The Race Against the Clock: A Midnight Battle for Fitz’s Future
In the quiet, hum-filled halls of the pediatric oncology ward, time is usually measured by the slow drip of an IV bag or the shift changes of dedicated nurses. But tonight, for Fitz and his family, time has become a visceral, racing pulse. We are no longer counting days or even hours; we are counting minutes. Tonight is not for sleeping. Tonight is for fighting.
The latest update from the front lines of Fitz’s battle with liver cancer is one of heavy hearts, urgent maneuvers, and a profound, tearful realization of the stakes involved. This is the story of a “quarterback” doctor, a notorious medication nicknamed after the devil itself, and a race to a transplant list that represents Fitz’s only bridge to a future.
The Human Side of Medicine: A Doctor’s Tears
We often think of specialists as stoic figures of science—shields of objective data and clinical distance. But today, the mask slipped, revealing the raw humanity of the team fighting for our boy. We met with the lead oncologist, the woman “quarterbacking” the massive team of specialists surrounding Fitz. As she spoke to us, the weight of his case broke through her professional exterior. She broke down crying.
In those tears, we saw the truth of the situation. She wasn’t just a doctor reading a chart; she was a warrior who had grown to love her soldier. Through her tears, she gave us her word: she is working as hard and as fast as humanly possible to save his life. To see that level of emotional investment from the person leading the charge is both terrifying and deeply comforting. It confirms the urgency, yes, but it also confirms that Fitz is being fought for with every ounce of heart this hospital has to offer.
The Enemy: A Tumor That Won’t Wait
The urgency stems from a brutal reality: the tumor is growing with a terrifying speed. In the complex world of pediatric organ transplants, there is a very strict “window of eligibility.” To receive a new liver, the cancer must be contained within the organ itself. If the tumor spreads—if it hitches a ride on the bloodstream or the lymphatic system to a location outside the liver—Fitz will become ineligible for a transplant.
The rules are rigid because donor organs are precious, but for a family watching their child, those rules feel like a ticking time bomb. We are currently in a dead heat with the cancer. If we don’t stop the growth now, the exit ramp to a cure might close forever. We are at a crossroads where hope meets a hard, clinical deadline. We have to stop it. Now.
Entering the Ring with the “Red Devil”
To combat this aggressive growth, the medical team has reached for the most potent weapon in their arsenal. In just a few hours, Fitz will begin the most aggressive chemotherapy schedule they can possibly administer. This regimen includes Doxorubicin, known in the cancer community by its chilling nickname: “The Red Devil.”
It earned its name from its bright red color and its notoriously harsh side effects, but it is also one of the most effective tools available to stall rapid tumor progression. Starting tonight, Fitz’s body will become a battlefield. This isn’t a slow introduction; this is an all-out offensive. Because we cannot afford to wait an extra minute, the team is setting everything up to begin the infusion overnight. While the rest of the world sleeps, Fitz will be undergoing the digital equivalent of a firestorm to keep that tumor at bay.
The Transplant Strategy: Tearing Up the Rulebook
In a “perfect world”—a world where time was on our side—the protocol would be three full rounds of chemotherapy to shrink the tumor before even considering the transplant. But we do not live in a perfect world. Fitz’s situation has been classified as so urgent that the standard playbook is being rewritten.
He is being added to the transplant list immediately. The new strategy is simple and desperate: the moment a matching donor liver becomes available, Fitz goes into surgery. We aren’t waiting for the chemo to finish. We are seeking the organ first and will finish the remaining rounds of chemotherapy after the transplant is complete. It is a high-stakes pivot, but it is the only way to ensure he gets the liver he needs before the window of eligibility slams shut.
The Physical Toll: The Battle for Nutrition
Beyond the cellular war, there is the visible struggle of Fitz’s physical body. The stress and the illness have taken a massive toll on his appetite. He hasn’t been able to eat, and he is losing weight at a rate that has the doctors deeply concerned.
A body needs fuel to survive chemotherapy, especially a regimen as punishing as the one he is starting tonight. We have begun the difficult conversations about nutrition intervention—feeding tubes and other options to bypass his lack of appetite. We aren’t quite at that point yet, but we are standing on the threshold, ready to do whatever it takes to keep his strength up for the fight.
Holding the Light: A Call for Prayer
Through all of this—the weight loss, the tears of his doctors, the looming “Red Devil”—Fitz remains our energetic, positive boy. We are holding onto a fierce hope that his internal light, that spark that defines who he is, remains undimmed by the darkness of the treatment.
We are asking for your prayers tonight. As the clock ticks toward midnight and the red fluids begin to flow into his system, please keep him in your thoughts. Pray for the doctors’ hands, pray for the strength of his heart, and pray for a donor match to appear with miraculous speed.
We feel every message, every “Go Fitz Go,” and every silent prayer sent our way. They are the tether keeping us grounded while the storm rages. We are not waiting. We are not wavering. The race is on, and with your support, we believe Fitz can win it.
Go Fitz Go.
