Continued from above…..

I took him back to the pediatrician, and that is when my world stopped for a moment. That is when I heard the word cancer. I remember feeling numb. I remember trying to stay strong while everything inside me was breaking. I remember holding my baby and wondering how something so small could be facing something so big.

We were sent to an ENT specialist who then told us it could be acute tuberculosis. At that point, I was exhausted emotionally and mentally. Every appointment brought a new possibility, a new fear, and a new what if. No one had real answers. Just guesses. And when it is your child, guesses are not enough.

So we pushed for more. We were sent to Texas Children’s Hospital. That is where we met Dr. Rosenberg. She finally gave us honesty, even though it was scary. She said the only way to know for sure was surgery. Handing your baby over for surgery is a fear I would not wish on anyone. You smile for them. You hold it together on the outside. But inside you are praying harder than you ever have before.

After surgery, we found out it was a benign tumor. Something that can happen in babies. We felt relief. We felt grateful. For a moment, we believed we had made it through the storm.

But our storm was not over.

Not long after, Corbin’s leg started swelling. This time it was not just visible. It was painful. Some days he could walk fine, play fine, and laugh fine, and then out of nowhere he would be down. Crying. Limping. Exhausted. Hurt. One minute he is okay and the next minute he is not. That unpredictability is one of the hardest parts of this journey.

We went back for more tests. More ultrasounds. More MRIs. More waiting rooms. More unanswered prayers that turned into quiet tears.

That is when we finally got the diagnosis of lymphatic malformation.

From that moment on, everything changed.

Life with lymphatic malformation is not consistent. There is no routine. There is no guarantee. Every day we wake up not knowing what kind of day it will be. Some days Corbin feels strong. Some days he is tired before the day even starts. Some days he can be a normal kid, running, laughing, and playing. Other days his body reminds him that it does not always cooperate.

It is hard watching your child learn at such a young age that pain can show up without warning.

It is hard watching them try to be brave.

It is hard watching them miss out on things because their body says no.

It is hard pretending you are okay when you are scared all the time.

Corbin is now nine years old and we are still battling. We have had good years and bad years. We have had seasons where things seemed calm and seasons where it felt like everything was falling apart again.

In 2023, Corbin underwent sclerotherapy to try to shrink the cysts in his leg. They used bleomycin, a medication often used in cancer treatment. Sitting there knowing your child is receiving something that strong is terrifying, but you do it because you hope it will give them relief. It was about 60 percent successful. We celebrated that small victory even though we knew the fight was not over.

And once again, new problems appeared.

Now Corbin is dealing with blood clots. Something we never expected. Something doctors are still trying to understand. Something that adds another layer of fear to an already heavy journey. More appointments. More monitoring. More waiting for answers that do not always come quickly.

Living this life means always being on alert. Always watching for swelling. Always watching his energy levels. Always asking if this is normal for him or if something is wrong. It means late nights worrying. It means advocating when you are tired. It means learning medical terms you never wanted to know. It means being strong even when you feel like you are running on empty.

But it also means seeing strength in your child that humbles you.

Corbin is strong in ways most people will never understand. He has learned resilience at an age when kids should only be worried about playing. He has learned patience. He has learned courage. And even on his hardest days, he still finds ways to smile.

We share our story because lymphatic malformation is rare, misunderstood, and often invisible to the outside world. People do not always see the pain. They do not always see the fear. They do not always see the battles being fought behind closed doors.

But they are real.

Our story is not just about a diagnosis. It is about survival. It is about love. It is about never giving up on your child. It is about standing strong even when you are scared. It is about hoping for better treatments, better answers, and better futures.

This is our life.

This is our fight.

This is Corbin’s story.