel how much she was struggling, needing that extra love and reassurance just to make it through. She was having a tough time, and she needed me to carry some of that weight with her.

On our last day, as we sat on her bed waiting for her nurse to come de-access her port, she looked at me and said:

“Mom, I wish I didn’t have to get chemo. I wish I never got cancer. But if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have met all these nurses and all the people at the hospital. And I would’ve never found out that I love creating content for my YouTube channel.”

Cue the tears. 

This incredible child—who has endured so much—still finds light in the darkness. Always. She amazes me with her strength and her heart.

Once we got home on Saturday, she had a few days to rest. We really wanted her to feel well enough to go to the Descendants & Zombies: Worlds Collide concert—a dream night for her. She was doing great all week… until the night before the concert, when she suddenly came down with a stuffy nose. That same day, she also had her second physical therapy session—which is never easy.

PT is emotional. It’s frustrating for her. She knows exactly what her body used to be able to do, and now, it feels like it’s failing her. As a former competitive gymnast, going from total body control to needing help just to stand has been heartbreaking. But through the tears, she pushes through. She does every activity and exercise, because deep down, she believes she’ll walk again. And we believe it too.

The physical therapy session took a lot out of her, but even with the stuffy nose, she said she still wanted to go to the concert. And honestly, she seemed okay. The only reason we felt comfortable letting her go was because of our amazing friends—who are really more like family—who made it possible for her to watch from a private suite with her two besties. It gave her the space to enjoy the night safely, without being fully out in the crowd.

And she had an absolute blast. She lit up with joy and danced (in her wheelchair) her heart out… until halfway through the concert, when she called me over and whispered, “Dad, can we go? I’m really tired and the smoke is hurting my throat.”

This girl. Even in the middle of having the time of her life, she knew how to listen to her body and speak up for herself. She knew when enough was enough.

When we got home, though, the emotions caught up with her. She broke down, saying how sad she felt for having to leave early. She told me she didn’t really feel this way, but sometimes she just gets so sad and thinks her life is hard and miserable because she can’t do the things she used to.

And my heart just broke.

I held her close and told her it’s okay to feel that way. It is hard. She’s been through more in one year than most kids her age will go through in a lifetime. The pain, the frustration, the constant uphill battles—it’s a lot. And it’s okay to feel bad, sad, even angry about it. That doesn’t make her weak. It makes her normal.

But I also reminded her how strong she’s become. How resilient she is. How beautifully brave she is. And how every tear, every hard day, every obstacle—it's shaping her into someone absolutely unstoppable.