For days on end, the world around Will Roberts seemed to hang in the balance, suspended in a fragile silence.
It’s not peace.
Instead, it was a silent weight pressing down on my chest.
Something that makes each hour seem longer than usual.
Something that forces people to wait.
Waiting for an answer.
Waiting for words that could change everything.
For Will’s family, those two days of scans were more than just medical procedures.
It was a confrontation.
It’s a countdown that isn’t measured in minutes, but in heartbeats.
Will Roberts is a boy who has suffered more loss than most people experience in a lifetime.
I am battling bone cancer.
A disease that knows no negotiation.
One disease never stops because of compassion.
A few months ago, doctors were forced to amputate part of Will’s leg in a race against the disease.
That’s not an option.
That is mandatory.
A desperate boundary between life and something far darker.
The doctors then continued to pursue the disease, removing cancerous lesions in the pelvis and femur.
Each surgery carries a glimmer of hope.
And fear.
And the unspoken understanding that cancer rarely truly disappears.
Now, after a weekend of scans and revised reports, the truth is undeniable.
The news that came out was not what my family had prayed for.
It’s worse.
According to her mother, Brittney, the results showed the appearance of four new spots.
Four.
Dad is on the other leg.
One is in the pelvic region.
In medical literature, they are referred to as “small”.
But in real life, they are enormous burdens.
They are terrifying.
They show the movement of the disease.
Progress.
A disease is still finding refuge in the fragile body of a child.
Doctors say there are no immediate signs of danger, such as the spread to the spine.
But this moment of relief is dangerous.
Just because it’s not immediately dangerous doesn’t mean it’s safe.
It simply means we have to keep waiting.
Observe.
Hold your breath one more time.
A photograph taken in the hospital tells the whole story more clearly than any report.
Will’s body lay stretched out on the bed.
One leg is missing.
The other leg still occupied the entire bed, as if refusing to retract.
It’s a logical challenge.
It’s like trying to hold onto space in a world that’s constantly taking away parts of you.
Brittney tried to joke about it.
Regarding how just one leg can take up the entire bed.
But in moments like these, humor is not to be underestimated.
That’s how we survive.
Will slept peacefully while his parents faced the full truth.
You should rest.
They read every line of the report.
I dreamt.
They are deciphering the increasingly cold language of medicine.
When the oncologist reviewed all the results and supplemental reports, the truth became unavoidable.
The disease has not stopped yet.
It’s not so slow that we can be complacent.
It has found new places to quietly exist.
The treatment plan sounds clear on paper.
Continue taking your chemotherapy medication daily.
Perform targeted radiation therapy if approved.
Repeat the scan after four to six weeks.
Waiting for MEPACT immunotherapy, which is currently in severe shortage.
But behind every line of the plan lies fear.
Behind every step lies uncertainty.
And behind every “next step” lies the truth that nothing is guaranteed.
The timing made everything even more cruel.
The scans were performed about a week before Will started taking his medication.
Given the aggressive nature of the disease, it’s entirely possible these spots appeared within that short period of time.
A cruel void.
It’s too early to see the effects of the treatment.
It’s too late to stop the spread.
The next round of scans is expected to provide the answer.
In medicine, that’s called clarity.
But for families like Will’s, clarity can sometimes be just as painful as ambiguity.
Because it could confirm the worst.
For now, they say, we must continue on this path.
Treat what is visible.
Monitor closely.
Keep moving forward.
Step by step.
Each shot.
Each prayer.
But moving forward doesn’t mean certainty.
It is endurance.
It means standing firm even when the ground is constantly shaking.
Will is still just a child.
You should have been thinking about the game.
Regarding school.
Regarding the laughter that didn’t echo through the hospital corridors.
Instead, her body became a battlefield.
Your future is measured by the time between each photoshoot.
My family lives amidst hope and heartbreak.
Each new spot is a reminder that the cancer hasn’t let go yet.
Each photoshoot is a question mark no parent should have to face.
Brittney and Jason bear this reality in silence, but they are not alone.
They shared Will’s story because love is stronger when it’s shared.
Because prayer is heavier when carried alone.
And that’s why the world needs to understand that this war is far from over.
This is not a victory.
This is not a turning point for recovery.
That’s a worrying sign.
A step backward.
A reminder that Will’s condition remains extremely serious.
The disease is still active.
Still aggressive.
It continues to challenge the limits of medicine and belief.
And yet, my family hasn’t given up.
They stayed.
They observed.
They hoped cautiously.
They are preparing for what lies ahead.
They loved Will with all their hearts.
Because love is the only thing cancer cannot take away.
And at this moment, it was that very love that helped them get through one more photoshoot.
Another night.
And tomorrow is full of uncertainty.
