Mark Younce

Mark reflected on his experience as a caregiver to his then 3-year-old daughter Chloe with a rare brain cancer, as she navigated a clinical trial. 

Walking into the hospital to select a cancer treatment plan, I knew we were stepping into uncharted territory. My daughter Chloe had been diagnosed with an embryonal tumor with multi-layered rosettes (ETMR), a rare and aggressive brain cancer that, because of its rarity and complexity, has no established standard of care. She was 3 years old at the time.

ETMR tumors are relatively new in the landscape of pediatric oncology, and their rapid growth rate and unique characteristics make them difficult to treat using typical brain tumor protocols. With so few cases, researchers haven’t had the time or data to develop a definitive, proven treatment approach. In the absence of a standard protocol, I was provided with two options by Chloe’s care team: ACNS0334, the default treatment for pediatric brain tumors, and Head Start IV, an intensive chemotherapy-based clinical trial.

ACNS0334 had a certain weight behind it. As the default protocol, it felt more established, like the “safe” option… or as close to safe as anything felt at the time. But it came with a heavy cost: radiation on Chloe’s developing brain, something that would leave 

Head Start IV, on the other hand, didn’t rely on radiation, offering instead a high-dose chemotherapy regimen that aimed to preserve cognitive function. Yet it was also a clinical trial — a word that, in my early days as a “cancer novice,” felt a little like the Wild West. Could a trial offer the same level of stability? Was I putting her at risk by stepping into something so experimental?

From the start, I had questions and fears about how to make the right choice. I wanted a treatment path that would give Chloe the best chance of survival without compromising her future. And, if I’m honest, I wasn’t sure a clinical trial would be the answer. The word itself implied the unknown, something less established, and I worried about whether decisions would be based more on research than on her individual needs. But as I would soon discover, Head Start IV was a trial built with Chloe’s unique needs in mind — and it became the best choice we could have made.

I was in an unusual situation. ETMR is so new that it doesn’t have its own standard of care. Chloe’s care team supplied two options, applying their standard of care for pediatric brain cancers, or a clinical trial. I mulled that over for a second before concluding “That means for ETMR, both options are essentially 

.” That thought gave me peace. It leveled the playing field and allowed me to simply look at the treatment plans as that: treatment plans.

ACNS0334 was developed for children with brain tumors generally, but it also meant heavy radiation. Head Start IV, in contrast, was designed to avoid radiation wherever possible, relying on a rigorous chemotherapy regimen instead. It felt like a leap, a journey into the unknown, but it also offered Chloe something invaluable: a chance to come through this without sacrificing her cognitive future.

Head Start IV wasn’t just another clinical trial. The program was developed by Dr. Jonathan Findlay, one of the foremost figures in pediatric neuro-oncology, whose life’s work has focused on sparing children the long-term impacts of radiation. Findlay’s reputation is monumental: he’s spent decades pushing boundaries, challenging norms and driving research that could give children with brain tumors a shot at survival without compromising their potential. The program had evolved through generations, each iteration building on the successes and learnings of the previous one, backed by extensive data and a community of experts who believed in his mission. Knowing that Chloe would be part of a trial created by someone so respected, with a focus on preserving not only life but 

 of life, gave me the assurance I needed to make this choice.

Although we are deeply grateful for her doctors at the Shawn Jenkins Children’s Hospital, being part of a clinical trial added a level of security I hadn’t anticipated. This wasn’t just Chloe’s immediate team overseeing her care; by joining Head Start IV, she was connected to a network of specialists across the country and abroad, who would review her charts, track her MRI results and provide input on every development. With each new layer of oversight, I felt an added sense of support, like reinforcements arriving to join her fight. Every extra set of eyes on her case was another safeguard, another commitment to her survival.

My trust in clinical trials grew through the human touch we experienced along the way. During Head Start IV, there were moments when Chloe’s care needed to deviate from the protocol, and it was in those moments that I saw just how committed her doctors were to her individual well-being.

One particularly traumatic experience involved a spinal tap to confirm her cancer’s status. The procedure went awry, resulting in a “traumatic puncture” and leaving Chloe in pain. After witnessing her distress, her doctors petitioned the trial’s oversight board to allow MRIs alone to monitor her remission. The petition was approved, sparing her from additional spinal taps unless deemed medically necessary.

