It was well past midnight when the thought of Jaxen surfaced—quietly at first, then with a gravity that refused to be ignored. The house was still, the kind of deep silence that usually signals the end of a long day. But rest felt impossible. As sleep hovered just out of reach, the image of a ten-year-old boy in Pinson, Alabama pressed itself into my chest, heavy and unmistakable.
I realized I hadn’t checked in for days. It was late—too late by any reasonable standard—but something urged me to reach out anyway. I picked up my phone and sent a message to his mother, Randa McCall, hoping I wasn’t disturbing the precious rest she so rarely gets.
What came back was not a simple update. It was a moment suspended in pain.
Jaxen is ten years old. He is autistic and non-verbal. And he is fighting adrenal gland cancer with a quiet strength that feels almost unbearable to witness. His journey has been long and unforgiving—marked by endless hospital visits, treatment cycles that blur together, and days when simply getting to an appointment becomes a battle of its own.
Not because of a lack of love or effort. But because life, in all its unpredictability, has not been gentle with this family.
Their car is broken down. They live in public housing. Every step forward seems to require twice the strength it should. Logistics become obstacles. Basic needs turn into negotiations. And through it all, cancer does not pause.
When Randa replied, the night grew heavier. She told me she was sitting in a chair at Children’s of Alabama, watching her son endure pain so intense that he cried and moaned whenever he was awake.
Jaxen cannot explain what hurts.
He cannot ask questions. He cannot be reassured with words. He cannot tell his mother where the pain lives or how sharp it feels. All he can do is react to the agony moving through his small body. And all Randa can do is stay—helpless and present—loving him through something she cannot take away.
Eventually, doctors had to sedate him just so he could rest.
That sentence alone carries a devastating weight. Sleep—the most basic form of relief—had to be medically induced because pain would not allow it naturally. As morning approached, Jaxen remained in the hospital, his body still locked in a fight it never agreed to wage.
Randa explained that the tumors are physically pushing outward on Jaxen’s body. From his eyes, to his head, to his groin, the cancer is visible. This is not an illness hiding quietly behind scans or lab results. It is a cruel, physical presence—reshaping a child’s body and breaking the hearts of everyone who loves him.
Seeing him like this, Randa said, is killing her and his siblings.
There is no metaphor required for that kind of pain. It speaks for itself.
Pain was the first thing to arrive in Jaxen’s story, and it has never truly left. It lives in his body and in his home—in the spaces where childhood should be carefree and safe. It shows up in the way his mother types messages through exhaustion, apologizing for bad news as if suffering is something she should soften for others. Pain has become familiar—unwelcome, relentless, and constant.
Fear followed closely behind.
Fear of what comes next.
Fear of the night.
Fear of waking up to worse news.
Fear of watching your child suffer with no power to stop it.
Fear settles into a parent’s bones and makes even breathing feel like work. For Randa, fear has become something she carries alongside everything else, never fully setting it down.
Setbacks have been relentless. Missed appointments when transportation fails. Hospital stays that stretch far longer than expected. Pain that escalates instead of easing. Each setback feels like a reminder that this fight does not follow rules or timelines. Progress is not guaranteed. Relief is not promised. Every small gain is hard-won, and every loss cuts deeply.
And yet—endurance is everywhere in this story.
It lives in Randa’s voice, tired but steady. It lives in her decision to keep going even when exhaustion has hollowed her out. “I am totally exhausted,” she told me. There was no drama in the words—only truth.
She apologized for not having a better update. For not being able to offer hope wrapped neatly in good news. She said she wished she could.
That kind of honesty takes strength.
Endurance also lives in Jaxen himself. In the way he continues to fight even when his body is overwhelmed. In the way he shows up to each day without understanding why it hurts so much. Without being able to ask for relief. Without knowing how many people are praying for him.
His fight is quiet. But it is fierce.
Randa believes in prayer. She says they need a lot of it.
Those words did not sound rehearsed or performative. They sounded like someone reaching for the only thing left that feels bigger than the pain. Prayer, for her, is not a ritual. It is survival.
I don’t know why Jaxen came to my mind that night. There was no alert. No update. No logical reason I could explain. But I’m grateful I listened to that quiet pull. I’m grateful I reached out to Randa on a night that turned out to be far heavier than anyone could have anticipated.
Sometimes presence is the only gift we can offer. And sometimes it arrives at exactly the moment it’s needed.
Hope in this story does not look loud or triumphant. It does not arrive with certainty or easy answers. It looks fragile—and stubborn. It looks like a mother who, despite exhaustion and heartbreak, still believes prayer matters. It looks like people choosing to care, even when the situation feels unbearably unfair.
It looks like light finding its way into the darkest hours—not to erase the pain, but to remind us that pain is not the only thing that exists.
As night finally gave way to morning, Jaxen was still fighting. His family was still gathered around him, holding onto one another in the ways only families facing unimaginable hardship can.
This is not a story with clean endings or comforting conclusions.
It is a story of suffering. Of fear. Of setbacks that test the limits of love.
But it is also a story of endurance and hope. Of a child who continues to fight. Of a mother who refuses to stop believing.
May our prayers bring comfort to Jaxen and his family. May they feel surrounded, supported, and held when the weight feels too heavy to carry alone. And may hope—however small it feels tonight—continue to rise where pain has tried so hard to take everything else away.