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Our Families

Aiden’s Joy

In the months before Aiden’s diagnosis, something just didn’t feel right. Once a thriving and energetic toddler, he began to show signs that, at first, seemed minor—but his parents knew better. It was the end of the COVID era, and Aiden, who had rarely been ill, suddenly came down with two back-to-back upper respiratory infections. One episode landed him in the emergency room for breathing treatments. Not long after, while giving him a bath, his parents noticed several swollen lymph nodes at the back of his head. Doctors reassured them it was just a response to recent illness.

Then came Christmas Day, 2021. Aiden slipped on a piece of wrapping paper and fell. From that moment on, he started to limp. X-rays showed nothing concerning, and the limp was chalked up to a benign condition—viral toxic synovitis. But the limp didn’t go away, and soon their once-active two-and-a-half-year-old was unwilling to climb stairs on his own. Not only that, but the swollen lymph nodes had returned.

Both of Aiden’s parents are physician assistants. Their concern deepened. They sat down and wrote an email to Aiden’s pediatrician, outlining everything they had observed and requesting blood work. They were seen the next day, a Friday. The labs were drawn “just for reassurance.”

That night, a snowstorm blanketed their town. Aiden, who typically disliked the cold, insisted on helping his mom shovel. He lasted just a few minutes before going back inside. Shortly afterward, the family’s world turned upside down.

An alert came through: Aiden’s lab results were in. His parents opened them together, sitting side by side in the bedroom. White blood cells—high. Platelets—low. Red cells—low. Then came the word that stopped them in their tracks: blasts — 68%. They immediately called a close friend who worked in pediatric hematology/oncology. “Please tell me you can find blasts in something other than leukemia,” they pleaded. Her reply came through, breaking: “Please tell me it’s not Aiden.”

The next hours were a blur. Aiden was rushed to the emergency room. Tests were repeated, and though his parents already knew in their hearts what was coming, they hoped for a mistake. But by that night, their worst fears were confirmed: Aiden had leukemia.

From that moment on, life was divided into “before” and “after.”

Aiden was admitted immediately. A pediatric oncology attending met them in the smallest room they’d ever seen and said simply, “This will be a long road, and at least one of you is going to have to quit your job.” They decided Danielle would keep working full-time while her wife, Nikki, stepped back to manage care.

At the time, COVID protocols were still strict. Only one parent was allowed with Aiden at a time, with one switch per week. As a “courtesy,” they were allowed to stay together that first night. It would be weeks before they were all in the same room again. The following morning, Aiden underwent surgery for a PICC line, his first bone marrow biopsy, and a lumbar puncture. Chemotherapy and high-dose steroids began that very day.

The early weeks were devastating. Their cheerful, vivacious toddler was fading before their eyes. He could no longer walk, or even sit up. The steroids altered his appearance, and the chemo sapped his strength. When his port was finally placed and they got to go home, it felt like a small victory. But that relief was short-lived.

Just days later, they noticed something wasn’t right. The surgical site hadn’t been properly closed. Aiden developed sepsis and was readmitted for nearly another month. It was in those terrifying, sleep-deprived days that his parents learned to advocate more fiercely than ever before.

Despite the pain, the isolation, and the uncertainty, Aiden found joy. When he entered the maintenance phase of treatment, his family made a choice: they wouldn’t just survive—they would actively live, and choose joy whenever we could. That’s when they took his wish trip to Disney World, about a year after diagnosis. Aiden had adored Mickey Mouse since before he could talk, and meeting him in person was pure magic. That moment lit a spark.

From then on, they packed their days with outdoor adventures—visiting every zoo and amusement park they could find. These weren’t just fun outings. They were acts of defiance. Reclamation. A way of giving Aiden back the childhood that cancer had tried to steal.

And Aiden—Aiden was the light in all of it. He is known for saying, “This is the best day ever!” whether he’s hugging Mickey, running at the park, or feeding goats at the zoo. His joy is infectious, and his zest for life unwavering.