Then, during the stem cell transplants, Chloe’s body needed extra support to recover. After each of the first two transplants, her team administered a boost of stem cells to aid her regeneration. But by the time she received the second boost, her stem cell reserves were nearly depleted, and her care team made the decision to give her the remainder.

To ensure Chloe’s safety, her doctors chose to cancel the third round of chemotherapy and stem cell transplant entirely. Each adjustment showed me that Head Start IV was not a rigid framework — it was a partnership with flexibility and compassion at its core.

Throughout all of this, I reached out with questions and concerns to Findlay and Dr. Gupta, the neuro-oncologists who had helped shape the HS4 protocol. Despite their demanding schedules and the volume of cases they manage, they responded with care, often within hours. They didn’t just answer my questions; they took the time to explain the science, offered reassurance and treated me as a true partner in Chloe’s care. These doctors weren’t only committed to advancing their research, but they were deeply invested in the lives impacted by it. Each conversation reminded me that we weren’t just part of a trial. We were part of a community dedicated to seeing Chloe, and other children like her, through to a brighter future.

Ultimately, choosing Head Start IV wasn’t just about treatment; it was about stepping into a shared mission, a community dedicated to finding a way to fight this cancer without needless harm. I had entered this journey with doubts about clinical trials, wondering if they were too untested, too unknown. But what I found was a trial deeply rooted in care, backed by knowledge and guided by principles I believed in. And it was only the beginning of seeing just how personal and flexible a trial like Head Start IV could be and how it would prioritize Chloe’s well-being at every turn.

As Head Start IV drew to a close, a new option came onto the horizon: Difluoromethylornithine (DFMO), a clinical trial focused not on treating existing cancer, but on preventing its return. DFMO works by inhibiting tumor growth and recurrence, which, for families like ours, is a proactive defense against relapse. It’s a way to protect children who have fought cancer once from facing it again, giving Chloe a chance at a future unburdened by recurring disease. 

! I never thought I would hear that word when it came to Chloe’s treatment, but like an oasis in the desert, it is magnificent!

But DFMO’s impact reaches beyond Chloe alone; her participation is essential to the trial’s progress, helping researchers better understand how well DFMO works at reducing the risk of relapse for children with similar cancers.

Every scan, every test result and every milestone Chloe reaches contributes data to a growing body of evidence that is establishing DFMO as a standard preventive measure for pediatric cancer survivors. This trial benefits Chloe, but it also relies on her journey to inform the care of countless others. I was grateful Chloe could join Head Start IV because it had already undergone three iterations, and I am so thankful for those who had trialed the patients. The opportunity to join DFMO felt like a culmination of everything we’d come to understand about clinical trials. It also wasn’t just a treatment option, but a shared mission, a partnership where Chloe’s experience could drive research forward. Each trial has become a layer of protection for Chloe, each one bringing her closer to a life free from cancer’s shadow and offering the same hope to others like her.

So, when DFMO was offered as the next step, there was no hesitation. DFMO was the next stage in a journey we had begun with Head Start IV, a continuation of the same mission to protect Chloe without compromising her future. And just as with Head Start IV, DFMO connected us to another network of professionals at Levine Children’s Hospital, a team as dedicated to Chloe’s future as they were to advancing research. As with the heads of Head Start IV, the care team at Levine has been every bit as receptive, responsive and engaged in Chloe’s treatment as anyone.

By this point, I am a proponent of clinical trials, not only because they offered Chloe the best care possible but because they are constantly evolving. They are built on compassion, flexibility and the dedication of those who want to see children not only survive but thrive. For us, trials like Head Start IV and DFMO weren’t just options; they were lifelines supported by people willing to go the extra mile.

Looking back on our journey through Head Start IV and now DFMO, I realize that clinical trials have provided a foundation of hope built on research, resilience and the dedication of professionals who have stood by Chloe every step of the way. Chloe’s fight against ETMR has required an immense amount of strength from all of us, but it has also required trust in the people and protocols that sometimes felt like stepping into the unknown.

Through Head Start IV, we learned that clinical trials aren’t just research experiments. They’re commitments made by people who refuse to accept limitations, who push the boundaries to find safer, more effective ways to help children like Chloe. And when DFMO became an option, we embraced it without hesitation, knowing it was part of the same mission. It was to give Chloe not only a chance at survival but a future free from compromise.

