“Sixteen Months of Courage. A Lifetime of Love.”.ly2047

Amy burst into the world like a spark someone forgot to contain — all wild red curls, glittery ballet slippers, and a laugh that felt like sunshine. She was the kind of child people remembered, even after a single meeting. Her energy filled rooms, her questions filled car rides, and her imagination filled every quiet moment with magic.

She loved ballet and mud puddles with equal passion. She danced in the living room wearing her favourite pink tutu, then marched outside to look for worms after the rain. She could bait her own fishing hook, beat her dad at card games, and charm store cashiers simply by handing them stickers “just because.”

Amy was seven — curious, mischievous, radiant.

But shortly after her seventh birthday, something subtle began to shift.

At first, it looked like clumsiness: she tripped more often, sometimes losing her balance.

Then her smile seemed uneven — one corner just a little slower to rise.
Then came a slight slur in her speech.

Her parents noticed.

Her teachers noticed.

But no one wanted to imagine what it might mean.

---

Doctors ran test after test.
Scans.
Measurements.
Neurological exams.

And then the room shifted — the way rooms do when devastating news is about to fall.

Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma.

DIPG.

Three letters that steal childhoods.
A tumour deep inside the brainstem.
Inoperable.
Untreatable.
Always fatal.

There is no cure.
There is only… time.

And suddenly, the world became smaller — hospital rooms, hallways, waiting rooms, medical jargon. Her parents sat holding hands, terrified of breaking apart.

Amy, though, did not understand the full weight of the diagnosis.
And so she continued to be herself — a burst of joy in a place filled with fear.

---

Radiation helped, at first.

For a brief season, the tumour shrank, giving her stolen moments of normal childhood.

She twirled again.
She laughed again.
She made bracelets for nurses and painted pictures to hang on the doors of other children’s rooms.

Her hospital room became the brightest one in the ward:
paper chains draped from the ceiling,
markers scattered everywhere,
music playing from a tiny speaker,
and Amy — always Amy — in the middle of it all, creating something for someone else.

“You need a card,” she’d say to the child beside her.
“You look like you’re having a sad day.”

She crafted love from construction paper and glitter glue.

Her parents watched her and wondered how a child so small could carry so much strength.

---

But DIPG is relentless.

The tumour returned — larger this time, more aggressive.
Her balance worsened.
Her speech softened.
Her smile slipped away, not because she didn’t want to smile, but because her body could no longer obey her heart’s commands.

And yet — she kept giving.

When she grew too weak to walk, she sat in her bed and made art.
When she struggled to talk, she whispered her love in the smallest breaths.

When she could no longer hold markers, she asked someone else to help her finish a card.

Amy endured every stage with a fierce quietness — a bravery far beyond her years.

Sixteen months after her diagnosis, surrounded by love, she slipped away.

The world dimmed.
Her parents broke.
Her community grieved.
The hospital staff cried openly in hallways.

A bright, fiery light had gone out.

Or so everyone thought.

---

In the months that followed, as her parents began the painful process of sorting through her bedroom, her books, and her cherished belongings, something unexpected happened.

Inside a drawer — a small folded note.
Inside a book — another.
Behind a pillow — another.
Tucked into a jewellery box — another.

Amy had left messages.
Tiny handwritten notes.

Little hearts.
Short sentences, often misspelled, always heartfelt.

“I love you, Mommy.”
“Daddy, don’t cry.”
“You’re the best family.”
“Look for rainbows.”
“Be happy.”
“Jesus loves you.”
“I’m okay.”

Some were scribbled on scrap paper.

Some were written on construction paper cut into shapes.
Some were drawings rather than words — stick figures holding hands, hearts with wings, stars.

Each note appeared at the moment they needed it most — when grief was raw, when missing her felt unbearable, when the silence in the house felt too loud.

Her love kept resurfacing, whispering into the cracks of their grief.

Amy had prepared her family the only way a child knows how:
with innocence, with hope, with love tucked into corners like hidden treasure.

Her parents found dozens of notes over the following months — some hidden so well it felt as though she had placed them there specifically for their worst days.

She had left behind a legacy not measured in years lived, but in hearts touched.

---

Amy’s story is more than a tragedy.
It is a testament to a child who refused to let cancer define her.
It is a reminder that joy can exist even in hospital rooms.
It is a reflection of how deeply a seven-year-old can love, how intentionally she can care for others, how fiercely she can live when given only a little time.

Her life was short.
But her impact is long.
Her spirit lingers in every note, every memory, every laugh her family now holds close.

Amy’s story isn’t only about how she died —
it’s about how she loved while she lived.
How she left pieces of herself so her parents would never feel alone.
How she filled the world with messages that still echo:

Be happy.
Don’t cry.
I love you.
Look for rainbows.

And in that way…
Pieces of Amy are still here.

A child’s light — shining on.

🌈💛
👉 Full journey continues in the comments.