A Long Awaited Wish Come True

Not long after Phin rang the bell in August of 2022, we were contacted by the Make-a-Wish Foundation telling us Phin had been nominated for a wish and they wanted to have a discovery meeting, if we were interested. At the time, it felt precarious to be planning something outside of the very near future--clinic visits, an upcoming return to church, then school, maybe a playdate when his immune system had recovered from what we believed would be his final round of chemotherapy. The prospect of planning anything more than a few weeks out felt like we were daring fate and left us uneasy and worried. On the other hand, how could we deny this little boy a wish after all he'd been through?

Between Covid and cancer, Phin had spent more time avoiding people in his five years of life than interacting with them. His experiences outside of our home were limited, his exposure to potential wish possibilities even less. All he'd wished for in the months he'd spent confined to the corridors of the Pediatric Specialty Unit were days outside, time with his family, playing with friends, riding his bike, kicking a ball around the soccer field, energy, his dog. What could this little boy wish for that hadn't already come true?

They invited us all to come to the meeting so all five of us went down the street to our local Starbucks, sat around the largest table they had, and answered a series of questions for the kind volunteer who met us there to discover what Phin's greatest wish might be. And then, he built up the courage to say it:

"I want to be a zookeeper at Animal Kingdom."

Could there be a more perfect wish for our animal-loving boy? The volunteer said she'd never heard of anyone asking for this wish, but he deserved it and if it was possible, they'd make it happen. He left that meeting beaming, cautiously hopeful but before the real planning could commence, Phin relapsed and his wish was put on "Pause".

If you've spent much time in a hospital with someone you love and the future feels very uncertain, you are well-acquainted with the barrage of regrets that come cascading in: "I should have said 'yes' more", "I should've been more patient," "I never should've made a big deal about grades or studying or lost shoes, or discarded toys all over the living room floor," "I should've set aside my work more", "we should have traveled", "we should have pushed to have his wish come true sooner." The regrets are nearly as loud as the "What-ifs" that echo through a dark hospital room at night, beeping in time with the monitors and IV machine pumping toxins or nutrition through the witching hours until dawn. The regrets and the what-ifs tangle into an anguish of guilt, the foundation of so many waking moments, the parent of a newfound well of endless patience. All the while you pray: "God, please don't let it be too late."

More than three years after Phin began his battle with cancer, the Make-a-Wish foundation made sure we would never feel the regret of a wish unfulfilled and in November 2025, we received the following email:

And before we could believe it, we were sent off to Orlando to fulfill Phin's wish to be a zookeeper at Animal Kingdom.

Zookeeper Phin

Animal Kingdom with our honorary zookeeper

 

You may have noticed that there are no behind-the-scenes photos of Phin as a zookeeper. We were not allowed to take them, nor share the ones the zookeepers took and sent to us, in a public forum. A small price to pay for the wish of a lifetime being granted, but rest-assured, on day three of our trip, we were met at Animal Kingdom by a guide who drove us out "beyond the magic" to meet the zookeepers. Phin was able to care for some elderly female cheetahs by making enrichment activities for them, and learned how to train a rhinoceros. He met and spent time with five zookeepers who seemed as excited to meet and have Phin alongside of them as we all felt. They told us that they had never, in all their time there, recalled another wish to be a zookeeper. "We've had people wish to go on the Wild Africa Trek, but none to be a zookeeper." We wrapped his wish up with a personal escort and guide on the Kilimanjaro Safari. They gifted him his own animal training tools and a water bottle with carabiner. I daresay they were wistful, posing for photos and talking about how they once dreamed of being zookeepers here, too--it was as if they were snapping each photo with future photos of Phin as a certified Animal Kingdom zookeeper in mind. If I let myself get hopeful, I can almost see the photo of 8 year-old Phin beside the one of his first day on the job at Animal Kingdom--his sandy shirt and shorts, a floppy hat and sunglasses, his training tools in hand, and the same group of zookeepers unable to contain their joy at Phin's much anticipated arrival, their reunion. 

