STT. Will Roberts Shows Concerning Symptoms, Family Prepares for Possible Emergency Care
“Trying to plan for the future… while still struggling to hold onto the present.”
There are families who no longer measure time in months or years.
They measure time in hours, in tiny moments that can pass at any time.
In the world of children with cancer, “the future” is no longer a clear concept.
It has become a luxury, something fragile, even something not worth mentioning.
Will’s family learned that in the most painful way.
No one had prepared them for a journey like this.
No one taught them how to live when all their plans could fall apart with just one phone call from the hospital.
Waking up each morning is no longer a normal start.
It is a question.
Will everything be alright today?
A mild fever can appear at any time.
A pain attack can strike in the middle of the night while the whole family is asleep.
A test result, a word from the doctor… all of that is enough to change the entire course of their lives.
And then, they were forced to learn how to live differently.
There are no more long-term plans.
No more “next month we will…”.
No more “this summer we will…”.
Only the present remains.
Only the smallest things remain.
A peaceful afternoon.
A sudden burst of laughter.
A short fishing trip across the road.
Things that seemed ordinary… became everything.
Will’s family used to have plans just like everyone else.
They had planned, prepared, and looked forward to it.
A major turkey hunt in Tennessee had been planned for a long time.
The license has been purchased.
Everything is ready.
It’s not just a trip.
That is the hope.
That’s something to look forward to amidst these uncertain times.
But then that morning came.
Will woke up with a terrible headache.
My body feels tired.
Mild fever.
The shivering started the night before.
No one can be sure what’s happening.
It could be a reaction to immunotherapy.
But it could also be a sign of something more serious.
The family started monitoring the temperature hour by hour.
They try to anticipate every possible scenario.
Pain medication was used.
Will lay down to rest, trying to conserve his strength.
My parents sat beside me, never taking their eyes off me.
They told each other that… when Will woke up, they would see how things were.
But deep down, they already knew the answer.
That trip… probably won’t happen.
And that’s the part that few people see.
The part that doesn’t appear on social media.
The untold part of positive stories.
It felt heavy.
That’s the feeling of guilt.
These plans had been in preparation for months.
Those who have spent their time, effort, and money waiting.
And then, on the final day… they had to say something simple but heartbreaking.
“Perhaps we won’t be able to come.”
That statement carries a lot of meaning.
Disappointment.
Regret.
And a heavy feeling of guilt.
They think about all that others have done to help their family fit in and be included.
But then the disease… reappeared.
Silent, cold… and taking everything away.
Friends try to plan trips to the beach.
They made a reservation.
They requested time off from work.
They prepared everything.
But Will’s family… couldn’t give a definite answer.
Because in their world, everything depends on things beyond their control.
A scan result.
A reaction to the medication.
An unexpected complication.
They have to think about “what ifs”.
What if they can’t go?
What if people lose money, lose time… just because their lives are changed once again?
That pressure wasn’t just on Will.
It crushed the whole family.
Will’s father is approaching a significant milestone in his life.
I have only three months left until retirement after nearly 25 years of work.
A milestone that everyone has been waiting for.
But for him… it was a big question.
Will he be able to achieve it?
Will this war end before his time runs out?
Will they remain in Alabama… or will they have to move to Texas to continue treatment?
The job requires planning.
The job requires guidance.
But he… had no answer.
And that made him feel guilty.
I feel guilty for not being able to contribute as I used to.
There is a fault in being unable to make clear decisions.
It’s a mistake… for even thinking about retirement.
Meanwhile, his son is still fighting every day.
It’s a kind of internal conflict that not everyone understands.
Between responsibility and love.
Between the future and the present.
Between hope and reality.
And then there are days like that.
The father should have gone to work.
But he couldn’t.
He dropped Charlie off at school… and then returned home immediately.
Because Will looked at him… and just said one sentence.
“Dad, can you stay in the room with me?”
No further words are needed.
No explanation needed.
There was fear in those eyes…
A fear that a child shouldn’t have to carry.
Cancer doesn’t just take away your health.
It takes away the ability to plan.
It takes away the certainty.
It takes away simple promises like “we will come.”
And instead… it’s the present.
A fragile, vulnerable present.
A place you’re both grateful to have… and afraid to lose at any moment.
That’s a strange way of life.
But it was also the only way they could live.
Will’s family has learned to accept that.
They learned to appreciate each moment.
They learned to find meaning in the little things.
Because sometimes… just having one good day… is a victory in itself.
This journey is not just their battle alone.
Thousands of other families are going through the same thing.
These children are fighting every day.
The parents are trying to stay strong.
These families are living between hope and fear.
Cancer has taken so much away.
But that doesn’t mean we have to accept it as inevitable.
These children deserve more than this.
They deserve better treatment.
More advanced research.
Greater opportunities for a better life.
Will’s story is not just a sad one.
It’s a reminder.
That “the present” is not something to be taken lightly.
That’s all.
And sometimes… simply being able to hold onto the “present moment”… is already an extraordinary thing.
