Sometimes, if he moves just right and the light hits just so, you can catch the faint outline of the port where chemotherapy treatments have flowed into his body as he fought.

In March 2024, Collette Thomas messaged Jeremiah’s pediatrician, Dr. Moran, concerned about a fever that had lingered for days. Nothing was working. He was getting sicker.

Dr. Moran was out of the office that day, but he reached out to one of his partners, Dr. Gammel, and asked if she could see Jeremiah. Today.

One look, and she knew something was not right.

Tests were ordered. And then came the words no parent is prepared to hear.

“His bone marrow isn’t working the way it’s supposed to.”

They needed to go to Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital. They needed to rule out leukemia.

Collette remembers crying with Dr. Gammel. Sitting in that moment as everything began to shift. Then Dr. Adams came in. She wrapped her in a hug and let her cry on her shoulder. She gently told her to pray and drink her water. Simple words. Steady words. The kind you hold onto.

Later that night, in the emergency room at Vanderbilt, the diagnosis was confirmed.

Leukemia.

The days and weeks that followed were a blur. Doctors. Nurses. Tests. Tears. And a lot of prayers for a very sweet little boy.

Dr. Moran stayed in touch the entire day, even though he was not in the office. He called while they waited, prayed with Collette over the phone, and continued to check on them every day for weeks after.

Looking back, Jeremiah’s family often talks about how grateful they are for MMC Pediatrics. For the care, for the relationships, and for the peace of mind in knowing that even when their own pediatrician was not available, there was a team of trusted physicians ready to step in without hesitation. In a moment when everything felt uncertain, that mattered.

The love from MMC was palpable. It still is.

Jeremiah does not remember much from those first days. But he remembers Dr. Moran coming to visit him at Vanderbilt, sitting with him, talking about Spider-Man. He remembers the day his appetite came back and eating what felt like an endless supply of Dunkin’ Donuts. He remembers the doctors and nurses who cared for him, who have since become like family.

And now, you meet Jeremiah.

He is seven years old. He has friends at school. He plays and laughs and talks a mile a minute. The kind of kid who keeps you on your toes and fills a room without even trying.

He may have outgrown Spider-Man, but he loves baseball and soccer and hockey. He is full of life. Full of energy. Full of laughter. Smart, witty, and happily chatty.

There is a resilience in him. A toughness no child should ever have to carry. And somehow, he carries it with joy.

He is sunshine.

If he moves just right and the light hits just so, you can still see the outline of his port.

But only for a little while longer.

Jeremiah shared with us, with a big smile, that he will have his final treatment next month, and his port will be removed soon after.

When asked if and how he wanted to celebrate, he did not hesitate.

“Yes. Dinner at my favorite restaurant. Camino Real.”

And we are all invited.