 

We would be remiss not to mention our stay at Give Kids the World Village, a resort dedicated solely to wish kids. Some of Phin's most favorite people are his cousins and three of them happen to live in Kissimmee, a mere few miles from the Village. On the day we arrived, the cousins, Aunt Sara, Uncle Anthony, Granny, and Pepop were able to join us to explore everything it had to offer: all day ice cream, a huge game room, mini golf, characters, amusement park rides, and a Halloween party that night.

Later in the week, Phin got to visit with Stella the fairy to make his star. Every child who stays at the village is invited to make a star. Once they do, Stella and her giant friend (he's legitimately a giant--the only one who can reach to the rooftop to adhere the stars to its sky) find a home for it in the castle of the Village. A few days later, you are invited back to view your star.

Phin with Stella the Fairy

The star viewing for us was particularly meaningful. Our family was in deep mourning over the loss of our beloved Aspen mere days before this trip. We all struggled to stay cheerful in the face of the immense grief overtaking us. But Aspen sent sign after sign that she was with us, including the placement of her star in the exact same room as Phin's, just a few wall panels away, at the same exact height. We took small comfort in knowing they would remain there, united, forever.

When the Make-a-Wish (MAW) foundation grants a wish, they really go all out. A day at Animal Kingdom for Phin to be a zookeeper would've been all the wish we could've hoped for, but MAW gave us tickets to Universal Studios and every Disney World park. In all, we had five days worth of tickets that included parkhopper passes and unlimited lightning pass access to every ride. Every child in the Michael family's dreams came true. Phin and Obelia got to meet all the characters they could find (see Johnny from the Sing movies who is responsible for two of his favorite songs--"I'm Still Standing" and "A Sky Full of Stars"). Av discovered her love for rollercoasters and introduced Phin to his favorite ride (The Avatar Flight of Passage), which he then rode a million times over. We watched the fireworks show at Epcot while Phin sipped hot cocoa flights--twice. We pet a baby velociraptor and saw the newly opened Zootopia attraction in Animal Kingdom. We rode the monorail, and made a robot. We faced fears and made memories we will never forget. 

In my heart, I dream and pray that this trip was the culmination of his cancer journey. That it is the bookend experience of a battle hard fought, one he will never have to endure again, and that these were the spoils that went to our victor. After years of dreaming about this wish--a wish that sustained him through some of the darkest days, a wish I prayed he'd get to see to fruition in the depths of so many hospital nights--it came true. 

Leaping Into 2026

Happy NYE, Phin phans! Dustin here with a very quick post about Phin's progress and health. Before I get into that, I just want to wish everyone the best for 2026. May the coming year be filled with warmth, light, good health, and prosperity for all of you. 

Medical Updates:
The counts from Phin's clinic checkup earlier this month were nice and boring--maybe the most normal-looking labs we've seen for him since 2021, and certainly since BMT. Always a huge relief for us. His clinic appointments are getting spaced-out again, meaning the occasions where we get a peek into his circulatory system to see what's swirling around in his veins are becoming fewer and farther between. On one hand, it's cool, because 1) it suggests things are going according to plan with his recovery and 2) nobody likes having their kid get poked with even more needles. 

But on the other hand, it's scary. Not knowing, I mean. Every time he gets a cold, falls asleep in the car, or doesn't feel like eating breakfast, our thoughts fly right to the darkest place. How could they not? 

Anyway, this month his counts look great. Not only that, he got to check in with physical therapy for the first time since June and retake some of the assessments for strength, balance, and stamina. Six(ish) months ago, he was a year out from BMT, and he'd only just barely resumed attending school for the full day, and his flexibility and range of motion was declining rapidly due to GVHD. Now, after half a year of martial arts classes, soccer, swimming, and regular schooldays since late July, he's basically doubled his scores on the strength, balance, and stamina tests. Phin was super proud of himself. You can see him in the gif above, doing the standing long jump assessment in full Hulk out mode, sans shirt. Smashing it. 

Phin On the Daily: 
I haven't forgotten about my promise to report on Phin's Make-A-Wish trip. It's overdue, and I'm sorry for not getting it out yet. Still processing. Honestly, these last few weeks have been tough. Phin's health is looking great, but for our dear friends, and for our pediatric cancer community in general, it's been a very dark time. Bear with me a bit longer. We had a really exciting and fun trip, and I'll tell all about it and share some special moments soon. 

