Mavryck’s Miracle: A Boy, His Sister, and the Battle to Save His Mind.2360

💙 Mavryck’s Miracle: A Boy, His Sister, and the Battle to Save His Mind 💙

When you look at six-year-old Mavryck, it’s easy to see what makes him special — those wide, sparkling eyes, the shy smile that melts hearts, and the way his little hand fits perfectly in his sister’s.


But behind that smile lies a story few could imagine — a fight so fierce, so unfair, that it tests the limits of love, courage, and faith.

🌤 The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

It began like many stories do — quietly.
Small things at first: moments when Mav struggled to find words he used to say easily, when his steps seemed slower, his coordination slightly off.


At first, his parents thought it might be something simple — maybe he was just growing, maybe he was tired.

But deep down, a mother always knows.

After weeks of tests, scans, and sleepless nights, the diagnosis arrived like a thunderclap:


Cerebral Adrenoleukodystrophy (cALD).

A rare, genetic, and devastating brain disease.
It strips the brain of its myelin — the protective coating around nerve cells — slowly erasing a child’s ability to move, speak, see, or even remember.


For most families, it’s a death sentence.
For Mav’s family, it was the beginning of a miracle.

💔 A Cruel Thief

There are diseases that break the body, and there are those that break the spirit.


cALD does both.
It creeps in quietly and begins stealing childhood — one word, one step, one memory at a time.

For Mav’s parents, every new symptom felt like another piece of him slipping away.


The little boy who loved dinosaurs, who giggled when his dad chased him around the yard, who drew rockets on the walls with crayons — now faced a future that no child should ever face.

They were told there was no cure.
That nothing could stop the progression.
That all they could do was pray for time.

But faith — their faith — refused to surrender.

🌈 The Miracle Option

When the team at Arkansas Children’s Hospital suggested a bone marrow transplant, Mav’s parents didn’t hesitate.
It was risky.
Experimental.
But it was a chance — a sliver of hope where none had existed before.

And for Mav, that chance came from the most unexpected hero — his 8-year-old sister, VeraLee.

When she learned she was a perfect match, she didn’t cry or hesitate.


She simply smiled and said, “I want to help my brother.”

She underwent days of preparation, needles, and hospital visits — all for him.
And when the day finally came, her stem cells were collected and infused into Mav’s bloodstream — tiny, invisible warriors carrying the power to rebuild what the disease had tried to destroy.

It was more than a medical procedure.
It was a story of pure love — a sister’s sacrifice, a family’s faith, and a boy’s fight for life.

💙 A New Kind of Strength

The days after the transplant were long and uncertain.
Mav’s body struggled, his immune system fragile, his energy drained.
There were fevers, pain, and nights where the machines beeped endlessly.

His mother never left his side.
She prayed over him, whispered songs, and held his hand even when he was too weak to squeeze back.

But slowly — like dawn breaking through darkness — there were signs of light.


A flicker of strength in his fingers.
A small smile after days of exhaustion.
A moment of recognition when he looked at his sister and whispered her name.

His family called them

God’s winks — little reminders that faith was still alive, that healing was still possible.

🙏 Faith Stronger Than Fear

To the Ballinger family, every breath Mav takes is a gift.


Every smile, every squeeze of his hand, every whispered “I love you” feels like proof that miracles still exist.

Their living room has become a sanctuary of prayer.
Pictures of Mav’s favorite superheroes line the walls, alongside cards, messages, and scriptures sent from people all across the country.
Friends, neighbors, and even strangers have rallied behind them — sending meals, donations, and daily prayers for their brave little boy.

His mom often says, “There are moments when fear tries to take over, but then I look at him — and I remember that faith always wins.”

🌟 A Sister’s Love

Through it all, VeraLee has remained his biggest cheerleader.
She draws pictures for his hospital wall — hearts, rockets, and rainbows with the words “Mav is strong.”
She tells him stories about the things they’ll do when he gets better: fishing trips, ice cream nights, pillow forts.

She doesn’t see herself as a hero — but everyone else does.
Because when she gave her stem cells, she didn’t just give him a chance to live.
She gave her family hope.

💫 A Future Rewritten

Mavryck became the first child at Arkansas Children’s Hospital to undergo a bone marrow transplant for cALD — a breakthrough that’s giving new hope to families around the world.

His story is being watched not just by doctors, but by parents who had been told there was nothing left to try.
Mav is proving that science, prayer, and love can walk hand in hand — and that even the smallest victories are worth celebrating.

The road ahead is still uncertain.
There will be more hospital stays, more challenges, and more prayers whispered through tears.
But if you ask Mav’s family what they see when they look at him, their answer is simple:
“We see God’s strength made visible in a six-year-old boy.”

💙 A Prayer for Mav

So tonight, as the world quiets down and the stars rise over Arkansas, Mav sleeps surrounded by love — his parents’ hands resting on his, his sister’s drawing taped to the wall, and his favorite stuffed animal tucked under his chin.

Outside his room, people across the country are praying — for healing, for hope, for the miracle he’s becoming with every breath.

