Childhood Cancer Warrior Spotlight: Parker
As told by his parents
“I just want every kid that’s done really hard things to feel special. It’s what I want to do.” – Parker B., Age Five. On treatment. Pre-B ALL.
If you’re reading this, it’s possible you’re sitting at a table inspired by Parker – a little boy who has already done some of the hardest thing’s life can throw at someone his age. And if he had his way, you wouldn’t just be fed. You’d feel seen. You’d feel special. You’d know you matter.
This story begins in December 2023, at a family wedding in Southern California. Parker (4) and his brother Jaden (5) were dressed in suits and ties, sipping Shirley Temples, feeling grown-up and proud. But later that night, Parker cried out across the table: “My legs! My legs!”
He didn’t know what was happening. Neither did we. Maybe it was the shoes. Maybe the sugar. Maybe just a long day. We tried everything-compresses, ibuprofen, hugs-but the pain didn’t ease. By morning, Parker couldn’t get out of bed. His chest hurt now, too. Still no fever. No viral markers. Just a brave, hurting boy, and a growing fear we couldn’t yet name.
Back home in Houston a few days later, Parker seemed to be doing ok, but flinched during a hug. That’s all Alexis-his mom-needed to make the call. The pediatrician suspected anemia. Labs were drawn. Parker was scheduled to return on January 11, 2024-his big brother Jaden’s sixth birthday.
We expected iron supplements. Instead, Alexis, heard the words that changed our lives.
“I’m fairly certain he has ALL.”
“ALL, like a rash?” Alexis asked.
“No,” the doctor said. “Like cancer.”
In that instant, Alexis—already the fiercest kind of mother—absorbed the full weight of those words, collected herself, and took Parker straight to Texas Children’s Hospital.
“Am I going to die?”
He knew. Somehow, he knew.
The answer then-and now-has been,
“Parker, we believe God’s got big plans for you.“
When Parker and Alexis arrived at the Texas Children’s Emergency Room, they were ushered into a crowded waiting room—one filled with other sick children and the quiet hum of tension. Minutes passed, but they felt like hours. Parker, pale – Alexis, holding it all together. They sat, waiting for the next step in a world that had just changed forever.
Behind the scenes, calls were being made—grace-filled, urgent, and faithful. The kind of calls that carry weight in crisis to help usher this process. And then, through the noise, a voice echoed: “Crayton?”
It was Nurse Mallory Ramsey. Years ago, Crayton, Parker’s dad, had played collegiate baseball at Baylor. Mallory had run track. Parker was no longer just another chart in the waiting room. He was in the hands of someone who knew what fight looked like—and how to meet it.
Mallory’s training, paired with the extraordinary team that would soon surround him, became the first of many lifelines. The care team began to assemble. That night, the diagnosis was confirmed: Pre-B Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. More than 73% of Parker’s blood was saturated with leukemia cells.
Parker was in a fight.
And what that means is living in a suspended space between hope and horror. A place no parent should ever have to stand. And yet, in that space, something remarkable begins to grow: Clarity. Faith. Compassion. Unshakable Perspective.
Because when you’re lying next to your child in a hospital bed, listening to machine alarms every few hours…when you’re watching nurses come in fully robed to administer medications so strong, they carry the risk of fatal reaction…when you’re told they are “on standby” in case your child’s body can’t tolerate what’s coming…
You watch.
You watch your child’s chest rise and fall.
You pray.
And you don’t forget that kind of fear.
By the grace of God, Parker achieved remission in February 2024, a little over a month after diagnosis. His treatment is on-going and will continue until March 2026, following a demanding and precise protocol meant to keep the cancer from returning.
And over the last 18 months, Parker has endured:
- A Port inserted into his chest
- 17 lumbar punctures
- Daily chemotherapy (over 500 doses to-date)
- Steroids that changed his body
- Side effects that made food taste metallic
- Countless blood draws
- Nights away from his brother
- Days where just getting out of bed was an act of courage
And through it all, Parker remains Parker. Curious. Brave. Generous. Full of faith.
When we returned home after those first long weeks and a half, neutropenic, and isolated, our community showed up-meals at the door, prayers at the ready. Parker noticed. And one night, as dinner arrived, he looked up and asked: “Are other kids getting food like this too?“
That question became a mission. A seed planted. A table opened. 
One morning before a procedure, Parker turned to us and said, “Did you know God wears a gold robe? Yellow. And He has a huge table of bread. You can have some if you want, when you get there.”
That’s the kind of table Parker’s building here on earth-a table of care, of dignity, of warmth. And if you’re sitting at it now, know this: This isn’t just about food. It’s about walking through the valley of the shadow of death and choosing love anyway. It’s about honoring the suffering no one sees. It’s about making someone who’s done hard things feel special.
It’s what Parker wants to do. And it’s what he’s already doing-every single day.