Today, as Chloe continues her journey, I’m grateful for the research community and for the power of clinical trials to blend science with compassion. In a fight where certainty is scarce, trials like Head Start IV and DFMO have become our lifelines, allowing us to believe in Chloe’s tomorrow with the confidence that she is in the best possible hands. Clinical trials may still carry a sense of the unknown, but for us, they have become symbols of possibility, courage and an unwavering commitment to a brighter future.

This story was written and submitted by Mark Younce. The article reflects the views of Younce and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

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Articles

Navigating the treatment landscape for a rare pediatric brain cancer, ETMR, involves choosing between standard protocols and clinical trials. The Head Start IV trial, designed to avoid radiation, offered a personalized approach, prioritizing cognitive preservation and flexibility. The trial's collaborative nature, led by experts like Dr. Jonathan Findlay, provided reassurance and support. Transitioning to the DFMO trial, aimed at preventing cancer recurrence, further exemplified the evolving, compassionate nature of clinical trials. These trials, blending science and empathy, became crucial lifelines in the fight against cancer.

When my daughter was diagnosed with a rare form of brain cancer, I was unsure about clinical trials but eventually learned that it was a lifeline that would save her. 

A Journey Into the Unknown With My Daughter’s Aggressive Brain Cancer

The decision to have his young daughter receive radiation for brain cancer was one of the toughest life decisions Mark ever had to make.  

When my daughter Chloe was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive brain tumor, a supratentorial embryonal tumor with multilayered rosettes (ETMR), I was suddenly thrust into a whirlwind of medical consultations, statistics and survival rates. Amidst all the chaos, one decision stood out above the rest: the choice to irradiate or not to irradiate her 3-year-old developing brain. It was a choice I never imagined I’d have to make, yet one that would shape the rest of Chloe’s life… and mine.

Her oncologists presented a range of options, but the path forward wasn’t as clear-cut as I had hoped. I found myself confronted with the harsh reality of weighing potential short-term survival against long-term harm. Irradiation, while effective in prolonging life, and arguably the best weapon against her disease, threatened to rob Chloe of her cognitive abilities, her childhood and the future I firmly believed she deserved.

This essay serves as a reflection of the technical and emotional complexities that ultimately led me to choose that defied convention. In sharing this experience, I hope to shed light on the difficult choices parents face when survival battles with the hope of a life unburdened by the very treatment meant to save it. As I am not a medical professional, I do not intend this to be medical advice, but I do hope that sharing my journey helps other parents facing similarly difficult choices to feel informed, empowered and less alone in navigating the complexities of pediatric cancer treatment.

Chloe’s diagnosis of a supratentorial ETMR instantly placed us in uncharted medical territory. ETMR is a rare and highly aggressive type of brain tumor, known for its rapid growth and poor prognosis, particularly in children, according to a 2023 study published in 

. For this cancer type, standard treatment protocols typically include surgical resection, followed by a combination of chemotherapy and radiation therapy, according to a 2022 study from 

. However, as I quickly learned, what is standard for adult patients doesn’t always apply to children, especially not to a child as young as Chloe.

Radiation therapy is considered one of the most effective tools for targeting residual cancer cells that surgery cannot remove, but it comes with significant risks for pediatric patients, I learned from a 2021 study published in 

. The developing brain is particularly sensitive to the harmful effects of radiation, and in children under the age of five, those risks are exponentially higher, a researcher reported in a 2021 study in the 

Journal of Family Medicine and Primary Care

. Cognitive impairment, developmental delays and the increased risk of secondary cancers later in life are just a few of the potential outcomes.

On top of that, Chloe had undergone a successful gross total resection (GTR), meaning the entirety of her visible tumor had been removed. The decision to add radiation seemed less clear-cut because of the GTR’s success, and the question of whether to subject Chloe to the risks of radiation weighed heavily on me. While the oncologists presented a strong case for using radiation to prevent recurrence, they expressed equal concern for her quality of life should it be used. I couldn’t ignore the potential long-term damage it could cause.

Chloe was treated at the Medical University of South Carolina Shawn Jenkins Children’s Hospital under Dr. Sandeepkumar Kuril. He presented me with two potential treatment options for her rare ETMR diagnosis: ACNS0334 and Head Start IV. Both protocols provided aggressive approaches to tackling this aggressive cancer, but they differed significantly in one critical aspect — radiation.

