She didn’t cry when she first heard about the PET scan results.
Don’t cry when the word “result” hangs in the air like a breath caught in your throat.
She didn’t cry as the doctors leaned forward with their familiar calm demeanor.
Don’t cry as schedules, dates, and medical jargon gradually take over the room.
Somewhere along this journey, she learned that tears can wait.
That to survive, sometimes you need resilience more than emotion.
Being strong doesn’t mean not being afraid, but rather keeping moving forward.
So she nodded.
She listened.
She carefully tucked her fear away in a deep corner, where it couldn’t spill out in front of everyone.
But today is different.
Today, she stood in her house and stared at a deer.
It’s not a live deer.
Not a silhouette crossing the field at sunset.
Instead, it was a stuffed and fully assembled deer head, incredibly large, ready to be shipped to Ralph, Alabama.
This isn’t the typical “wall decoration.”
It’s more like a new member of the family.
A deer has… a personality.
A deer needs to be recognized.
Just a few weeks ago, Will had hunted it down.
A hunting trip that was originally intended to be just another memorable experience.
A distraction.
An ordinary moment in a year is anything but ordinary.
But now, the deer has returned in a different form.
Preserved.
Forever.
And in a way… it’s overwhelming.
She laughed first.
A brief laugh surprised even her.
Then she felt it.
Tear.
Not because of fear.
Not because of grief.
Because of the absurdity, complexity, and beauty of all these things.
Because this deer is more than just a deer.
It is proof that Will is still alive.
He still does things that make him feel like himself.
It’s still about creating a story, not just trying to survive.
The deer was very large.
Growing up without apologizing to anyone.
It’s so big that it makes visitors stop in their tracks.
It’s so big that one wonders if a warning should be given before opening the door.
It was loud enough for someone to think about calling 911.
She wondered if she should give it a name.
She wondered if she should hang it up.
She wondered where in the world someone would put a giant deer head without it staring at her at night.
Because eye contact… is very important.
Especially at 2 a.m.
Especially when the house is quiet but the mind is not.
Then she realized something.
Her biggest worry right now isn’t the results of the scans.
This is not an appointment.
It’s not about the dense medical symbols on the calendar.
It’s interior design.
This is where the deer is placed.
Laughter is returning to the places where fear has lingered for too long.
Rocky, the family dog, was not happy at all.
It recoiled, ears perked up, utterly offended by this new presence.
Confused.
Suspect.
Perhaps they felt betrayed.
It moved around the room as if the deer could move.
But the deer didn’t.
It stood still.
Be calm.
As a silent but powerful reminder of resilience.
She thought of the people who had helped Will get to where he was today.
Doctors.
Families.
My friends opened their homes, their land, and their hearts.
She thought of the hunting lodge.
Long days outdoors.
Moments when illness gives way to laughter and fresh air.
She thought about gratitude.
And sometimes, gratitude manifests itself in the form of a pair of deer antlers.
Elsewhere, Will’s sister was having a very special day.
The little girl had been at the hunting lodge all day.
It wasn’t because I was forced.
Because I wanted to be together.
Because being together is more important now than ever.
At some point, she sent a message.
A very simple message.
“Mom, can you take me to Dollar Tree so Hope and I can buy some small items for Christian-themed crafts?”
That’s a very naive question.
Very gentle.
Very hopeful.
And it made the mother stop in her tracks.
“Yes,” she replied immediately.
“Of course.”
Because that’s an easy answer.
A very small price to pay for a child learning to “try to overcome.”
A small gesture for a daughter trying her best during uncertain times.
They walked past the shelves together.
Plastic pellets.
Small crosses.
Simple objects become meaningful in the hands of children.
Faith has been touched.
Comforting someone becomes a manual task.
A form of silent prayer.
She watched them being creative.
It’s not just for decoration.
It’s about meaning.
It’s not just an object.
It’s a moment.
And she felt that familiar pain again.
The pain of loving deeply in fragile moments.
She thought of the parents who had allowed their children to accompany them through these storms.
It’s not a storm.
But it’s the storm of life.
Storms come unexpectedly and change everything.
She thought about that rare act of kindness.
And how necessary it is.
And how much it heals.
That night, the house gradually became quiet.
The deer was still waiting to be hung up.
Rocky still disagreed.
But the laughter remains.
The gratitude remains.
And the feeling that life, no matter what, still has room for joy.
She whispered a prayer.
I’m not asking for an answer.
This is not to ask for assurances.
But for moments like these.
Those moments when fear lets go.
These are the moments when a deer becomes a symbol, not just a trophy.
These are moments when faith is expressed through handicrafts and hunting stories.
These are moments when love takes on strange yet beautiful forms.
And for the first time in a very long time, she cried.
Not because of fear.
And it’s because of gratitude.
