It is going to be a great 2026 for Landry Cummins of Pelham, Alabama, and no one believes that more deeply than his parents, Cody and Macie.
They speak without hesitation about how brave their baby boy has already been, and how much strength he has shown in just a few short months of life. They talk about sleepless nights, fear-filled moments, and the quiet courage it takes to watch your newborn fight a battle you never expected. Above all, they speak with pride—pride in Landry, and pride in how far he has come since his major surgery on December 23, 2025.
For this family, hope did not come easily. But when it arrived, it came with purpose.
Landry was born on August 23, 2025, at 37 weeks—earlier than expected and much bigger than anyone anticipated. Weighing 9 pounds, 13 ounces, he was a remarkably large baby for his gestational age. What initially seemed surprising soon revealed a deeper medical cause.
Doctors diagnosed Landry with Congenital Hyperinsulinism caused by a GCK mutation, a rare condition that would shape the very first chapter of his life. From the beginning, his body was working against itself. The condition caused his pancreas to overproduce insulin, leading to dangerously low blood sugar levels.
Macie quickly learned what that diagnosis truly meant. At one terrifying point, Landry’s blood sugar dropped to just 8—a critically low number that placed his organs at serious risk. Every reading brought anxiety. Every fluctuation carried fear. Stability felt fragile, and vigilance became a way of life.
Yet within that fear, there was also something unexpected: experience.
Years earlier, Landry’s father, Cody, had been diagnosed with the same condition. Cody underwent surgery to remove his pancreas and, today—at just 24 years old—is thriving. That history didn’t erase the fear for their son, but it gave the family something invaluable: perspective. Trust in treatment. And a living example of what survival could look like.
As the months passed, Landry continued to grow at an astonishing rate. At just five months old, he weighed 28 pounds, still very much a “big baby” in every sense. But size alone didn’t tell the full story. Managing his blood sugar required constant medical support, careful feeding, and relentless monitoring. Every decision felt high-stakes. Eventually, surgery became unavoidable.
On December 23, 2025, Landry underwent a life-changing procedure at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Surgeons removed 99 percent of his pancreas and placed a G-tube—steps taken to give him the best chance at long-term stability.
For Cody and Macie, the hours of surgery felt endless. Hope was tightly wrapped around fear as they waited, knowing how much depended on that day.
When the surgery ended, relief came slowly—then all at once.
Macie later shared an update filled with joy and disbelief. The procedure had gone beautifully. Landry transitioned to full feeds and no longer required dextrose, glucagon, or insulin to maintain safe blood sugar levels. His readings began ranging between 120 and 170, numbers that represented stability they had only hoped for. Plans were made to remove his PICC line—another milestone signaling progress instead of crisis.
Beyond the numbers, the changes in Landry himself were impossible to miss. He began losing a bit of weight, a healthy sign that his body was adjusting. More importantly, he became noticeably more alert and active, engaging with the world around him in ways he hadn’t before.
For the first time in months, his parents could breathe.
Landry remains at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia as he continues to recover, but his trajectory is unmistakably positive. Macie has shared her hope that he will soon move to a step-down unit—one more step closer to home and to normalcy. The fear that once dominated their days is slowly giving way to confidence. Each small victory feels monumental.
For Cody and Macie, 2026 represents more than a new year. It represents healing, growth, and the promise of watching their son thrive beyond survival.
Landry’s journey is still unfolding, but the hardest chapter is behind him. His story is one of resilience passed from father to son, of modern medicine meeting human strength, and of parents who never stopped believing.
A great year lies ahead for Landry Cummins—and for a family who fought tirelessly to get him there.
Ten Years Later, Elsa Is Still Standing
Ten years is a long time to carry a fight that began in childhood.
For Elsa, that fight started when she was just five years old—an age when life should feel simple and safe. Instead of playgrounds and carefree afternoons, her world shifted suddenly into hospital rooms, medical language, and a diagnosis that would reshape every part of her life. Leukemia did not just make her sick. It took her childhood and forced her to grow up far too soon.
At five years old, Elsa learned words most adults never want to hear: chemotherapy, bone marrow, stem cell transplant, side effects, remission, relapse. Her days became structured around treatments instead of school schedules. Her body became a battleground she never chose, yet one she would have to endure with patience and strength far beyond her years.
Chemo rooms replaced classrooms. IV lines became constant companions. Her small body learned pain in ways no child should ever have to understand. There were days when nausea stole her appetite, when exhaustion made even lifting her head feel impossible. There were nights when sleep wouldn’t come, broken by beeping machines and quiet checks from nurses who became familiar faces.
And still—Elsa learned to smile.
She learned how to laugh with IV lines beside her, how to crack jokes even when her energy was gone, how to find moments of joy in places most people associate only with fear. Hospital hallways became places where friendships formed quickly and, at times, ended far too soon. She watched other children fight battles like her own—some of them losing—and that awareness changed her forever.
Stem cell transplants followed, each one carrying hope tightly wrapped in fear. Transplants are never simple. They demand isolation, resilience, and trust in a process that feels overwhelming even to adults. Elsa endured them quietly, her small body carrying more than it ever should have had to. Recovery was slow. Setbacks were common. Waiting became a way of life.
Waiting for counts to rise.
Waiting for scans.
Waiting for doctors to say the words, “Things look stable.”
Time passed, but the fight never truly ended. Leukemia leaves echoes long after treatment schedules slow down. Elsa’s life continued to be marked by follow-up appointments, lingering side effects, and the constant awareness that her body had been through something extraordinary and traumatic. Survivorship did not mean freedom from fear—it meant learning how to live alongside it.
As Elsa grew older, she carried the invisible weight of everything she had endured. While other children worried about homework or friendships, she carried memories of hospital beds and difficult conversations whispered behind closed doors. She matured quickly, not by choice, but by necessity. Strength was not something she trained for. It was something she lived.
Her parents walked every step of this journey beside her. They learned how to be strong when they felt powerless, how to hope without guarantees, and how to function in a world where outcomes were never certain. They spent countless nights watching over their child, praying for one more good day, one more stable result, one more reason to believe.
Ten years later, Elsa is still standing.
That does not mean her journey is over. Her fight continues in quieter ways now—through routine checkups, lingering effects, and moments when fear resurfaces without warning. But something else has endured just as steadily.
Her light.
Elsa’s light is not loud or attention-seeking. It is gentle, calm, and unwavering. It shows in the way she carries herself, in the empathy she offers others, and in the quiet resilience that defines her presence. She understands pain in a way that has softened her, not hardened her. She understands waiting in a way that has taught her patience, not bitterness.
There is a sacred kind of strength in simply continuing. In waking up each day and choosing to live fully despite everything your body remembers. Elsa embodies that strength. She does not need medals or headlines. Her survival itself is testimony enough.
Her story is not only about illness.
It is about endurance.
About a child who learned early that life can be fragile and unfair—and still chose grace.
About growing up in survival mode and making room for kindness, laughter, and hope.
For families still sitting in chemo rooms, Elsa’s journey offers something real. Not false optimism. Not easy answers. But proof that light can remain even when the fight lasts longer than expected. That courage can be quiet. That strength can look like staying.
May God continue to hold Elsa close. May He strengthen her body and steady her path. May He comfort her parents, who have carried fear and love side by side for a decade. And may every child still fighting feel surrounded by hope, peace, and protection when the road feels too long.