“‘I’m sorry, but Cheyenne has cancer.’
Our second daughter, Cheyenne, was born on July 17th, 2016. She weighed 7 pounds 7 ounces and, according to both us and the doctors, was perfectly healthy. But just a few weeks after her birth, I noticed something unusual—her stomach seemed very bloated, especially on one side. I asked family members and a few nurse friends to take a look, but no one seemed concerned. They all thought it was simple baby bloating.
When it came time for Cheyenne’s two-month shots, I pointed out her stomach to the pediatrician after the vaccinations. ‘Her stomach doesn’t feel right. It feels too bloated,’ I explained.
The pediatrician examined her carefully. ‘Hmm… it does feel hard,’ she said. ‘I want you to go straight to the local hospital for scans.’
Fear started to creep in. I called my husband, Cody, at work, and he left immediately to meet me at the hospital. Cheyenne had her scans done, and later we returned to the pediatrician’s office for the results. By then, many of our family members had gathered in the waiting room. The pediatrician called us into a small room.
‘There is a mass in Cheyenne’s stomach,’ she said. ‘I’m ordering you straight to the Children’s Hospital in Birmingham, Alabama.’
The hospital was two and a half hours away. I felt dizzy and unsteady. ‘Please, sit down,’ the pediatrician said, pointing to a chair. ‘Take a moment to compose yourself.’
When we faced our family outside, I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t know how to explain this to our seven-year-old daughter, Cambryn. Finally, we told her, ‘Don’t worry, we’re just going to get Cheyenne checked out.’
The next morning felt unbearable. On the drive to Birmingham, Cody said quietly, ‘Tiffany, I googled “mass in a 2-month-old stomach” and Neuroblastoma came up.’ I instantly snapped, ‘CODY! Why would you even say that? She’s going to be fine. Maybe it’s something benign—something not serious.’
At the hospital, Cheyenne had blood and urine drawn for quick results. My mind refused to accept that we were in the cancer clinic. I kept convincing myself everything would be perfect. Then, one of the oncologists called us into a room. She asked us a series of questions about our health history. Then, in a moment that stopped me cold, she asked, ‘Have you or anyone in your families had cancer before?’
I looked at Cody, and he looked at me. In that instant, we both knew what she was about to say. Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke.
‘I’m so sorry, but Cheyenne has cancer.’
Cody broke down completely, and I couldn’t hold back my own tears either. But as the shock settled, my mind raced with questions. ‘What do we do now? What are the next steps? Did I do something wrong? She’s just a baby—what kind of cancer is this? Are you sure it’s not benign?’
The oncologist gently explained, ‘Cheyenne is not a low-risk patient. We can’t remove this tumor right away. She needs to be admitted today.’
Cheyenne was admitted that same day, and Cody and I were allowed to stay with her. I had to hand over our older daughter to family members. ‘Please help with school, homework, and just take care of her for us,’ I pleaded.
Cheyenne’s doctors scheduled surgery for a biopsy to confirm the type of cancer, a bone marrow scraping, and insertion of a central line port. The results confirmed Neuroblastoma. She was classified as intermediate risk and needed to start chemotherapy immediately. After surgery, I thought we’d be able to hold Cheyenne, but she had to remain in the baby bed with a feeding tube for several days. That’s when I truly broke down. I thought, ‘Why, God? Why my baby? I haven’t even had the chance to know her fully, and now she’s facing this.’
Cody and one of my nurse friends, Casey Rae, helped me through the grief. ‘Get in the baby bed beside her. Curl up with your baby girl,’ Casey Rae urged. When I did, both Cheyenne and I calmed. We needed each other more than ever.
Cheyenne endured two rounds of chemotherapy, two blood transfusions, and lost all her beautiful dark brown hair. For three months, she and I didn’t leave the house. We prepared for a third round of chemo, with doctors expecting minimal change. But then something miraculous happened—after a prayer session at church, Cheyenne’s tumor shrank by 82%. I witnessed the power of faith and the work of God that day.
Today, Cheyenne is three years old. She’s in daycare, thinks she’s a cheerleader, and fills every room with joy. She’s not considered cancer-free yet, but we know that day will come.
Cheyenne’s journey has taught us to cherish every small moment, to live life fully, and to hold our loved ones close. She is our little miracle, our ray of sunshine, and an inspiration to everyone who meets her.”
