Today was the first day we stepped back onto the 8 QB floor at Children’s since the day Will rang the bell after his last dose of chemo… and I had no idea how hard it would hit me.
After clinic, we made a visit.
Back then, everything felt hopeful. We were seeing good signs. We truly believed the poison being pumped into his little body was beating the cancer.
Walking into that space today felt completely different.
The last couple of days, Will’s breathing and chest pain have been under control, and life has been manageable. But 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 in that instant, I knew.
The PET scan. The clavicle tumor.
My heart sank.
We did bloodwork and spoke with his oncologist. Will’s alkaline phosphatase is up 300 points from last week, and it’s the highest it’s ever been — 800.
If you know 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 right now it feels like a weight sitting in my stomach, whispering that the cancer is moving 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 he was diagnosed. We believe in honesty. But watching a 14-year-old receive hard news again… and again… and again… it’s unbearable.
How does a child not get crushed by this?
How does he keep his faith?
And when he falls short, how does he find the strength to stand back up?
I am so tired…
I’m too tired to even cry.
The unknown. The waiting. The next scans on January 8th. The bloodwork numbers that keep looping in my head—making it feel like this disease is literally eating him alive—while I’m still holding onto 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. 🙏💛