ACNS0334, a more conventional treatment protocol, included radiation therapy as part of its regimen, according to a 2022 study from 

. Radiation has been used for decades in treating pediatric brain tumors, which can target residual cancer cells that surgery and chemotherapy may leave behind. Head Start IV, on the other hand, avoided radiation altogether, relying on high-dose chemotherapy followed by autologous stem cell rescue, clinicaltrials.gov states.

As I pored over the handouts and explanations provided by Dr. Kuril, I delved deeper into the technical aspects of these treatments. My background as a nuclear engineer heavily influenced how I approached the decision. I understood the power of radiation — both its utility and its dangers — better than the average person. Radiation can be a highly effective tool in eliminating cancerous cells, but its side effects, especially in a developing brain, are profound and often permanent.

In a young brain, such as Chloe’s, radiation can disrupt the normal development of critical neural pathways, the 2021 study from 

 taught me. A child’s brain is rapidly growing and forming new connections at an accelerated rate, especially during the first five years of life. Radiation can interfere with this process, leading to permanent cognitive impairments. The risk of neurocognitive decline, including memory problems, difficulties with attention and learning and slower processing speeds, is significantly higher when radiation is applied to a developing brain, according to the study from the 

Research also shows that the younger the child, the greater the impact. For a 3-year-old like Chloe, radiation could compromise her ability to achieve age-appropriate developmental milestones, potentially affecting her language skills, spatial awareness and even her emotional regulation, I learned. Additionally, radiation increases the risk of secondary cancers which could emerge later in life as a direct result of the treatment, as the 2021 study from 

 stated. These long-term risks of radiation weighed heavily on me, as I analyzed the medical literature and case studies on radiation therapy in young children.

The technical knowledge I had gained in nuclear power school and my studies in nuclear engineering provided me with a solid foundation to break down these risks. In my training, one of the core principles was to minimize unnecessary radiation exposure, whether in a reactor environment or when dealing with the human body. The idea that even small amounts of radiation could have lasting impacts was something I had studied extensively. Radiation interacts with human cells by damaging DNA, which can lead to mutations and, in the case of a child’s brain, developmental setbacks that cannot be reversed, I learned from the 

 study. I applied this same risk assessment framework to Chloe’s case.

I pored over survival rates, treatment efficacy and potential side effects of both ACNS0334 and Head Start IV. The data show that although radiation might reduce the chance of immediate recurrence, the long-term cognitive damage could severely impact Chloe’s quality of life, even if she survived the cancer itself.

After days of exhaustive analysis, I ultimately chose Head Start IV. Its strategy of high-dose chemotherapy, while not without risks, seemed to offer the best balance of survival while preserving Chloe’s future cognitive function. The absence of radiation aligned with my understanding of minimizing harm while maximizing the treatment’s potential effectiveness.

However, after I had already made my decision, I was presented with conflicting information regarding an alternative approach involving a modified IRS-3 regimen. This protocol suggested that methotrexate, a key drug in the Head Start IV protocol, was ineffective against ETMR and recommended proton radiation therapy as part of the treatment. Proton therapy, although more targeted than traditional photon radiation, still posed significant risks to a child as young as Chloe. Proton beams are designed to deliver radiation directly to the tumor site, minimizing exposure to surrounding healthy tissue, but even this more refined technique comes with dangers, according to a study published in

The developing brain is so sensitive to radiation that even a highly targeted approach can lead to cognitive issues. Proton therapy’s advantages over traditional radiation lie mainly in its ability to reduce exposure to areas outside the tumor site, but the long-term effects of proton therapy on young children are not fully understood. Some studies suggest that the cognitive impairments may be similar to those caused by traditional radiation. As I continued researching this modified regimen, I couldn’t ignore the overwhelming risk to Chloe’s development and cognitive future.

Ultimately, I sought reassurance from additional experts in pediatric neuro-oncology. Dr. Girish Dhall and Dr. Jonathan Finlay both reaffirmed my decision to proceed with Head Start IV. They pointed out the limited data supporting the alternative IRS-3 approach and highlighted the devastating cognitive effects that radiation could have, especially for a child who had undergone a successful gross total resection, like Chloe. Their feedback gave me confidence that the path I had chosen, based on my technical understanding and careful analysis, was the right one.