In the meantime, rest assured that Phin and his sisters and cousins had a good Christmas together. We spent it largely with Neesha's family, staying up way past our bedtimes, eating far too many sweets, and having a holiday that felt kind of happy, kind of sad, and, for a change, blessedly, kind of oddly normal.  

November, 2025

Hi there, Phin phans. Dustin here. We just got back from Phin's Make-a-Wish trip. It was very special, joyous in many ways, hard in others. I'll do my best to unpack it through a series of posts in the coming days. I think that if I try to do it all at once right now, it'll either be too long to read, or it'll come out so summarized and generalized that a lot of important stuff will get glossed over. 

So more on that later. What I can say is, we're grateful that we got to go, that Phin was healthy and strong enough to finally see his long-delayed wish granted, and that we all arrived home again safely. 

Medical Updates
Not much to report. Another respiratory bug fell to the warrior cells deployed by Phin's donor's bone marrow. The blood draw from this month's clinic visit produced the boring kinds of counts we love. GVHD in his joints appears to be arrested for now. We're thankful for this. 

Phin On the Daily 
Like his mother, sisters and me, Phin is grieving over the loss of Aspen, his oldest and closest friend, who fell asleep for the last time in her mother's arms eight days ago. Unlike the physical anguish and suffering Phin endured through his many rounds of chemo, it is difficult to gauge the extent of the devastation on him. Aspen and Phin shared a connection few of us can appreciate, and no blood test or LP or MRI can reveal this type of damage, just as no medicine or surgical procedure can repair it. 

Also unlike any pain Phin has so far faced, he doesn't have Aspen here to face it with him. 

In the obituary, Aspen's family requests that, in lieu of flowers, those wishing to honor Aspen instead donate to Cure Childhood Cancer. I'm copying that donation link here. 

Halloween 2025

Happy Halloween, Phin phans!

It's Dustin, just back from trick-or-treating with Phin and some of his friends, and ready to dump a sweet little update for October into your attention sack. 

That...didn't come out right. 

Anyway, here we go!

Medical Updates

There isn't much to report, and that's awesome! 

Several times this month, minor upper respiratory infections and other sicknesses crept up on Phin, but thanks to his donor's bone marrow, his immune system rolled right over them and he barely noticed. He's still getting sick a lot because he's had the pathogen exposure of a wee baby (in fact, even today he's been coughing and complaining that his throat feels scratchy since he woke up this morning), but so far his system has been able to fight off all the germs it's seen.

As of his last clinic visit on Oct. 10, his counts looked great, his donor's bone marrow was still cranking out blood cells, and he remained in remission with no evidence of disease. He is scheduled to return to CHOA for another clinic visit on Nov. 4. 

We're still waiting on clearance to redo his measles, mumps, and rubella vaccinations since all of those were wiped out when his old bone marrow got nuked. He took this year's flu shot like a champ, though.

Graft-versus-Host Disease (GVHD) symptoms persist in terms of joint-stiffness, but they don't seem to be advancing. He might be keeping the stiffness at bay by staying active. Two thing have recently helped with this--losing most of his iPad privileges and cooler temperatures that allow him to play outdoors for longer. Another factor: He learned how to throw and catch a football this month, spurred by a desire to play catch with his classmates at recess. When he's not practicing his taekwondo techniques and forms inside, he's out in the yard tossing the football with Neesha, his sisters, and me. 

Phin On the Daily

A reader of this blog suggested recently that I try to express a little more of the joy I feel at how well Phin is doing right now. I'm trying to do that, just like I'm trying to open myself to feeling it while I'm wide awake. 

What I mean is, every morning--every single morning--when I wake up and discover that I'm at home, and that Neesha is at home, and that Phin is still alive and at home with us, I feel the purest, most transcendent, most luminous joy. I float for a few ecstatic moments, detached, like a falling leaf slowly spinning toward the forest floor as golden sunlight spills through its tissues from above. Soon, my waking mind engages, and the leaf flutters and settles into the shadows of frustration, fear, sadness, grief, and guilt that darken my experience of consciousness, but for those first fleeting seconds, I am brilliant, weightless, ablaze with the euphoric knowledge that my son, for the moment, is safe. 

