She was sitting in her usual chair at the Children’s Hospital.
The chair had “learned” to fit her body shape over months of waiting.
The chair seemed to understand her silence better than any words.
Around her, the hospital continued to operate at its familiar rhythm – the soft sound of footsteps, the whirring of remote monitoring equipment, the whispers behind the curtains.
But her world narrowed down to just a hallway, a machine, and a child.
Will is finishing the final scan of the day.
Here are the results of his magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) scan of his spine.
This is the final imaging step before doctors can see the full picture.
She stared down at the floor, tracing invisible shapes with her eyes, counting each breath in the way she had learned during the most difficult days.
Inhale.
Expiratory.
Please stay calm.
That morning, the phone rang.
She almost ignored it, assuming it was just an automated reminder or a routine check.
But that was their oncologist.
Her voice carried something unusual—a gentleness tinged with apology.
She explained that there had been a mistake in the initial PET scan report.
The language used did not accurately reflect what the image actually depicted.
An update is being finalized to fix that bug.
And after all the imaging procedures are completed, the reports are updated, and the oncology team has met, they will sit down together on Monday to discuss everything.
Treatment.
Next steps.
The road ahead.
When the call ended, she sat very silently.
I didn’t feel relieved.
I don’t feel at ease.
They remain suspended in that familiar space between fear and hope, a place where countless parents of sick children learn to live.
That afternoon, the notification appeared in MyChart.
The PET scan appendix has been completed.
Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it.
Medical terminology filled the screen—measurements, absorbance values, comparisons, clinical terms that sounded cold against the warmth in her heart.
She has read it once.
But then it happened again.
Then she did what many parents are still quietly doing today.
She asked ChatGPT to explain it to her as if she were a human being, not a graph.
It’s like a mother trying to figure out whether her child is winning or losing in a battle the boy didn’t choose.
The summary has appeared.
And for the first time in days, she felt a sense of relief in her chest.
Just a little bit.
Not a victory.
Uncertain.
But space.
Air.
That appendix completely changed everything that had made the previous night so terrifying.
When the PET scan results were compared precisely with Will’s previous scan results, the story changed.
I don’t like fairy tales.
But aim for something more authentic.
Be more optimistic.
Most of Will’s known cancer sites now show significantly lower absorption levels than previously thought.
Lower absorption means less activity.
The reduction in activity indicates that the treatment has been effective in many areas.
Some of the spots that were once brightly lit in the scanned image have now cooled down.
It hasn’t disappeared yet.
But it’s quieter.
Calm down.
It’s still there, but the shouting is gone.
A few minor new points have emerged.
That’s enough to warrant close monitoring.
Enough to keep the fear close at hand.
But overall, the trend is one of improvement.
There has been no widespread progress.
This wasn’t the worst-case scenario she’d imagined in the dark.
Looking back at the PET photos she had shared the night before, something inside her suddenly became calmer.
Her eyes were not mistaken.
What she saw at the time didn’t match the wording in the initial report.
And now, finally, the appendix has helped to make the language match the image.
She had no illusions about hope where it didn’t exist.
She wasn’t trying to deny the truth at all.
She’s reacting to reality—complex, imperfect, but heading in the right direction.
As I walked down the hallway, a nurse passed by with a gentle smile.
Somewhere, a child burst into laughter.
Elsewhere, another parent was crying.
And she sat there, bearing the weight of both worlds at once.
Will woke up later, still sleepy but brave in the way children often show when courage is demanded too often.
She stroked his hair.
She kissed him on the forehead.
She told him that he had done very well.
What she didn’t mention is how much courage it takes just to keep showing up.
Monday will be here soon.
There will be more conversations.
More decisions.
Add more photos.
We have to wait again.
But in this moment, she allowed herself to breathe.
Believe that progress doesn’t have to be spectacular to be real.
The recovery process may be uneven, but it is still meaningful.
That hope can coexist with uncertainty without diminishing that uncertainty.
She thought of all the people who had prayed.
Sending a message.
Standing quietly in the background of this journey.
Support them on days when they cannot stand on their own two feet.
This road is not straight.
It’s twisted.
It turned around.
It required a level of patience she never expected to possess.
But today, it offers something rare.
This is proof that love, science, and perseverance work together effectively.
And as she packed her belongings, preparing to leave the hospital that night, she still carried that truth with her.
It’s not a promise.
But permission is required.
The right to hope.