Looking back, the decision to choose Head Start IV versus a more traditional protocol was one of the most difficult choices I’ve ever had to make. But ultimately, it was the right one for Chloe. She responded well to the chemotherapy, and although the journey was long and difficult, she was able to avoid the devastating long-term effects that radiation could have caused.

Chloe was randomized to three consolidation phases, each involving high-dose chemotherapy and stem-cell rescues. However, because of needing additional boosts during the first two phases, she only completed two consolidations. Despite this, the treatment was successful. The chemotherapy did its job, and to date, there has been no sign of recurrence. The absence of radiation in her treatment plan meant that, although the cancer was beaten back, her cognitive and developmental milestones remained intact. Today, Chloe is thriving in ways that I had once feared might never be possible if we had chosen the route to irradiate.

Additionally, because radiation wasn’t used as part of Chloe’s initial treatment, it remains a highly effective option in the event of a recurrence. In fact, radiation is likely to be even more effective now because she didn’t receive it before. She’s older now, so her brain development is more advanced at 6 years old, making her better able to tolerate the potential side effects of radiation if needed in the future.

In hindsight, the most difficult aspect wasn’t just the treatment itself, but living with the uncertainty and wondering if I had made the right choice. Even with my background in nuclear engineering, with all the data and statistics I had relied on to guide me, there was always that small, nagging doubt. What if the cancer returned because I chose not to irradiate? What if the chemotherapy alone wasn’t enough? It’s something I carried with me through every cycle, every scan and every doctor’s appointment. However, with every clean MRI, that doubt began to fade, and my confidence in the decision grew stronger.

Through this experience, I learned that making these decisions as a parent, especially when your child’s life is on the line, is never easy — even with all the available knowledge in the world. My technical background was invaluable in understanding the risks and benefits, but it was ultimately my role as Chloe’s father that drove me to make the choice that I believed would preserve not just her life but her future. The relief of watching her thrive today — seeing her play, laugh and learn — is the greatest validation I could ask for.

I have no regrets about choosing the path not to irradiate. While every parent’s situation is different, I believe the best decisions are made when we take the time to gather all the information, trust in our understanding and follow our instincts. For me, the data was clear, but so was my desire to give Chloe the best chance at a full life, unburdened by the harsh consequences of radiation.

This poem was written and submitted by Mark Younce. The article reflects the views of Younce and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

“Embryonal tumor with multilayered rosettes: Overview of diagnosis and therapy” by Chadda KR, et al., 

“Radiation in medical practice & health effects of radiation” by Jain S, et al., 

“Treatment of embryonal tumors with multilayered rosettes with carboplatin/etoposide induction and high-dose chemotherapy within the prospective P-hit trial” by Juhnke B, et al., 

“High-dose chemotherapy in children with newly diagnosed medulloblastoma” by Lafay-Cousin L, et al. 

“Clinical management of embryonal tumor with multilayered rosettes: The CCMC experience” by Li Z, et al. 

“HeadStart4: Newly Diagnosed Children (10 y/​o) With Medulloblastoma and Other CNS Embryonal Tumors” by Patel P, Clinicaltrials.gov.

“Proton therapy for the treatment of children with CNS malignancies” by Sreeraman R, et al. 

Chloe's diagnosis of a rare, aggressive brain tumor led to a challenging decision between radiation and chemotherapy. Radiation, while effective, posed significant risks to her developing brain, including cognitive impairments and secondary cancers. Her father, leveraging his nuclear engineering background, chose the Head Start IV protocol, which avoids radiation, to preserve her cognitive function. Despite initial doubts, Chloe's successful response to chemotherapy validated the decision. The experience underscores the complex, emotional decisions parents face in pediatric cancer treatment, balancing survival with quality of life.

My daughter's diagnosis of a rare and aggressive brain tumor at 3 years old made me strongly consider whether or not to have her treated with radiation.

The Decision to Irradiate or Not to Irradiate My Daughter’s Brain Tumor

While Mark was in the hospital with his young daughter with cancer, he often called his oldest daughter after being away from her. 

“A Promise To You" is a deeply personal reflection on the emotional turmoil I felt while being away from my firstborn daughter, Leia (6 years old, at the time), during my younger daughter 

. This poem captures the guilt, longing, and overwhelming love I felt during those days, torn between the needs of both.