But wait, I'm supposed to be talking about Phin and what he's been up to this month. I've digressed. 

Phin and his buddy passed their promotion test at taekwondo and belted up. He was very excited and proud of himself, and he ought to be. He's worked harder at taekwondo than at anything else I've ever seen him try, drilling his techniques and the movements of his form tirelessly on the days between classes. 

I'm very proud of him, too. 

He traveled to CHOA for his clinic checkup, and then he went to Florida for his cousin's birthday party, where he got to play laser tag and do a ropes course. He went to North Carolina to celebrate Diwali. A lot of traveling for one month! All of it's pretty normal, kids-doing-life kinds of stuff, but it's noteworthy. A year ago, during his long post-BMT convalescence, he had to miss out on everything except the CHOA visits. 

It was at his cousin's birthday party that the person told me to show a little more of the positive stuff and how it feels, and she had a point. It's appropriate to share how lovely it feels to watch Phin have a good month. I can only guess that it’s refreshing for others to see him thriving. After all, childhood cancer makes for grim reading, and the wins, when they happen, are always conditional. 

Always conditional, and never clean. 

It's also good to leave a record of the positive stuff. Dark days may be coming. When they arrive, may the memories of the brighter moments carry us. Let us preserve those happy memories so that, when we need them, they in turn might preserve us. 

Childhood Cancer Postcards: The Haunted Rooms

Phin in the hallway of the unit in April, 2022

Lights that flicker on and off, machines that reset unexpectedly, and alarms that sound at random. 

These occurrences, which we experienced while Phin was admitted, are apparently common in hospitals. Which is the likelier cause--the accumulation of many medical devices plugged in close together, each drawing current from the hospital grid and creating an electromagnetic field, or the presence of a supernatural being?

Opinions vary. 

One of Phin's nurses who has since moved on (to another hospital, not from the Earth) told me, in hushed tones, that "the ghost" was encountered most frequently in the room typically assigned to Phin. This nurse also recalled some of the strange happenings attributed to the presence of this spirit: malfunctioning equipment, tripped sensors on medical devices, the room's automatic paper towel dispenser activating without warning. I confirmed that we had also seen some of those things happen during our months-long stay in that room. 

"That would be the ghost," the nurse said, nodding.

From this and other interviews I gleaned that no one has ever actually seen or heard the ghost, as its ability to interact with the physical world appeared to be limited to interfering with electronics. Most of those to whom I spoke stopped short of speculating whose ghost it might be. 

I was grateful for that.   

These kids--the cancer patients staying in the pediatric oncology unit--already find themselves restricted, unable to leave their room, the building, the hospital complex. To think that a child's life would end in that place and that even then their spirit still would not be allowed to leave...

And what of the parents? Imagine an inner voice whispering, No, Mr. __________, you may have buried your child, but their spirit remains right here in their hospital room, where you are no longer allowed to go. You have lost them. Twice. 

We saw and felt things we could not explain while Phin was admitted, it's true. I choose to believe there must be a rational explanation for them. 

The alternative is too ghoulish to bear.   

Childhood Cancer Postcards: The Final Days of Egleston

Phin outside Egleston in August, 2024

The old Egleston Children's Hospital at Emory is a ghost town now, abandoned since patients were transferred to the new Arthur M. Blank Children's Hospital last September. Among the nurses and technicians we met while Phin was there in summer 2024, during what we called "the evacuation stage," rumors swirled about what would become of the sprawling complex. Many told us in no uncertain terms that the place was in bad shape, but as the date of the big move to the new children's hospital approached, we watched it enter a phase of accelerated crumbling. Lights would burn out and stay dark. Elevators would break and nobody would come to fix them. A collective attitude of "abandon ship" prevailed all around.   

But not everywhere.

