Bryson is five years old.
To his family, he is lovingly known as “Goosey,” a nickname that carries warmth, affection, and the innocence of childhood.
But today, Goosey is facing something no child should ever have to endure.
He is in his final week of life.
Neuroblastoma has stolen so much from him.
It has invaded his small body, spread to his bones, and taken away the simple comfort of living without pain.
What should be days filled with play and laughter have instead been consumed by medicine, hospital visits, and the fight for just one more breath.
And yet, in the middle of this cruel reality, Bryson remains surrounded by immense love.
On Friday, a visitor stepped into his world to document the care that envelopes him like a shield.
It is not easy to see a child in such a fragile state.
But for his family, this is not an image.
This is their life.
This is the nightmare they live every day.
In the rare moments when Bryson is lucid, his personality shines through.
He loves Taco Bell steak quesadillas.
He loves trains and the adventures they carry him on in his imagination.
He loves watching Spongebob, with its silly humor that brings a flicker of joy to his tired eyes.
And he loves teasing his brother and cousin, a small act of mischief that reminds everyone he is still a little boy at heart.
But behind those glimpses of childhood lies unrelenting pain.
Bryson is allergic to dilaudid, which has limited the options for his care.
Instead, he depends on morphine to keep the suffering at bay.
Even so, his entire body aches.
For his family, watching is unbearable.
They hold him, comfort him, and love him with everything they have.
They whisper words of encouragement, even as their hearts break knowing time is slipping away.
The injustice of it all is crushing.
Childhood should not look like this.
Childhood should not be defined by tubes, medicines, and pain management.
Bryson’s story is one of millions, and yet, like so many, it has been met with a shocking lack of support.
In the United States, only 4% of cancer research funding is dedicated to childhood cancers.
Four percent.
That number is far too small for children whose lives hang in the balance.
Children like Bryson deserve more.
All of them do.
It is difficult to look at images of children like Bryson.
It is painful to read their stories.
But as hard as it is to see, it is infinitely more excruciating for those who must live it.
For the parents who watch their children suffer.
For the siblings who don’t understand why their brother or sister can’t play anymore.
For the grandparents who would give anything to trade places.
This is childhood cancer.
It is brutal.
It is unfair.
And it demands more than our silence.
Bryson’s life is not just a tragedy—it is a reminder.
A reminder of the urgent need for funding, research, and compassion.
A reminder that behind every statistic is a child who loves trains, quesadillas, cartoons, and laughter.
A reminder that even in the face of death, love remains the most powerful force of all.
As his final days unfold, Bryson is surrounded by love.
His family will carry him through this week with tenderness, holding onto every second, every smile, every moment of connection.
Though his body is frail, his spirit is mighty.
Though cancer has stolen so much, it cannot steal the love that defines his life.
Bryson deserves more than 4%.
Every child does.