Although I spent long periods of time in the hospital with Chloe, Leia’s presence remained constant in my heart. She has always been my emotional anchor, and her fiery spirit gave me strength during some of the darkest moments. In this poem, I capture the tearing of my heart as I am pulled in two directions, and the weight of the promises made to Leia, while fighting to ensure her sister’s and our family’s survival.

Oh please, don’t worry, she’s doing fine

What’s that you hear? Noise? Confusion?

She will beat this, I’ll see it through

A poignant reflection on the emotional struggle of a parent torn between caring for a sick child and being present for another, this poem conveys the guilt, longing, and love experienced during such a challenging time. The author expresses the heartache of being physically absent from one daughter while emotionally anchored by her spirit, promising to reunite once the battle is won. The poem captures the duality of parental love and the weight of promises made amidst the fight for a child's survival.

While being a caregiver to my youngest daughter with brain cancer, I felt emotional turmoil while being away from my firstborn daughter. 

A Promise to My Firstborn While Caregiving for My Youngest

When Mark worried about his young daughter during treatment for brain cancer, her eyes would provide a reassuring gaze. 

She has always been able to talk with her eyes.
It is one of the infinitely many things I love about her.
Those big, dark orbs are most often set in a serious gaze,
absorbing and processing countless pieces of information from her surroundings.

Her beautiful little mind in action is such a treat to watch,
but I especially love watching her eyes speak.
They blink, wink, roll, raise,
darting in countless directions
to communicate passages of information silently,
quickly and efficiently.

Her gaze has expressed so much joy and happiness,
like every child’s should.
She has told jokes, with a timely eye-roll or a wink bringing about a smile or a laugh,
betraying her lovely, and, at times, sarcastic sense of humor.
But I can’t look into those eyes for too long
without thinking of all the times they have begged for help,
conveying fear, helplessness and immense pain.
The worst pain.

The pain I felt mirrored in her eyes as her father
is a pain so deep, breathtaking and sharp
that I gasp for air as I recall it.
I rarely allow myself to relive those events because of the pain tied to their memories,
but I cannot ignore the tremendous beauty of the moments we shared during her battle.

The truth is that I felt every bit as helpless as she did at times.
I wouldn’t admit it then.
Doing so would have felt like failure.
I was convinced I needed to be nothing but a rock of positivity in her life.
She couldn’t sense any weakness in me;
I needed to be strong so she could draw strength whenever she needed it.

So, I studied her gaze,
learned what each of those looks meant,
and knew how to react to the changing glances,
the focus, the sharpness.
When she was too weak to move and in too much pain to form words,
those beautiful eyes were all she needed
to tell me everything I needed to know to care for her.

Her eyes told me so many times to never give up,
and she needed to make sure I wouldn’t either.
They barked commands for food, water,
or to carry her to the bathroom.
They let me know when she was scared,
so I could comfort her.
They slyly conveyed a desire to pull a prank on a nurse,
mischief dancing in them.
They made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.

In the depths of darkness, when I stood at the edge,
fearing all was lost,
her eyes would find me.
And in those moments, they gave me a look that convinced me
everything would be OK.

While my heart and mind would race,
running in every direction,
her gaze told me to stay calm,
that she trusted me.
As my own eyes grew heavy, dark and teary,
that look said I needed to rest,
that she needed me to gather strength for what came next.
As the hairs on my arms stood, and my gut sank,
her eyes told me to trust her,
that everything would be OK.

As always, her gaze told me everything I needed to know
in an instant.
It’s a look I can only describe as unconditional love.
That look — her love — has fueled me, powered me and changed me.

The poem “Through Her Eyes” captures the emotional experience of being a father and caregiver to my daughter during her battle with cancer.

She was diagnosed with embryonal tumor with multilayered rosettes (ETMR) brain cancer at 3 years old and given 9% odds to survive the battle through to her 4th birthday, six months later. She has wonderfully survived and is a happy and thriving first grader today, but the journey was haunting.

Through her gaze, I learned to communicate, love and find strength when words often failed her. This piece reflects both the pain and the beauty that came from those moments.

When my daughter couldn't express her words while she received treatment for brain cancer, her eyes told me everything I needed to know. 

Mark Younce

A Journey Into the Unknown With My Daughter’s Aggressive Brain Cancer

The Decision to Irradiate or Not to Irradiate My Daughter’s Brain Tumor

A Promise to My Firstborn While Caregiving for My Youngest

My Daughter Talked Through Her Eyes During Cancer

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