She knew that moment was coming long before the doctor uttered a word.
But despite preparing herself mentally, she couldn’t prevent a heavy feeling from overwhelming her when the scan results appeared on the screen.
The cold, black-and-white images that emerge carry far greater consequences than what the naked eye can perceive.
She sat there, her hands clasped together, listening carefully as the oncologist spoke, choosing her words carefully to soothe something that could not be soothed.
The treatment doesn’t seem to be as effective as they had hoped.
New developments have emerged.
The old points are still unclear.
The doctor explained the medical aspects, the possibilities, the next steps, and the uncertainty that always loomed like an unwelcome guest.
She nodded.
She asked the necessary questions.
She thanked the doctor.
But deep down, maternal instinct was preparing her for the journey from the clinic to the parking lot.
She feared the journey more than the date itself.
Because the appointment is a professional matter.
The other part of the journey is personal.
They never hid anything from Will.
From the day they were diagnosed, the truth was always the foundation upon which they stood, no matter how painful or terrifying that truth might be.
So, as she pushed her child’s wheelchair through the hospital corridors, where familiar sounds echoed all around, she spoke to her child calmly and carefully, as if cradling something fragile amidst the crowd.
She told her child that she would text the oncologist at MD Anderson.
She explained that the chemotherapy pills didn’t seem to be producing the results they had hoped for.
Her voice didn’t tremble.
Her hands didn’t tremble.
She learned that sometimes, courage looks more like steadfastness than strength.
Will listened in silence.
Then she asked the question that she knew would come.
Will the disease spread?
She wasn’t lying.
She told her child that there were a few new things.
She said that the PET scan results were inconclusive regarding the previous findings.
She was only telling the truth, nothing more, nothing less.
Silence fell as they approached the car.
A silence speaks volumes more than panic.
The child fell silent as the car pulled out of the parking lot, the sunlight glinting on the windshield as a reminder that the world goes on, despite news like this.
She looked at her child’s reflection in the glass.
Facial features.
The lips closed.
This is how a child tries to understand something that is too big for their age.
She asked her child a question, not to test them, but to keep them grounded in the present moment.
She asked if the child noticed anything different compared to that morning.
The child looked at her, confused.
She asked again, gently.
What’s the only difference this afternoon compared to when I woke up?
I can’t answer that.
So she answered on her child’s behalf.
Nothing at all.
She said that nothing had changed.
My body still feels the same as it did this morning.
The breathing remains the same.
My strength remains the same.
All they received were words on a piece of paper.
And those words, she said, have no right to dictate how they live today.
They didn’t change the lives they already woke up to that morning.
They didn’t change the sensations in the child’s body at that time.
They didn’t erase the joy that awaited them at home.
They have no right to steal their peace.
She told the child that they would be coming home.
They’ll eat a really big steak that Daddy is cooking.
They will not let fear control their thoughts.
They will not give fear the power it craves.
She turned on the music.
Hymns filled the air throughout the bus.
They sang all the way home.
It’s not because they aren’t afraid.
But fear isn’t about the person behind the wheel.
She prayed aloud while driving.
Don’t whisper.
Without reservation.
But with unwavering confidence.
She told Will that her prayers would not change.
She will continue to thank God for the healing in her child’s body, every single cancer cell.
She will continue to speak words of life to you.
Only life.
Regardless of what the scan results say.
Regardless of what the report says.
No matter what you try to sow tomorrow.
She didn’t have trouble sleeping that night.
She didn’t cry.
It’s not that she doesn’t feel burdened.
But yesterday cannot take away anything that today has given.
They are still standing strong.
They are still breathing.
They are still together.
And for her, that was everything.
