Today, we stepped back onto the 8 QB floor at Children’s Hospital for the first time since Will rang the bell after his last dose of chemotherapy. I thought I was prepared. I wasn’t.
We stopped by after finishing our clinic appointment, expecting it to be just another visit. But the moment we walked onto that floor, everything changed. Back then, this place carried hope. We were seeing positive signs. We believed the poison being pumped into his small body was doing its job — beating cancer back.
Walking into that same space today felt entirely different.
For the past couple of days, Will had been doing okay. His breathing and chest pain were under control, and life felt manageable again — at least by cancer standards. But on the way to the hospital this morning, he spoke softly from the back seat.
“Mom, I think I slept wrong on my shoulder last night. It’s hurting.”
He showed me where.
And instantly, my heart dropped.
I knew exactly what it was. The PET scan. The clavicle tumor. That familiar, sinking feeling washed over me before I could even say a word.
We had bloodwork done and sat down with his oncologist. The numbers confirmed what my heart already feared. Will’s alkaline phosphatase has jumped 300 points since last week — now sitting at 800, the highest it has ever been.
For those who know osteosarcoma, this number matters.
It was 500 at his stage 4 diagnosis.
It was 170 at his final chemo treatment in September.
It’s a known tumor marker. And today, it sits like a pit in my stomach, whispering that the cancer may be growing — fast.
As I was asking the oncologist what this could mean, Will looked at me and asked the question that nearly shattered me.
“Does that mean the Cabo drug is working, Mama?”
I almost broke right there.
We have never hidden the truth from him — not since the day of diagnosis. We believe in honesty. But watching a 14-year-old hear difficult news over and over and over again is unbearable. How does a child not collapse under that weight? How does he keep believing? And when his faith wavers, where does he find the strength to stand back up?
Tonight, I am exhausted beyond words.
I’m too tired to cry.
The unknowns are relentless. The waiting never ends. The next scans loom on January 8th. The bloodwork numbers replay in my head, making it feel like this disease is quietly consuming him — while I cling desperately 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 — the strength to pick myself up and face tomorrow. I know You will not forsake us, but I need something — a sign of Your presence — so I can keep going.
Please be with my family.
In Jesus’ name.
