LDH .A Night That Changed Everything: Will’s Sudden Pain Crisis Sends His Family Back to the Hospital.

It started the way the scariest moments often do—out of nowhere.

One day, Will’s right leg felt normal enough to get through the hours. By nightfall, the pain had escalated so fast and so intensely that it didn’t feel like a “bad day” anymore. It felt like an emergency. And by the next morning, Will couldn’t even stand long enough to use the restroom.

For any family, that’s terrifying. For a family already living in the shadow of cancer, it’s the kind of fear that makes your whole body go cold—because you immediately understand what’s at stake: pain can mean progression, complication, or a new problem entirely. Pain can mean your child needs help right now, not later.

According to Will’s parents, they contacted oncology and were admitted to Children’s as doctors began working urgently to establish a pain management plan—one that could finally bring Will relief. In the middle of the chaos, there was one small mercy: after a brutal stretch, Will was eventually able to rest peacefully.

But the questions didn’t stop.

The detail that raised alarm

What made this episode even more unsettling was something Will’s family shared with honest disbelief: nothing in his right leg “lit up” on his PET scan in early December.

For parents, scans can become a kind of calendar—before the scan, the fear; after the scan, the hope or heartbreak; and then the long wait until the next one. When a scan shows nothing in a certain area, it can bring relief, even if other parts of the journey remain heavy.

So when severe pain suddenly appears in the very place that recently looked “quiet,” it triggers a terrifying possibility: Could this be something new?

That uncertainty is its own kind of suffering. It forces a family to stand in the worst space imaginable—between “we don’t know yet” and “we’re afraid to know.”

Will’s parents shared that X-rays had already been completed and that they were waiting to speak with the doctor. It’s a familiar hospital rhythm: tests first, waiting second, answers last. And in those waiting hours, time moves strangely—fast and slow at the same time. Fast because everything is happening. Slow because you can’t do anything but sit with your fear and watch your child breathe.

The part people don’t see: when pain becomes the entire day

Cancer is often described in milestones—diagnosis, treatment cycles, scans, surgeries. But families living inside it know the truth: the real battle is often fought in smaller, crueler units of time.

Minutes. Hours. Nights.

When pain flares beyond what the body can tolerate, everything else disappears. Plans disappear. Appetite disappears. Sleep disappears. Even conversation can disappear—not because a child has nothing to say, but because pain steals the energy required to say it.

Parents begin measuring life differently, too:

• How long since he last found comfort?
• How long since he ate?
• How long since he truly rested?
• How long until the doctor calls back?

And the hardest part is this: parents can carry a lot. But watching your child suffer in a way you cannot fix is a unique kind of helplessness. You would trade places instantly, if that were possible. But it isn’t. So you stand there, doing the only things you can—advocating, calling doctors, saying “this isn’t normal,” pushing for help, begging for relief.

That’s what this update shows most clearly: a mother and father doing everything they can to get their child comfort.

“Please pray that we remain steadfast”

In the middle of the medical update—amid the scans and the admissions and the painful uncertainty—Will’s mother asked for something that reveals how much this week has taken out of them.

“Please pray for Jason and me that we remain steadfast in our faith and continue trusting God’s plan,” she wrote, sharing that the past week had tested them in ways they never expected.

It’s a raw, deeply human request.

Because faith isn’t always a victory speech. Sometimes faith is simply the decision to keep going when your heart is shaking. Sometimes it’s whispering “help us” in a hospital room while machines hum in the background. Sometimes it’s holding your child’s hand and trying to be calm, even when your mind is racing.

Families don’t ask for prayers because they want attention. They ask because they need support that goes beyond medicine—support for the mind, the spirit, the exhaustion no scan can show.

What the hospital moment really means

Being admitted for pain control isn’t “just” a hospital visit. It’s a signal that the situation demanded higher-level care and close monitoring—specialists adjusting medication, tracking response, and trying to build a plan that keeps suffering from spiking again the moment you go home.

It’s also a reminder that this journey is not linear. A “good” scan in one area doesn’t guarantee smooth days ahead. Cancer is unpredictable. The body is unpredictable. Symptoms can shift rapidly. And families often live on a tightrope: one foot in hope, one foot in fear.

But there’s also another truth inside this moment: Will is not facing it alone.

He has doctors. He has nurses. He has parents who didn’t wait and didn’t minimize what he was feeling. He has a community that keeps showing up—through messages, prayers, and support that reminds the family they are seen.

What you can do right now

If you’re reading this and feeling that familiar ache—the helplessness that comes when you witness a child in pain—there are still meaningful things you can do.

• Leave a message of encouragement for Will and his parents.
• Pray, if that’s part of your life—specifically for effective pain control, clear answers, and peace in the waiting.
• Share support without pressure. Families in crisis don’t need debates, theories, or “what if” speculation. They need kindness.
• Be gentle. This family is carrying more than most of us can imagine.

Sometimes a few words matter more than people realize:
“You’re not alone.”
“We’re praying.”
“One moment at a time.”
“We’re here.”

Holding onto the small mercy

In the update, one line stands out like a candle in a dark room: “Will is finally resting peacefully.”

It may sound small. It’s not small at all.

When pain has taken over, rest becomes a miracle. Not the dramatic kind people post about—just the quiet miracle of a child’s body relaxing enough to breathe, to sleep, to stop fighting for a moment.

And maybe that’s the heart of this story, even in the middle of the fear: the fight continues, the questions remain, but for now—Will is resting. And his parents are still standing, asking for strength to keep trusting, even when the week has tested them beyond what they expected.