Nothing Was Wrong

As we walked into the small, dimly lit hospital room, I surprised him. We all surprised him.

When we stepped in, there he was just waking up, stretching his little arms after a rough nap. The soft beeping of the monitors and the faint smell of antiseptic filled the air. Despite the sterile setting, there was something warm about the room—maybe it was because of Johnny himself.

He loves walks. So I decided to take him for a stroll down the hallway—just to help him escape the four walls he now lived in. My little cousin is the type of child who makes anyone’s day brighter. Sweet, warm-hearted, and full of love. He doesn’t know any evil in the world. He barely even knows what “sick” truly means. He just knows that some days hurt, and some days don’t.

The nurses smiled as we passed them in the hallway. They knew him well—his laugh, his curiosity, the way he always tried to play with the wheels on the IV pole like it was a toy. It was heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. He waved at strangers like he was the mayor of the hospital.

Later that evening, we went back to his room. I had brought my tablet with me, and I decided to show it to him. His eyes lit up as though I had handed him a treasure chest full of gold and toys.

He raised his little hands and asked excitedly,

“Can I play it?”

“Of course you can.” I said, smiling.

“Thank you, Ashley!” he beamed, with a joy so pure it could melt anyone’s heart.

Watching him play was like watching a regular child on a regular day—not a kid stuck in a hospital, not a child battling an illness. For a while, it felt normal. He tapped through games with enthusiasm and even tried to teach me how to play, even though he was only two.

A few hours before we had to leave, he asked to watch his favorite movie, Muppets Most Wanted. We all gathered around his hospital bed—my mom, his mom, his older sister. We turned off the lights and let the screen glow fill the space. Lying beside him, hearing his giggles and seeing the sparkle in his eyes—it was one of the most joyful moments I’ve ever had.

When a funny part came on, his laughter echoed like music in the room. It wasn’t just a giggle—it was a full-on, belly laugh. Everyone smiled, just soaking it in. For a moment, it felt like nothing was wrong.

Like nothing was wrong…

But something was wrong.

The bed he lay on wasn’t a normal kid’s bed. It was a hospital bed—metal rails, adjustable angles, and sterile sheets. The room wasn’t a bedroom with toys and books. It was full of machines and charts.

Yes, my 2-year-old cousin, was in the hospital.

Trapped.

And honestly? You don’t even need to know the reason.

A 2-year-old child should never have to be in a hospital.

But I guess fate had a different plan for him.

The little moments that we—or I—have with him mean everything. Not just because of where he is, but because those moments bring out his smile. That smile is powerful. It erases the tubes, the tests, the tension. It makes you believe that maybe—just maybe—everything will be okay.

He isn’t a sad child. He’s not someone who pouts or complains. Despite everything he’s been through, he’s energetic and positive. He finds joy in things most of us overlook—colors, music, buttons, bubbles. He’s strong in ways adults can only hope to be. And he’s happy. Genuinely, truly happy.

After I told my mom everything that happened that day—every laugh, every smile—she looked at me, hugged me tight, and said, “He’ll be fine. At least, we all hope he will.”

A few days later, we got unexpected news—hopeful news. His older sister, who was only seven at the time, was tested and turned out to be a perfect match for a bone marrow transplant. Everyone in the family burst into tears when we found out. It was like the first light at the end of a long tunnel.

My mom explained to me what a bone marrow transplant was and how it could help Johnny’s body fight off the illness—how it could possibly save his life. I nodded as she talked, trying to take it all in. I didn’t understand every word, but I understood the feeling. This could be his chance. His real chance.

His mother promised to keep us updated. The transplant wouldn’t happen right away. The doctors had to prepare him, run tests, make sure everything was ready. There was still risk, of course. But for the first time, we all had something new to hold onto—hope.

Then the day came. He had the transplant. We waited, prayed, and hoped like never before.

After what felt like forever, the doctors came in with the news…

He was cancer-free.

I can still remember the exact moment those words were spoken. My aunt collapsed into a chair crying. My mother covered her mouth in disbelief. His sister didn’t fully understand what was happening, but she smiled when she saw everyone else smiling. There were tears, hugs, and so many emotions in that room. The nurses cried too. They had watched this boy fight day after day.

The doctor said he and his sister would both be able to go home in a week, just to recover from the procedure. After that, he could start living life like a regular child—no more machines, no more isolation, no more limits. We made a list of all the places he wanted to go—the zoo, the park, a bounce house, even just to the beach to feel sand for the first time. We did it all.

He was freer, lighter, and somehow even happier than before. His laughter didn’t just fill a room—it filled our hearts. Everyone felt like nothing was wrong.

And there wasn’t.

Nothing was wrong…

Except the fact that…

That didn’t happen. The cancer never left.