No scan results yet — just waiting. ⏳
Waiting, tired, anxious, praying that tomorrow brings good news. 💭🙏

For Hazel’s family, every day unfolds beneath the harsh glow of hospital lights 🏥 — the hum of machines, the drip of IV lines 💧, the quiet rhythm of survival.
Days blur into nights 🌙 where sleep never comes easily. Every hour carries a mix of fear, fatigue, and fragile hope. 💔🌈

This week was another battle — a storm of fever 🌡️, pain 💢, and endless medications 💊 poured into a body far too small for such suffering.
Each breath was work. Each moment of calm, a victory. 🌬️✨

Through it all, her mother never left her side. 🤱💖
She sat in that stiff hospital chair for hours, sometimes days, holding Hazel close against her heart — whispering stories, songs, and silent prayers. 🙏💫
“Just one more good day,” she would plead softly. “Just one more smile.” 🌷

By Friday, Hazel completed another round of chemotherapy 💪🎗️.
Now, they wait for the scan — the one that will decide what comes next. The waiting feels unbearable.
Time moves slower here. Every minute stretches like an eternity — heavy with both fear and faith. 🕊️💭

Her mouth sores made it too painful to eat 🍽️😢, so nourishment came through IV lines instead 💧.
Her mother dabbed her lips gently, wiped away her tears, and whispered, “You’re doing so well, my brave girl.” 💞

No one sees the quiet strength behind the curtain — the exhaustion of love, the tears spilled into a folded blanket, the courage it takes to smile in front of your child while your heart is breaking. 💔🌙

And tonight, at last, Hazel sleeps peacefully. 😴🩵
The machines beep softly beside her — steady, faithful, alive. 🌟
Her mother watches in silence, hand resting over her daughter’s heart. She closes her eyes and whispers one final prayer:

“Please, God… let her wake up smiling tomorrow.” 🌈🌙💖

Because in this endless fight between pain and hope, sometimes the bravest thing you can do — is keep believing. 💫