I want to start by saying: there are no easy words for what we are living through. I woke up this morning fully believing that today would be like so many others: busy, perhaps a little stressful, but fundamentally just ordinary. Our baby, Charlotte, was scheduled for an eye-appointment. A crossed eye. Something we’d been watching, waiting for this check-up. I took her, along with my two older daughters, to see the ophthalmologist—anticipation, nervousness, hope, but not dread.
When we got to the doctor’s office, everything seemed routine. The doctor examined Charlotte’s eyes, noted something unusual behind one eye, then decided we needed to go to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City. A half-hour drive. My husband, Stuart, left work early to join us. I held Charlotte close—she is only six months old—while the ultrasound began. I turned away; I couldn’t bear to watch, even though part of me wanted to see everything.
Then Stuart, looking at the ultrasound screen, whispered: “Whoa. That’s big.” My heart dropped. Because “big” was not the word I ever wanted to hear in this setting. Not with my baby’s eyes on the screen.
The diagnosis came: a tumor behind her left eye, and growing into part of her right eye. A disease called retinoblastoma. It explains why she could not straighten her eyes. But more than that, it upends everything: what we thought this check-up was for, what the rest of the week would hold, what we planned for her babyhood.
Shock. Fear. A flood of questions. What is the exact size? Has it spread? What will treatment look like? What kind of life awaits her—and us? The doctors spoke of needing an MRI to map the full extent. They talked treatment: chemotherapy, surgery, possibly more. They told us that the specialists we need are based in Phoenix, and that we will need to travel, act quickly, begin the treatment plan there.
I still don’t know how to do that. I don’t fully understand or accept it. I’m trying to hold it all together for Charlotte, for Stuart, for our girls. Because they need me; the world needs me. But inside, I’m racing through every scenario: what if it’s worse than we fear? What if it lingers? What if we can’t get to the right care fast enough? And what if, despite everything, she emerges growing, loving, laughing, thriving?
In all this, the thing I hold on to most is this: hope. That there are people who pray. Who believe in miracles. Who do not turn away when things feel too heavy. If you are reading this, I’m asking you—not because I believe a post will change the diagnosis, but because I believe shared strength helps. Shared love helps. Please carry Charlotte, carry us, in your prayers. Stand with us in this suddenness. Because in this moment, more than anything, we need each other.