ST.“We Tried Everything”: A Mother’s Update on Will Roberts’ Fight Against Stage 4 Sarcoma
She never imagined that gratitude could feel this heavy.
It pressed against her chest in the quiet hours of the night, long after the house had fallen asleep.
Every message she read carried hope.
Every story someone shared came wrapped in kindness.
Cancer survival stories.
Stories of remission.
Stories of miracles.
Stories whispered from strangers who believed—truly believed—that healing could come from places medicine had not yet reached.
She was thankful for all of them.
Deeply.
Overwhelmingly.
She wanted the world to know that she never took a single message lightly.
Not one.
She saw the hesitation in the way people wrote.
The disclaimers.
The apologies.
The quiet fear that they might be crossing a line by suggesting something unconventional.
But she wished they knew how wrong that fear was.
How welcome every story felt.
How precious every attempt to help became.
Because when your child is dying, hope—any form of hope—becomes sacred.
She carried gratitude for the hearts behind those messages.
For the courage it took to share.
For the love hidden inside every recommendation.
For the belief that maybe, just maybe, something out there could save her baby boy.
And God knew she needed that belief.
From the moment Will was diagnosed, her world split into before and after.
Before cancer, life was loud and ordinary.
After cancer, everything moved in slow motion.
Every decision felt enormous.
Every hour carried weight.
Every breath felt borrowed.
She told people later that she had thrown everything at Will’s cancer except the kitchen sink.
But even that felt like an understatement.
She truly meant everything.
From the first day, she chased every possible path that promised healing.
Ivermectin.
Fenbendazole.
Apricot seeds.
Supplements with names she could barely pronounce.
Protocols shared in forums at three in the morning.
Studies that offered just enough promise to keep her heart racing.
Testimonies from parents who swore their children survived because they dared to try something different.
She read them all.
She listened to every voice.
She followed every thread of hope wherever it led her.
Because when doctors talk in probabilities and survival rates, a mother listens for miracles instead.
She wasn’t reckless.
She wasn’t blind.
She researched.
She asked questions.
She balanced science with faith.
She wasn’t rejecting medicine.
She was expanding it.
Or at least, that’s what she told herself at the time.
Will was fourteen.
Fourteen years old and already fighting a war grown men fear.
Bone cancer.
Stage four.
Sarcoma.
Words that landed like punches.
Words that carried a cruelty no child should ever know.
The treatments alone were brutal.
Chemotherapy.
Medications that stripped his appetite.
Medications that stole his strength.
Medications that made his body ache in ways he didn’t have words for.
And then there was everything she added on top of that.
The powders.
The liquids.
The pills that tasted awful.
The remedies that burned his throat.
The routines that turned meals into negotiations.
He hated them.
Every single one.
But he still took them.
Not because he believed in them.
Not because he wanted to.
But because he loved her.
Sometimes he swallowed things just to make her feel better.
She could see it in his eyes.
The way he groaned before lifting the cup.
The way his shoulders tensed before another dose.
She would say, “Come on, Will, just take this medicine.”
And he would sigh.
And ache.
And do it anyway.
Because he knew how desperate she was.
Because he knew how badly she needed hope.
And slowly, without meaning to, she made his life harder.
Cancer was already stealing enough from him.
And she piled more onto his burden.
More tastes he despised.
More routines that exhausted him.
More moments where he just wanted to be a normal teenager again.
She realized it in fragments.
In the silence after he swallowed another dose.
In the way he flinched when she brought out yet another supplement.
In the exhaustion etched into his face.
At one point, she even joked with him.
She told him that if anyone ever shared a study claiming dog poop cured cancer, he’d be eating dog poop.
She laughed when she said it.
He laughed too.
But beneath the humor was truth.
She would have tried anything.
Anything at all.
That was how far she was willing to go.
That was how desperate love made her.
She shares this now not to shock anyone.
Not to shame herself.
But to be honest.
To be transparent.
To tell the truth about what it means to love a child who is dying.
She is not against traditional medicine.
She never was.
She is not against holistic medicine either.
She still isn’t.
She doesn’t believe one path cancels out the other.
She believes healing can be layered.
That science and faith can coexist.
That God works through many hands.
Many methods.
Many mysteries.
But she also learned something painful along the way.
Sarcoma is not like other cancers.
Bone cancer at stage four is not a fight you can win with effort alone.
It is aggressive.
Relentless.
Unforgiving.
It takes.
And it takes.
And it does not stop taking just because a mother believes hard enough.
More often than not, it cannot be beaten without a miracle.
A real miracle.
The kind that doesn’t come from a bottle or a protocol.
The kind that comes straight from Heaven.
Straight from God.
And that is where they stand now.
Not empty-handed.
But empty of illusions.
Still hopeful.
Still grateful.
Still holding on.
She remains thankful for every person who shared a story.
For every message sent with love.
For every attempt to help her son.
Those stories mattered.
They still do.
They reminded her she was not alone.
They reminded her that hope exists even when outcomes are uncertain.
They reminded her that people care.
And in the darkest nights, that mattered more than she can ever explain.
She doesn’t regret loving this fiercely.
She doesn’t regret trying.
If given the chance, she would still chase hope again.
But now, she carries a different kind of surrender.
Not giving up.
But giving over.
Trusting that whatever miracle comes—whether healing or peace—it will be enough.
Because love never stops fighting.
Even when it learns to let go.