Aiden’s journey hasn’t been easy. There were many setbacks, but also profound gifts. One such moment came unexpectedly—in a hospital pantry at 3 a.m., during a second inpatient stay. Danielle had gone to warm up food, and returned whispering, “I think you need to go talk to the woman in the pantry.” That conversation sparked a friendship that would become a lifeline.

Their kids—both bald, both battling—were soon side by side in hospital beds with superhero capes tied to their shoulders. Together, their families weathered the storm of treatment, and from it emerged a community.

That community grew when Aiden began attending The Morgan Center, a preschool for children with cancer. There, Aiden didn’t just learn and play—he thrived. Surrounded by peers who understood his journey, he found belonging. His parents found support. They were no longer alone.

What makes Aiden unique isn’t just his diagnosis or the battle he’s fought—it’s who he is. From the moment he first smiled at five weeks old, he has radiated joy. Curious, enthusiastic, and fiercely compassionate, Aiden is the kind of child who stops mid-play to ask why the moon changes shapes or how long the biggest lizard in the world is. He adores his family, offers hugs freely, and holds hands with those he loves most. He’s deeply connected to animals—and obsessed with dinosaurs, especially the lesser-known species (which he will gladly correct you on). His beloved “stuffies” go with him everywhere, a portable piece of comfort and security.

Through all of it—procedures, pain, long hospital stays—Aiden has never lost his smile.

Recently, his parents have found joy in the milestones that once felt impossible. Watching him run with other kids. Seeing him climb the playground alone. Laughing with friends. Riding roller coasters. Starting real school. These are not small things. For a family who’s watched their child struggle to sit up, they are everything.

What surprised them most wasn’t just Aiden’s resilience, but the stark reality of how little support exists for families like theirs. The smiling commercials for pediatric cancer, with bright playrooms and full support teams, didn’t reflect their lived experience. What they got was a folder of flyers, revolving-door social workers, and an overwhelming sense that it was up to them to figure it all out. The emotional toll, the trauma, the life after treatment—none of it was discussed.

But in the spaces left empty by the system, they found something even more powerful: each other. Their community. The families they met in hospitals, preschools, and retreats.

One such retreat was hosted by Rett’s Roost. There, they found the space to breathe. To process. To heal—not just as caregivers, but as people. Surrounded by others who truly understood, they felt seen. The retreat gave them something they’d been missing: permission to reflect, to feel, and to begin again.

Today, Aiden continues to move forward. His light is unshakable, his spirit a constant reminder that even in the darkest chapters, joy can be found. His story is one of resilience, but also of connection—how, in the midst of fear and pain, love and community can shine the brightest.

Mighty Joey

“Her bloodwork is consistent with Leukemia” the six words that changed our lives forever.

In November 2020, in the middle of the covid pandemic, I brought my generally just not feeling well 6-year-old Joey to her pediatrician’s office. As my third child, I assumed maybe it was strep throat, and we would be on our way with some pink medicine and orders to hydrate and rest. We sat in the exam room when a doctor that was not our usual doctor came in, took one look at Joey and asked me “how long as she been like this?” And without waiting for my response she said, “we need you to get bloodwork done today, just to be safe…if it’s bad news you will hear from us in the morning.” Frustrated that I was going to have to go back into the waiting room, with an exhausted and cranky child, I begrudgingly agreed. We sat in the waiting room for nearly two hours (one of us waiting far more patiently than the other) and then we were called in where an incredibly patient phlebotomist worked exceptionally hard to get 7 vials of blood from an extremely anemic and dehydrated child.

We went home, not thinking much of it all, except that I didn’t have the antibiotics I expected her to get and all of this certainly meant we would be spending a quiet Thanksgiving at home with just the four of us. Joey had a great night sleep, and we were getting ready to tackle the day before Thanksgiving holiday food prep when my phone rang. Her pediatrician was on the other end of the phone, and he calmly told me there was something off with her bloodwork. She had been diagnosed with Lyme’s Disease that summer, so he explained he had a comparison from her bloodwork then and we needed to head to our local children’s hospital “just to be safe.”

