Some days begin with laughter. Camilo wakes up smiling, his eyes bright, and for a brief, precious moment, the hospital feels less like a battlefield and more like home. His laughter fills the room, softening the sterile walls, giving his mother a glimpse of what life might be like outside this place — a life without wires, beeping monitors, or medical jargon.
But then, without warning, it changes. His face tightens, and he curls over in pain. The same stomach pain that has haunted him for weeks returns, fierce and unrelenting. His mother’s heart sinks. Just like that, the light fades, and the weight of uncertainty settles over them again.
The endoscopy showed nothing significant. The scans revealed no clear answers. And now they wait — for biopsy results, for explanations, for direction. Waiting has become their new normal. Waiting and hoping.
Every day looks the same. Medications lined up on the bedside table. IV lines running into his small arm. TPN feeding his fragile body, drop by drop, because his stomach can’t yet handle food. Each night, his mother sits beside him, watching the monitors blink, whispering silent prayers that tomorrow might finally bring progress.
💛
During morning rounds, the medical team gathered — hematology, transplant, GI, immunology, pharmacy — all of them standing together in a small circle, speaking softly, thoughtfully, as if their collective knowledge could somehow untangle the mystery that holds Camilo hostage.
“We’ll be holding a care conference,” one doctor said. “Everyone together — all departments — to figure out how to move forward.”
His mother nodded, her hands trembling in her lap. She has learned to listen closely, to cling to every word, to read between the lines. But when the doctor met her eyes and said gently, “I can understand you feel trapped. We’re at a standstill,” something inside her broke.
Because he was right.
That’s exactly what it feels like — trapped between hope and despair, between progress and paralysis. Not moving forward, not moving back. Just existing in the heavy silence of waiting.
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They’ve tested for everything — infections, autoimmune issues, side effects, allergies. Each test brings both relief and disappointment. Relief that nothing catastrophic has been found, and disappointment that nothing has been found at all.
So now, they’re looking deeper — into his medications, his history, the small details that might hold the key to what’s wrong. His mother has been asking questions for weeks, connecting dots only a parent could see. Now, finally, those questions are being heard.
And still, there’s nothing to do but wait.
The waiting is its own kind of pain — one that gnaws quietly at the edges of your hope. Every sunrise brings the same routine. Every night ends with the same prayer. She’s learned that healing isn’t always about medicine; sometimes, it’s about endurance — about surviving the not-knowing long enough to get to the knowing.
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There are moments, though, when even in the midst of the ache, light breaks through.
Like the way Camilo smiles when his favorite nurse walks in. The way his little hands reach for her, trusting without hesitation. The way he laughs softly when she calls him “my tough guy.” Those moments are fragile and fleeting, but they’re enough to keep everyone going.
His mother clings to them. She collects them like treasures — reminders that even in the slowest seasons of waiting, love still moves.
Sometimes, when he sleeps, she leans back in her chair and lets herself breathe again. For a few quiet minutes, she lets the exhaustion wash over her — the endless tests, the sleepless nights, the fear she hides behind a brave face. She thinks about how far they’ve come and how far they still have to go. And somehow, she finds the strength to keep believing.
💛
The care conference will happen soon. The best minds in medicine — hematology, GI, transplant, immunology — all sitting together to search for answers for one small boy who means the world to them. It’s both humbling and terrifying to know that so much rests on the outcome of a single conversation.
But for Camilo’s family, it’s also a spark of hope. Because hope, even fragile, is still hope.
Until then, they will keep doing what they’ve always done — holding faith in the in-between, trusting that the same God who has carried them this far will not let go now.
Every tear, every prayer, every breath whispered in the quiet corners of the hospital hallways carries the same plea:
“Please, just guide us forward.”
Because sometimes, healing doesn’t look like a miracle. Sometimes, it looks like endurance — the strength to wait with faith when the answers refuse to come.
💛
Camilo’s story is still being written. The tests continue, the doctors search, and his family holds on. The days are long, the nights longer, but their love remains steady. And in that love, there is movement — small, unseen, but real.
One day soon, the stillness will break. Answers will come. The path forward will unfold.
Until then, his mother sits beside his bed, her hand resting gently over his, her heart whispering the same quiet prayer:
“Lord, give us patience. Give us courage. And give us hope while we wait.”
Because even in the waiting — especially in the waiting — love is still healing him. 💛
