Owen’s snoring—eerily similar to his dad’s pre-tonsillectomy days—finally pushed us to see an ENT. The doctor seemed concerned about his swollen lymph nodes but wasn’t overly alarmed. They suggested a follow-up six weeks later.

So, we waited some more.

But just two weeks later, our worry turned to full-blown panic. Owen suddenly collapsed, letting out a scream of pain that shattered any sense of calm we’d managed to hold onto. At first, the doctors thought it was a toddler’s fracture—a relatively common and usually minor bone crack. We latched onto that explanation, hoping it was just a bump in the road.

But it wasn’t. The fracture was a distraction, a red herring. The real issue was still lurking, undiagnosed and growing more dangerous by the day.

So, we waited even longer.

Finally, the local ENT noticed something we couldn’t ignore: Owen’s swollen lymph nodes were multiplying. That observation fast-tracked us to a specialist at OHSU Doernbecher Children’s Hospital. What followed was a whirlwind of tests—a blur of pokes, scans, and nervous conversations, all barely concealing the fear that was growing in the pit of our stomachs.

The call came at a moment we’ll never forget. Owen had just scaled a play structure, his little face beaming with pride. He was so happy, so full of life. When we told him we had to go back to the hospital, he protested, “No, Daddy, but I feel better now.” His words, so innocent and full of hope, cut us to the core.

When we were admitted, our worst fears were confirmed. Owen’s condition was worse than we could have imagined, his little body already bearing the weight of an illness we hadn’t even realized was there. His rapid decline pushed us into a reality we weren’t ready for—a path we’d never have chosen. Yet, here we were, starting a long and grueling battle.

One that, thankfully, came with hope for recovery.

But nearly a year later, nothing could have prepared us what were were going to discover...