Because behind those big, beautiful eyes is a story of courage.
A story of faith.
A story that reminds us that love, in its purest form, never gives up.

💙 Keep fighting, Mav. You’re showing the world what miracles look like. 💙

MIBG Therapy: A Glimmer of Hope for Cylus.1373

Cylus’ Journey: Hope, Plans, and Small Victories

This morning, we had our MRI, a scan that always brings a mix of anxiety and hope. The kind of scan that can feel like it carries the weight of the world.

 After waiting for the results, talking with the doctors, and seeing Cylus’ strength throughout the process, we finally headed home. There is a plan, and for now, that is enough to give us some measure of comfort.

Yesterday, we spent a long time speaking with Dr. Pinto, who offered words of reassurance amid an otherwise gutting week. We discussed the recent failures in treatment, the next steps, and the options available to us.

Though Dinutuximab had not worked as we hoped, Dr. Pinto reminded us that MIBG therapy could be the miracle we need. Those words offered a fragile but significant thread of hope, a reminder that even when one path closes, another may open.

The reality, however, is sobering. If MIBG therapy does not produce the desired results, our only remaining options are clinical trials, one of which is CAR T therapy. This is something I had read about extensively on my own, particularly because it had saved my mother’s life.

Bringing it up with the oncologists, I was relieved to find that they agreed this could be a viable option for Cylus. Knowing there is a possibility, however distant it may seem, provides a sense of control and direction in an otherwise uncertain journey.

As part of the plan, Cylus will undergo surgery this coming Thursday to swap out his Broviac and replace it with a Power Broviac. This is a precautionary step, ensuring that his T cells can be extracted in preparation for a potential transfer to CHOP in Philadelphia for CAR T therapy.

technical details matter less to me than the reassurance that every step we are taking is designed to maximize Cylus’ chances of recovery. Yet, even with that understanding, the week has been emotionally exhausting.

It has been a bittersweet end to an absolutely gutting week. Bitte because of the disappointing news, the physical pain Cylus has endured, and the isolation that comes with so many hospital visits and treatments.

 Sweet, however, because at least there is a glimmer of hope, and at least we now have a clear plan. Knowing the next steps, even in the face of uncertainty, is a relief. It allows us to breathe, to focus, and to move forward one decision at a time.

In addition to medical developments, there have been small victories that bring moments of joy amidst the struggle. Cylus now has his own wheelchair and walker, tools that allow him more mobility and independence as he continues to recover from recent treatments and maintain strength.

Simple things like this remind us to celebrate even the smallest steps forward, to appreciate every gain in mobility, and to acknowledge the resilience of a child who has endured more than most adults ever will.

Being home is another relief. After weeks filled with hospital visits, procedures, and endless monitoring, being back as a family is restorative. There is comfort in the familiar rhythms of home, the small routines that bring normalcy, and the chance to reconnect as a unit. We are exhausted, yes, but there is peace in being together, and that peace is invaluable.

Looking ahead, we hope to know the results of his bone marrow and MRI early next week. These results will be crucial in determining the next steps, particularly regarding Cylus’ mobility and the effectiveness of upcoming treatments.

Each day brings a combination of patience, anticipation, and the hope that the answers will bring a quick path toward improvement. Every test, every result, and every procedure is another step in a long but navigable path toward recovery.

Despite the challenges, there is much for which we are grateful. Gratitude for the medical team that works tirelessly to provide care, guidance, and expertise.

Gratitude for the small wins—the wheelchair, the walker, his enduring humor, and his ability to smile even in the face of pain. Gratitude for the support, prayers, and encouragement of friends, family, and our community, all of whom provide energy and hope when we feel depleted.

Cylus continues to show incredible strength and determination. Even when he feels weak or frustrated, he presses on, adapting to new tools, learning new routines, and demonstrating a resilience that inspires everyone around him.

journey is not just about treatments and therapies; it is about the courage and fortitude that define his character. Watching him navigate this path, I am reminded of how extraordinary he is and how fortunate we are to witness his bravery firsthand.

This week has reminded us of the complexity of cancer treatment—the highs and lows, the victories and setbacks. It has reminded us that while some moments are bitter and painful, others can bring relief, hope, and small celebrations

Every step, every decision, and every therapy is part of a larger journey, one in which we continue to advocate fiercely for Cylus, learn as much as we can, and hope for the best outcomes possible.

As we settle back into our home, exhausted but grateful, I am struck by the importance of hope and preparation.

Even amid setbacks, there is a plan. Even amid uncertainty, there is a path forward. And through it all, Cylus remains at the center—resilient, courageous, and ready to face whatever comes next.

This week may have been gutting, but it has also been a reminder that hope persists, plans matter, and every small victory counts. which seach scan, each treatment, and each carefully considered step, we move closer to a future where Cylus can regain mobility, strength, and the chance to live fully, despite the challenges cancer has imposed.

He continues to teach us the meaning of courage, the value of perseverance, and the importance of celebrating hope, no matter how small it may seem.