Still assuming there was nothing exceptional wrong we took our time packing up a few things like cell phone chargers, her blanket and we stopped to get a donut on our way in the Emergency Department at our local children’s hospital. I walked to the check in desk, gave them her name and we were immediately brought back to a room. A nurse and the attending came in immediately and said they needed to draw blood again to repeat the tests that had already been done and we would go from there. We waited for almost five hours in that cold and sterile room. Joey had finally fallen asleep when the nurse came in an apologized for the wait, telling me that they were just waiting for infectious disease and oncology to both review her blood tests. Truth be told, even then, I didn’t have any idea what was going to happen. I texted a friend who said “I’ve never wanted it to be an infectious disease more in my life.”

Another hour or so went by and then a very quiet and awkward med student, along with a small army of other people, entered our tiny ED room. I stood up to greet them and before I could say anything she took my hand and said “her bloodwork is consistent with Leukemia.” Six words that haunt me to this day. As a first-time parent, over a decade before, every fever, upset stomach or off day made me worry–I had struggled with postpartum anxiety immensely with my first child and truly worried that every issue was catastrophic (I think many first-time parents can probably relate). But she was my third kid, she ate chicken nuggets off the floor for dinner some days and had been generally healthy her entire life. I asked her to repeat herself so many times and still couldn’t remember the diagnosis so I asked her to write it down–B-Cell ALL. She explained to me it was the “best” pediatric cancer to get, which I’ve got to tell you was little consolation in that moment, but is a fact I have learned to be so very true.

Joey was immediately brought up to the PICU where she received blood transfusions off and on for the next 24 hours. They had to stabilize her before we could even begin to talk about surgery to put in her port and a spinal tap to obtain enough spinal fluid to test for the specific genetic characteristics of her blood cancer. We were told that this would be our new normal for at least two years. Daily chemotherapy for over 24 months, chemotherapy in her port and frequent sedations and lumbar punctures where they would inject chemo directly into her spinal fluid. Limited social interactions, no school for the first 9 months. She learned the names of her chemotherapy meds instead of 1st grade science, and walked the halls of the oncology floor of our children’s hospital instead of her elementary school. Life was at a standstill, with no normalcy for my sassy little girl. Not able to see friends, play at playgrounds, or bring any small amount of joy or normalcy to her days that were filled with treatments.

Joey stopped eating about 4 months into treatment. She was almost 7-years-old and was down to 37 pounds. She became unable to take her oral chemotherapy and because I had mixed all of her favorite foods with her medications, she completely stopped eating. I made the difficult decision to schedule her for surgery to have a feeding tube inserted. Unfortunately, there were some very rare complications with her feeding tube surgery and the lining of her stomach ruptured resulting in another emergency surgery in which I nearly lost her. If you think the words “your child has cancer” are the worst words a parent can hear I can promise you that the words “there is nothing more we can do, we just have to wait and see” hit far harder.

Fortunately for all of us, Joey has been a fighter since the day she was born, and she miraculously made it through her second surgery with very few complications. She restarted her chemotherapy treatment, and in February 2023 she finished 800 days of treatment. 2+ years of chemotherapy for a child that wasn’t even 9-years-old.

