SG. After eight long years of fighting neuroblastoma, Jaxen’s battle has changed. The treatments are gone. The options are exhausted. What remains is relentless, unmanageable pain — and a mother who feels no one is truly listening.

For nearly a decade, Jaxen has lived inside hospital rooms, beneath fluorescent lights and the steady rhythm of machines designed to measure, monitor, and sustain life. Diagnosed with neuroblastoma as a young child, he has endured surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, scans, setbacks, and fragile moments of hope. His childhood has not been marked by school years or summer vacations, but by treatment cycles and recovery rooms.

For eight years, the focus was always forward: the next protocol, the next specialist, the next possibility. There was always something more to try. Another door to knock on. Another chance.

Now, that has changed.

There are no remaining curative treatments. No clinical trials waiting in the wings. No new medication promising remission. The fight that once centered on survival has shifted into something far more complex and heartbreaking — the management of relentless, unmanageable pain.

Jaxen is nonverbal. He cannot explain what he feels. He cannot describe the sharpness or dullness of it, whether it burns or throbs or radiates. He cannot rate his pain on a scale of one to ten. He cannot say, “It hurts here.” He cannot plead, “Please make it stop.”

But his mother can see it.

Redd has spent eight years learning the language of her son’s body. She recognizes the smallest change — the tightening of his muscles, the way his hands clench when a wave of pain passes through him. She hears the difference between a tired sigh and a distressed one. She knows that when his breathing becomes shallow and uneven, something is wrong.

She sees it in the restless nights when sleep refuses to come. She sees it in the silent tears that gather in his eyes without warning. She sees it in the way his body curls inward, as though trying to shield itself from something invisible.

To others, these signs may appear subtle. To her, they are unmistakable.

After nearly a decade at his side — through emergencies, ICU stays, and long stretches of cautious hope — Redd understands her son in ways no medical chart can capture. Monitors track heart rate and oxygen levels. Charts record medication doses and vital signs. But they do not record the intuition of a mother who has memorized every expression her child can make.

And yet, she feels unheard.

As Jaxen’s disease has progressed and options have dwindled, Redd says her pleas for stronger pain control and compassionate care are not being fully acknowledged. She is not asking for miracles. She is not demanding experimental treatments or impossible outcomes.

She is asking for comfort.

She is asking for dignity.

She is asking to be believed.

The transition from fighting to curing to focusing on comfort is one of the most difficult shifts any family can face. It requires a different kind of courage — not the loud, determined courage of battle, but the quiet, steady courage of advocacy. It requires speaking up again and again, even when exhaustion seeps into your bones.

For Redd, exhaustion has become a constant companion. Years of hospital vigilance have left their mark. The emotional toll of watching her child suffer without the ability to fully express his pain is immeasurable. Every day is a balancing act between staying strong for Jaxen and allowing herself to feel the heartbreak of it all.

She does not want her son’s final chapter to be defined by unmanaged suffering. She does not want his remaining time to be clouded by distress that could be eased. She wants his days — however many remain — to be filled with as much peace as possible.

Comfort care is not about giving up. It is about shifting priorities. It is about ensuring that when cure is no longer within reach, compassion takes center stage. It is about listening — truly listening — to the people who know the patient best.

In Jaxen’s case, that person is his mother.

Her voice carries eight years of experience. Eight years of bedside vigils. Eight years of learning how her son communicates without words. When she says he is in pain, it is not speculation. It is observation rooted in love and lived reality.

As Jaxen continues this painful chapter of his journey, Redd’s request is heartbreakingly simple: see him. Hear him. Believe her.

Because even when a child cannot speak, his suffering speaks volumes. And sometimes, the most powerful form of care begins not with another treatment plan, but with the willingness to listen.