Today was the first day we stepped foot back onto the 8 QB floor at Children’s since Will rang the bell at his last dose of chemo. I had no idea how hard that would be. We made a visit after finishing up with our clinic day.
Back then, things were hopeful. We were seeing positive signs. We believed the poison being pumped into his little body was beating cancer. Walking back into that space today felt completely different.
Will has had his breathing and chest pain under control, and the last couple of days his daily life has been manageable. On the way to the hospital this morning, he said, “Mom, I must have slept wrong on my shoulder last night. It’s hurting.” He showed me—and I instantly knew. From the PET scan. The clavicle tumor. My heart sank.
We had bloodwork done and spoke with his oncologist. Will’s alkaline phosphatase is up 300 points from last week and the highest it’s ever been—800. For those familiar with osteosarcoma, you know this number matters. It was 500 at his stage 4 diagnosis and 170 at his last chemo in September. It’s a known tumor marker. And it’s a number that sits like a pit in my stomach, whispering that the cancer is growing fast.
As I’m asking the oncologist about it, Will looks at me and says, “Does that mean the Cabo drug is working, Mama?”
That moment almost broke me.
We’ve never hidden anything from him since the day of diagnosis. We believe in honesty. But watching a 14-year-old receive bad news over and over and over—it’s unbearable. How does a child not get beaten down by that? How does he keep his faith? And when he does fall short, how does he find the strength to stand back up again?
I am so tired. I’m too tired to even cry.
The unknown. The waiting. The next scans on January 8th. Bloodwork numbers that live in my head and make it feel like this disease is literally eating him alive—while I’m still clinging to a mustard seed of hope for a miracle. For mountains to move.
I am mentally drained. Spiritually worn. And tonight, all I can say is this:
God, we need a miracle.
Whatever Your plan may be, please give me the strength You gave Will just yesterday—to pick myself back up and face tomorrow. God, I know you will not forsake me but I need SOMETHING to feel your presence near so I can continue on. Please be with my family.
In Jesus name,
Amen.
