Today marked the first time Will Roberts and his family stepped back onto the 8 QB floor at Children’s Hospital since the day Will rang the bell after his final round of chemotherapy. His mother never expected how heavy that moment would feel.
Back then, there was hope. There were signs that the chemotherapy — the poison being pumped into his young body — was working. Walking back into that same space today felt entirely different.
For the past few days, Will’s breathing and chest pain had been under control. Life, at least briefly, felt manageable. But on the way to the hospital this morning, Will quietly said, “Mom, I must have slept wrong on my shoulder last night. It’s hurting.”
When he showed her where, she knew instantly.
The PET scan.
The clavicle tumor.
Her heart sank.
Bloodwork confirmed what her instincts already feared. Will’s alkaline phosphatase level has risen to 800, up 300 points from just last week — the highest it has ever been. For families familiar with osteosarcoma, this number matters deeply. It is a known tumor marker.
It was 500 at Will’s stage 4 diagnosis.
It dropped to 170 after his last chemo in September.
Now, it sits at 800, whispering what no parent wants to hear — that the cancer may be growing fast.
As his mother asked the oncologist about the results, Will looked up and asked softly,
“Does that mean the Cabo drug is working, Mama?”
That moment nearly broke her.
Since diagnosis, the family has chosen honesty with Will. But watching a 14-year-old receive devastating news again and again is unbearable. How does a child keep faith after so much pain? How does he stand back up when life keeps knocking him down?
“I am so tired,” his mother shared. “Too tired to even cry.”
Now comes more waiting.
More unknowns.
More scans scheduled for January 8th.
Bloodwork numbers echo endlessly in her mind, making it feel like the disease is slowly consuming her son — while she clings to a mustard seed of hope for a miracle. For mountains to move.
Mentally drained.
Spiritually worn.
Tonight, her prayer is simple and raw:
“God, we need a miracle.
Please give me the strength You gave Will just yesterday — to stand back up and face tomorrow.
Please remind me You are near.
Please be with my family.”
In Jesus’ name.
Amen.
