STT. Will Roberts Remains in Hospital as Cancer Treatment Brings Severe Pain and New Challenges
She never expected a photograph to become a Mother’s Day gift.
Not one wrapped in paper or tied with ribbon.
Not one bought from a store or ordered online.
But one quietly taken in a hospital room, without her knowing, by a man who understood what this moment meant.
Jason pressed the button without a sound, without interrupting, without pulling her out of the moment.
And in doing so, he captured something that could never be staged.
He captured a mother loving her child in the only way she could.
Because loving him the way she used to was no longer possible.
Her son was no longer small enough to scoop into her arms.
He was no longer a toddler who could be lifted onto her hip.
He was no longer a baby who fit against her chest, his heartbeat matching hers.
He was half grown now.
Too big to hold.
Too long to curl around.
Too heavy for a hospital bed that was never designed for love, only for survival.
The bed was too narrow for her to climb into beside him.
Too stiff for both of them to lie comfortably.
Too unforgiving for a mother who only wanted to wrap her body around her child and make the pain stop.
So when she walked into the hospital room that day, she did what she could.
She stood beside him.
She leaned over him.
She reached out with trembling hands and touched his head.
His head felt different now.
Soft, but not full.
Bare, but not empty.
Covered in the fine, fragile baby hairs that had just begun to grow back.
Hair that felt like feathers beneath her fingers.
Hair that carried both hope and heartbreak at the same time.
Because she knew it would be gone again soon.
She knew this regrowth was temporary.
She knew the poison used to save his life would take it away once more.
She rubbed his head gently, afraid even the slightest pressure might hurt him.
Because he was so sick.
Because his body ached everywhere.
Because even a light touch could send waves of pain through him.
He had been deathly ill.
The kind of sick that drains the color from a child’s face.
The kind that steals energy, appetite, and laughter.
The kind that makes a mother feel helpless in ways she never imagined.
He flinched when she touched his arm.
He winced when she brushed his shoulder.
So she stopped trying to hug him.
She stopped trying to hold him.
She stopped trying to comfort him the way instinct told her to.
And instead, she listened to him.
“Tickle my head,” he said softly.
That was the only thing that didn’t hurt.
That was the only thing his body would allow.
So she tickled his head.
She rubbed slow circles into his scalp.
She traced gentle patterns with her fingertips.
She stayed there, bent over his bed, for as long as her body would allow.
Minutes passed.
Then more minutes.
Her back began to ache.
Her shoulders burned.
Her legs trembled.
But she didn’t stop.
Because this was the only comfort she could give him.
And she would give it for as long as she could stand.
When the pain in her back became unbearable, she didn’t walk away.
She didn’t straighten up.
She didn’t take a break.
She lowered herself to the floor.
She knelt beside the bed.
Cold hospital tile pressed into her knees.
But she didn’t care.
She kept rubbing his head.
She kept her hand moving.
She kept her presence steady and calm.
Because if she stopped, he might wake.
And if he woke, the pain might come roaring back.
So she stayed there.
Kneeling.
Silent.
Focused only on him.
Eventually, with the help of pain medication and nausea medicine, his breathing slowed.
His muscles relaxed.
His eyelids fluttered.
And finally, he fell asleep.
Her hand never left his head.
She stayed there even after he slept.
Because a mother doesn’t stop comforting her child just because his eyes are closed.
As he slept, his worries didn’t disappear.
Even in sickness, his heart was elsewhere.
He was worried about Mack at home.
Worried about what he was missing.
Worried about not being there.
He wanted to go home.
He wanted to be with his family.
But his body wouldn’t allow it.
He was too sick for the doctors to release him.
Too fragile to leave the safety of the hospital.
And that broke her heart in a different way.
Because not only was her child suffering.
He was also worrying about others while he suffered.
That night, as she finally stood up from the floor, her legs stiff and sore, she looked at him and made a quiet promise.
She would stay.
She would kneel if she had to.
She would bend until her back screamed.
She would find new ways to love him when the old ones were no longer possible.
Because this is what motherhood becomes when your child is fighting cancer.
It becomes adaptation.
It becomes endurance.
It becomes loving without touching.
Holding without arms.
Comforting without relief.
She thought about Mother’s Day.
About flowers and cards and breakfasts in bed.
And she realized this moment was her gift.
Not because it was easy.
Not because it was joyful.
But because it was real.
Because it was love stripped down to its rawest form.
A mother on her knees.
A child asleep after pain.
A photograph taken without words.
And a hope whispered quietly into the dark hospital room.
That maybe, just maybe, they could make it home by Mother’s Day.
That maybe the pain could be managed.
That maybe the poison would do its job.
And that one day, she would hold him again.
