There are days when our footsteps feel as heavy as lead—not because the road is long, but because the place we are heading reminds us of the fragments of a hope that once burned so bright. Today, our family stepped back onto the 8th floor, the QB wing at Children’s Hospital—the very place where, just a few months ago, the victory bell rang out. The bell that signaled the final dose of chemo. The bell of life.
But today, that bell was silent. In its place was the deafening stillness of reality.
1. Behind the Bell of Hope
Casting my mind back to September, our world was filled with positive signs. Back then, we truly believed the “poison” being pumped into Will’s small body was the ultimate weapon defeating the cancer. We watched every declining number on his charts as if they were steps on a ladder leading to freedom.
But walking back into that space today felt completely different. It no longer felt like a place of promises, but a place of confrontation. Will has been so brave; he had his breathing and chest pain under control. For the last couple of days, life had almost become “manageable.” Until this morning, on the way to the hospital, Will softly said: “Mom, I must have slept wrong on my shoulder last night. It’s hurting.”
It was a simple sentence, but for a mother who has walked through the hell of PET scans with her child, I knew instantly. The clavicle tumor. My heart sank to the very depths of despair.
2. The Numbers That Speak and a Mother’s Breaking Heart
The bloodwork results came back like a cold, clinical sentence. Will’s alkaline phosphatase (a known tumor marker) has jumped 300 points in just one week. It currently sits at 800—the highest it has ever been.
To put that into perspective: When he was first diagnosed with stage 4 osteosarcoma, that number was 500. At his last chemo in September, it was 170. Now, that 800 sits like a growling beast in the pit of my stomach, whispering that this disease is growing fast, consuming his body hour by hour.
As I was reeling, asking the oncologist about the spike, Will looked at me with those clear eyes and asked: “Does that mean the Cabo drug is working, Mama?”
That moment truly broke me.
How do you explain to a 14-year-old boy that his hope is being challenged by the very numbers on a screen? We have never hidden anything from him since the day of his diagnosis. We believe in honesty. But watching a child receive bad news over and over and over—a relentless loop of suffering—is almost unbearable.
3. The Question of Faith: How to Stand Again?
How does a child not get beaten down by such harsh realities? How does he keep his faith when his own body feels like it is betraying him? And more importantly, when he falls short—when the pain clouds his vision—how does he find the strength to stand back up one more time?
I am exhausted. A type of tired where I don’t even have enough tears left to cry. It is a spiritual weariness, the fatigue of the unknown, of waiting, of bloodwork numbers living in my head, making me feel like this disease is eating him alive while I am still desperately clinging to a “mustard seed of hope.” I am still praying for mountains to move.
4. A Plea in the Dark
The next big scans are scheduled for January 8th. Between now and then lies a stretch of silence and prayer.
Tonight, my prayer isn’t filled with eloquent words. It is a simple cry for help: “God, we need a miracle.”
Whatever Your plan may be, please give me the strength You gave Will just yesterday—the strength to pick myself back up and face tomorrow. I know You will not forsake us, but right now, I need to feel Your presence so near that I can find the air to continue.
5. A Message to the Community: Be Part of the Miracle
Will’s battle is not just against cancer cells; it is a battle to hold onto hope. We share this story not for pity, but to call for a powerful union of spirits.
If you are reading these words, please stop for just one second:
- To Pray: Not just for physical healing, but for peace in Will’s soul.
- To Hope: Even if it’s just a mustard seed, because many seeds together create a force that can move mountains.
- To Cherish: Hold your loved ones close, for we never know the weight the person next to us is carrying.
Will is still fighting. We are still standing. And we believe that after the darkest night, the sunrise will be more brilliant than we ever imagined.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
