Two Angels, One Mother’s Love.1976
🕊️ In Loving Memory of Zante Skyler “Gianna” Welman 🕊️
March 2020 – June 28, 2024
Forever 4 | Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL)
The morning she left, the world felt quieter.
Little Zante Skyler, known to her family as Gianna, took her final breath after months of fighting a battle no child should ever face.
She was only four years old — but in those four short years, she lived with more love, laughter, and light than most do in a lifetime.
She had a heart that overflowed with kindness.
She loved to make people laugh, to turn every tear into a giggle.
Even through her illness, her spirit shone — bright, playful, and unbreakable.
She called everyone “friend,” hugged strangers without hesitation, and filled every room with her voice — tiny but full of life.
She was sunshine in human form.
Zante’s journey began in February, when the word
The months that followed were filled with hospital visits, treatments, and moments of hope tangled with fear.
Yet through it all, she never lost her joy.
She danced in her hospital bed.
She painted rainbows on paper and on her IV poles.
She made nurses laugh with her silly faces, and told her mother, “Don’t cry, Mommy, I’m okay.”
Her mother, Bianca
But even the fiercest love could not hold back what fate had written.
On June 28th, 2024, surrounded by love, Sasha’s small hand slipped from her mother’s, and heaven gained another angel.
For Bianca, this loss reopened a wound that had never healed.
Two years earlier, she had said goodbye to her first son, Yaen, who passed away in April 2022.
Now, her two children — her whole heart — are together again.
“My babies came into this world, and I felt them live inside me,” Bianca wrote.
“I saw their eyes for the first time when they were born, and I’m forever grateful they chose me to be their mother.”
“Now they’ve both gone home — back to the source of love where we are all eternal.
Our bond can never be broken.
I know they left this world knowing they were deeply loved, always wanted, and cared for with all the love in us.”
Bianca often writes to them, her words echoing through grief and faith:
“Yaen, receive your sister Gianna in your arms.
Hold her little hand and never let go — not until I get there too.
Hug me tight from where you are, my loves, and never stop making me feel your presence, even when my soul feels broken.
Save me a place beside you, because every day I live is one day less until I see you again.”
She remembers every moment, every giggle, every heartbeat that once filled their home.
Now, in the silence, she listens for them — in the wind, in the soft rustle of the trees, in the spaces between breaths.
“Each time I think of you,” she writes, “I feel an emptiness in my soul.
And though I know no one will ever truly understand, I can only keep counting down the days until I see you again.”
It has been a month since her little girl left.
And yet, the pain feels just as sharp as the day she said goodbye.
“One month without you, my princess
“I remember this same hell two years ago — no answers, only silence.
A month where breathing feels impossible, a month where every second hurts.”
Her words are both love and ache — a mother’s eternal dialogue with her children who now live beyond the veil.
Now, her two babies are her two angels.
Two tiny souls who came into this world bringing light, laughter, and love — and left it brighter than they found it.
Their lives, though short, were filled with beauty.
Their love, though separated by worlds, remains eternal.
Bianca ends her message as she always does — with faith, with devotion, and with love beyond time:
“I love you with all that I am.
You will live forever in me.
YAEN and GIANNA — always loved, always remembered, always present.
I will love you forever, my children.” 💚💜🕊️
Two Days Without the Tube, But the Battle Isn’t Over.760
Just days ago, there was a moment of hope—Carter’s breathing tube had finally been removed. For his parents, it felt like a turning point. A moment to exhale after weeks of watching their child fight for every breath. But hope is fragile in the face of TMA—Thrombotic Microangiopathy, a rare and serious condition that has turned Carter’s young life into a battlefield.
Though the tube is gone, Carter’s fight is far from over.
His blood pressure has become dangerously high, requiring multiple medications around the clock to manage it. His tiny body, already pushed to the brink, continues to endure new complications every day. The relief his family felt just two days ago now sits heavy with fear once again.
A CT scan this afternoon revealed what they had dreaded: the fluid in Carter’s lungs hasn’t improved. His breathing remains labored, and the shadows under his mother’s eyes grow darker with each passing hour. She knows the signs too well. Her voice trembled when she said it aloud to the nurse. “I think he’s going to need to be intubated again.”
No parent should have to say those words. No child should have to face this level of suffering. But Carter does—every hour, every breath.
Today, a visitor dropped by to deliver the last of his birthday cards, along with a few small comforts for Carter and his parents. The cards, sent by strangers and loved ones alike, fill a small box by his bed. One of them reads in crooked handwriting, “You are the bravest boy in the world.” Another simply says, “Keep fighting, Carter.”
His parents cling to those words. They whisper them into his ear as he rests. They say them to each other when fear threatens to steal their resolve.
There are days when even the strongest hearts begin to crack. But Carter’s strength—though quiet—is unshakable. He doesn’t speak much right now, too tired, too breathless. But he holds his mother’s finger tightly when she talks to him. He squeezes when his father reads him his favorite story. There is still light in him. There is still fight.
But they cannot do this alone. Not now.
Carter’s family needs the strength of every prayer, every thought, every whispered wish. They need healing—for Carter’s lungs, his heart, his blood. They need comfort—for the sleepless nights, the unknowns, the unbearable moments when hope teeters on the edge. And they need strength—because loving someone through this kind of suffering is a different kind of endurance. A kind that leaves you breathless, too.
Please keep Carter and his family in your thoughts tonight. Light a candle, say a prayer, or send them your quiet hope. Every bit of love makes a difference.
They are still in the fight of their lives.