Outside the cafeteria, there was a large forested area with strong Hundred Acre Woods vibes created by winding walkways meandering beneath looming trees and lush terraces. 

Only once was Phin able to explore this place, although he passed it many times on his way to and from the bone marrow clinic. It happened a week or so before we left for home. Phin, his grandfather, and I stopped for drinks at the cafe inside and decided to check it out before heading back to the Ronald McDonald House. 

What we found there reminded us that wonder can open up even in places that are closing down.

The tiny door Phin noticed was hidden away from everyone except those confined within the children's hospital. Now, it's hidden away from all. 

I'm glad Phin found it when he did.   

Childhood Cancer Postcards: The Healing Garden

Phin in the Healing Garden in June, 2022

Neesha calls it “an oasis.” That’s a good image, a verdant little spot where travelers can rest as they cross the vastness inhospitable, although in this case “inhospitable” and “hospital” might be a bit of an unfortunate conflation. This oasis, the Healing Garden at CHOS, served as a place where Phin could restore himself and play in sunbeams and fresh air during his long inpatient stays for chemo and count recovery. 

Nestled between the towering walls of the children’s hospital, the Heart & Vascular Institute, and the parking garage, the Healing Garden held that same kind of allure that all magical spaces hold. Like an enchanted bookshop at the bottom of the mysterious staircase, or a faerie glade beyond the thicket, or a hidden fortress just over the creek, the Healing Garden gave off a special kind of energy. Imagine the feeling of your best friend from childhood whispering a secret in your ear, only now imagine it as a place. Entering it always felt like crossing into somewhere not everybody knew about, where not everybody could go. 

Two sides of the Healing Garden are formed by the children’s hospital and the enclosed hallways that connects it to the rest of the hospital complex. One side abuts a walkway between the Heart & Vascular Ifnstitute and the parking garage with the helipad. The other side faces the parking lot, and it was from this side that visitors would approach and gather near the fence to see Phin. Standing along this fence at the Healing Garden was the only way for most of Phin’s relatives and friends to see him for the months he was in treatment. 

Plant life lines the perimeter of the Healing Garden--fescue, small bushes, ornamentals, and palms. Here lizards scurry and dragonflies dart between the lower leaves while cardinals and finches flit among the branches. The textures, colors, and smells of the leaves and petals in this hidden corner of the hospital complex remind the children being treated inside of a world that awaits their return. 

An encircling pathway provides a boundary separating the foliage and a play area in the Healing Garden’s center, at which point, anchored in a still sea of poured-in-place playground rubber, floats a sturdy ship. We spent many days aboard this vessel (which Phin usually dubbed “The Molly” after his dearest pediatric oncology nurse), and in our journeys of imagination we visited distant shores in every corner of the globe. Some of my most vivid memories from this time revolve around our daring adventures on that ship. The Healing Garden was the backdrop for all of them. 

Most days, we had the entire place to ourselves. Occasionally, we would arrive as a nurse or technician was finishing their lunch in the quiet tranquility of the picnic benches beneath the sun shade as the gentle breezes rustled the palm fronts and leaves nearby. Sometimes we would discover traces of other kids--names written in sidewalk chalk next to hearts and flowers and rainbows--but we rarely encountered any kids themselves. One time we did find another pediatric cancer patient there, and we became very close to both him and his mom. Actually, I’m still wearing a bracelet with his name on it, right now, typing this, three years later. 

We also found a bird nest with eggs in it a few weeks after we arrived. A few days later, we heard the peeping of baby cardinals. A few weeks after that, we watched the adult cardinals helping the chicks practice flying, calling to them and zipping back and forth as their offspring bounced against the low hospital windows like little fluttering balls of cotton, slid back down, and gradually learned to avoid trying to fly through glass. 

A few days after that, they were gone. 

Phin and I crept quietly toward the nest to check. It was empty, of course. When we looked inside, we saw that the cardinals had woven medical waste between the sticks and twigs. Hard to tell exactly what it was--some kind of translucent plastic, like a patient’s discarded wristband, or the discarded wrapper from a syringe. That stuff became just another part of the baby cardinals’ childhoods, too. I think about that all the time.