Going through pediatric cancer, in the middle of a global pandemic, was a level of isolating I never could have imagine us experiencing. When we were invited to spend a week with other pediatric cancer families at a retreat in Maine I was reluctant to accept. Being a single-mom to three kids (now 16, 13 and 11) sometimes makes these sort of events difficult for us all. However, our Rett’s Roost family retreat in Maine was the first time our family got to sit with other families that were just like us. As a single-mom, pediatric cancer family events are often hard, because I’m often the only single-parent in the room making it difficult for me to connect with other families. There is a unique struggle that comes from being the only parent to make medical decisions, raise the healthy children, and take care of the financial toll it all takes. On this retreat, though, there were 4 other families that tackled pediatric cancer with only one primary parent. I found people that understand our journey better than I had ever before. The kids laughed, swam and connected with other kids in a safe space where they could be themselves. And while they were doing that I got to connect with other parents, didn’t have to worry about making a single meal, and got to take care of myself for the first time in years. Fast forward to May 2025 and Rett’s Roost again gave Joey a magical Maine adventure for her 11th birthday. She got to make a designer purse, stay in an amazing hotel, and wander beautiful Ogunquit Maine feeling pampered and loved. I am forever grateful someone suggested I look into Rett’s Roost, they have met our family exactly where we are at providing love and support in just the ways we need it-which is a gift you cannot manufacture.

The Hanson Family

Isabella Hanson–sweet little Izzy–was born on November 23rd, 2018. Her mom and dad, Laura and Josh, and her big sister, Nia, were simply in love. Life was good and simple at the start. Nia, a talented dancer, had several classes a week. As a toddler, Izzy would watch her big sister in awe. One day, in March of 2022, three-year-old Izzy tripped and fell at one of Nia’s rehearsals. She bellowed in pain, and refused to walk for over a week. The doctors thought maybe she had dislocated her knee, or strained her ACL, and they set her up with physical therapy.

Izzy did start walking again a week after the accident, but suddenly one night, she woke up screaming in pain. Her parents were concerned and decided to take her to an orthopedist. Since nothing showed up in the x-ray, they gave her a boot and asked to see her again in a week. The condition persisted and she would consistently lose function in her leg, fall, limp, and refuse to climb stairs. Her parents knew something was wrong, but no one seemed to know what it could be.

That’s when the low-grade fevers started. Izzy looked and acted unwell–she was pale and more lethargic than other three year olds. Every once in a while she’d wake up in the middle of the night in pain. More doctors appointments turned up nothing. Their primary care doctor took more x-rays and sent them to Boston Children’s Hospital (BCH). They attempted to get an appointment with a children’s arthritis specialist, but they were booked out for 6 months. Instead, an orthopedic appointment opened up at BCH and they took it. This doctor agreed that her condition was unusual, and concerning. He suggested it might be related to her kneecaps and ordered an MRI, but it was only a guess, and it would prove to be wrong, very wrong.

Through this time, Izzy was having blood drawn, but the results were always normal. Then her shoulder started hurting. Her fevers continued to spike. After another difficult weekend with no answers, they brought Izzy back to BCH. The doctor there admitted, “She’s sick. And I’m sorry it’s taken 8 weeks to believe you. She may have a malignancy.” Once again her bloodwork came back normal, but they scheduled an MRI for that Friday.

At this point, Izzy’s parents felt defeated. Laura was thinking, this MRI will be pointless. Was it worth putting her through it? She needed a sign to know that they were going to figure out what was wrong with her precious child. The summer before, Josh’s brother got married. His wife’s father had recently passed away from cancer. One day, this man, who Laura did not know especially well, appeared to her in a vision. He told her to get the MRI done. While this seemed unusual, Laura listened.

And thank goodness they did. The MRI showed that Izzy had lesions in her leg, which they thought might be Osteomyelitis, a serious bacterial infection of the bone. They were sent to the ER where a doctor said, “You guys are fighting so hard to get her help. I promise to help you figure this out.” When the Leukemia sensitivity blood test came back negative again, the oncologist Laura spoke with told her, “I’m 90% sure this is not cancer. You can take her home and we’ll continue to monitor over the next couple weeks.” Laura and Josh were frustrated beyond belief! “She’s not ok, we can’t wait a couple weeks. No one will take care of her. We can’t control her pain anymore.”

That’s when the ED doctor stepped in. He pulled strings to get oncology to admit Izzy, despite the oncologist’s recommendation. They were admitted on a Monday and they ran a bone marrow test on Tuesday. Late afternoon a team of doctors came in, sat them down, and told them it was leukemia. By this point Izzy was so sick even though her lab work looked fine. But because of an insurance error, they wouldn’t start treatment right away. NH Medicaid was denying the claim to treat Izzy in Boston. The doctors, worried about the potential medical bills, suggested they fly Izzy to Dartmouth. But Dartmouth does not offer the aggressive treatment protocol that Izzy needed.

