STT. Latest Diagnostic Results for Will Roberts Raise Questions After Conflicting Imaging Findings

The morning the images appeared on the screen, Will’s mother felt as if time had stood still.

Two PET images, one from December 5th and the other from January 8th, lay side-by-side, glowing softly in the dim light of the clinic.

To the non-expert, they are simply medical data, images and colors arranged by machines.

But for a mother who has learned to recognize the fear in the test results and the hope in every millimeter, those things mean everything.

When the doctor opened the images, she leaned slightly forward, holding her breath without realizing it.

Her heart suddenly fluttered in a way she hadn’t felt in weeks.

Not because she’s certain.

But because what was shown on screen didn’t resemble the relentless decline she had prepared herself for.

In that brief moment, her heart fluttered, just like when Will was a child sleeping soundly in the next room.

She didn’t say anything aloud.

She realized that hopes expressed too quickly could easily be shattered.

But inside, something had become more peaceful.

I had, to some extent, allowed myself to believe that the story might not have the worst possible ending.

The doctor examined the images carefully, his eyebrows furrowed, his voice thoughtful.

She explained that she was confused.

No need to worry.

Don’t lose heart.

It’s simply uncertain.

She said she would propose revisions to the current report to allow a direct comparison of the PET scan results from January 8 with those from December 5.

The current report does not fully reflect the complete picture.

In the field of oncology, timing is crucial.

Later that day, while Will was still lying motionless in the MRI machine, another report arrived.

This image was obtained from the CT comparison results.

The words on the page sounded dry and cold.

“The patient’s condition is improving.”

Will’s mother felt them like a sudden weight pressing down on her chest.

This CT scan report compares current scan results with those from December 1st.

What the report failed to reflect, she realized, was the crucial detail that Will only began taking the chemotherapy drug Cabo on December 9th.

More than a week has passed since the CT scan and the first dose of treatment.

During that week, the tumor grew very rapidly.

Never stop.

Fast.

It is entirely possible that what the CT scan shows is the most advanced stage of the disease, recorded just before treatment begins to take effect.

That thought kept haunting her.

She handled it carefully, as if it were made of glass.

She knows better than anyone that one shouldn’t cling too tightly.

But she also understood better than anyone that it shouldn’t be taken lightly.

They were informed that clarification would be available tomorrow.

We may have more answers tomorrow.

Until then, she was in a position that every parent with a seriously ill child understands very well.

The time interval between reports.

The space between fear and hope.

What stuck in her mind that night wasn’t the content of the reports, but the look on the oncologists’ faces when she turned to speak with them.

The doctor admitted she was suffering from dementia.

And strangely enough, that brought comfort.

The confusion has left the story unresolved.

That confusion means there is still room for different interpretations.

Confusion means there is still room for hope.

That evening, the phone rang.

He is an oncologist from the MD Anderson Cancer Center.

She spoke calmly and thoughtfully, explaining what she had seen on the patient portal.

She acknowledged the discrepancy regarding the timeline.

She acknowledged the mixed signals.

And she reassured Will’s mother that the photos would be sent to her the following day for a closer look.

She will be directly involved in contributing ideas to the action plan.

That conversation soothed something in her heart.

Not because it promises a miracle.

But because it promises care.

Attention.

And the intention.

That night, Will fell asleep.

His body was fighting a battle he couldn’t even see.

And his mother lay awake, doing the things she had done since the day he was born.

Watching now.

Wait.

And love is intense in the quiet moments between uncertainty and hope.

She knew that the road ahead still held many uncertainties.

But for the first time in a long time, those images spoke more than just of loss.

They whispered about that possibility.

And for a mother, sometimes that’s all it takes to keep her breathing.