Josh and Laura were completely infuriated, “She will die! No, we are starting treatment here today.”

The first phase of Izzy’s leukemia treatment was comprised of 32 inpatient treatments with heavy doses of chemotherapy, constant lumbar punctures, and steroids, with the goal to try to get her in remission (ie., no leukemia cells in her bone marrow), which she did after about one month. By August, she had started to walk on her own again. Still, the family had to spend a total of 4-6 months in the hospital over the course of a year. And they received difficult news that Izzy has a genetic deletion, which puts her in a high risk category and required even more chemotherapy.

Izzy got very sick during these treatments and spent a week in the ICU with a dangerous blood infection in her pic line. She got another infection from a splinter in her foot that caused cellulitis to travel up her leg and affected her ability to walk again. When she was so sick, she lost all of her silly personality, and slept for much of the day. The only thing that would cheer her up was Facetiming and visits with her big sister Nia, and watching the movie, Luca.

In the spring of 2023, Josh and Laura gave birth to another little girl, Ayla. They were able to schedule an induction because of a condition with Laura’s liver. But they kept pushing it off so that it could happen while Izzy was home from the hospital, and when Laura’s mom could watch her and Nia. They even rushed to take some pregnancy photos and hit up Target before heading to the local birthing center to be induced. The new baby was a positive shift for Izzy because Ayla was always in the hospital with them, and Izzy loved her new little sister very much.

Big sister Nia had to bear the brunt of her sister’s treatment by being strong without her mom around like she always had been. Nia was only 10 years old when Izzy was diagnosed. And she didn’t fully understand what was happening or why she was asked to stay with her grandmother and continue going to school while her sister was sick in the hospital. But Nia stayed positive and kept reassuring Laura and Josh that Izzy would be ok. She even bought her mom a little sign that reminded her to “Pray, Trust, and Wait.”

Izzy finished frontline treatment in June of 2023, at which point she started the second phase of treatment called Maintenance, which still requires weekly visits to the Jimmy Fund Clinic, but fewer overnight stays. She will be finishing up this second phase of treatment in April of 2024.

Thankfully, Izzy remains in remission and her family hopes that this nightmare is nearly over. It was so hard to reach Izzy’s diagnosis. Laura wants to remind parents that kids present cancer signs differently. If you have an intuition that something is wrong with your child, despite what the bloodwork and doctors say, you need to advocate for them and fight for more testing.

Izzy is a little warrior with a will to thrive. She loves her family and two dogs, Maverick and Harley, more than anything in the world. In the hospital she enjoyed coloring with her dad, taking wagon rides to Starbucks, and visiting the big fish tank at Boston Children’s. She loves to play with slime and pretend to be a vet. This winter they got to go to Florida for a week. All three girls were running and playing and were just so happy. Josh and Laura started crying because there was a moment during Izzy’s treatment when they didn’t think they’d ever see that again… “We felt overwhelmed with gratitude for the gift of that moment.”

The Hansons were also grateful for the family, friends, doctors, nurses, and organizations that have supported them during this time. Friends organized a motorcycle fundraiser called Dougy’s Ride to raise funds for their family. Make a Wish NH has also been there for them and are waiting for Izzy to choose her wish. Cops for Kids with Cancer supported the family through the Somersworth Police Department.

The family also attended a Rett’s Roost retreat in July of 2023. Unfortunately, Izzy wasn’t feeling great that week because it took place immediately after one of her chemotherapy infusions. But the retreat was transformational for Nia. She was able to connect with other siblings that had been through a similar experience. Laura told us it meant so much to her and her daughters, “Rett’s Roost is a full circle of support. We were able to meet people and connect–that is everything.”