I didn’t cry when I thought our PET scan was bad news…
Today I might cry over the fact that the absolute UNIT of a deer Will killed a couple weeks ago is now FULLY MOUNTED and ready to roll to Ralph, AL to officially join the Roberts’ ever-growing taxidermy situation.
This thing is less “wall decor” and more like a new family member.
I mean… do I hang it?
Do I name it?
Do I warn guests before they walk in so nobody calls 911?
I’ve officially reached the point in life where my biggest stress isn’t scans or schedules….it’s figuring out WHERE DO YOU PUT A MONSTER DEER HEAD without it making eye contact with you at night.
Prayers appreciated.
Interior design tips welcome.
Rocky is already confused and offended.
Thank you to Mr. Doc Stephen’s and family for bringing so much happiness to Will over the last year.
The Weight of a Mount: When Life is Measured in More Than Scans
There is a specific kind of silence that accompanies a PET scan. It is a heavy, sterile silence that fills the hallways of oncology wards and settles in the marrow of your bones as you wait for a piece of paper to dictate the rhythm of your next month. For over a year, my life has been a series of these silences. I have learned to brace for impact, to decode medical jargon, and to keep my eyes dry even when the news feels like a physical blow. When we thought the most recent scan was bringing bad news, I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I was too busy standing, too busy being the wall Will needs to lean on.
But today? Today, I am on the verge of a total emotional breakdown—not because of a white blood cell count or a new lesion, but because of an absolute “unit” of a deer.
A few weeks ago, Will went out and did what he loves most. He didn’t go as a patient; he went as a hunter. He came back with a deer so massive it felt less like a trophy and more like a mythological creature. Now, that deer is fully mounted and ready to roll its way to Ralph, Alabama, to officially join the ever-growing Roberts taxidermy collection.
It’s funny how life works. You spend months praying for “normalcy,” and then normalcy arrives in the form of a monster deer head that requires its own zip code.
The New Family Member
As I look at this thing, I realize it has transcended the category of “wall decor.” It is, for all intents and purposes, a new family member. It has a presence. It has an aura. It probably has its own opinions on our choice of upholstery.
The questions are swirling, and unlike the medical ones, there is no specialist to provide the answers:
- Do I hang it? And if I do, do I need to reinforce the entire structural integrity of the house?
- Do I name it? It feels disrespectful to refer to something this substantial as just “the deer.” It feels like a “Reginald” or a “Goliath.”
- Do I warn guests? I am genuinely concerned that if a delivery driver or a neighbor catches a glimpse of those antlers through the window, they’re going to call 911. We’ve had enough sirens in our lives; we don’t need any for a stationary animal.
I’ve officially reached a surreal new stage of this journey. For so long, my biggest stressors were scans, toxicity levels, and medication schedules. My brain was a filing cabinet of “what ifs” regarding health. Now? My biggest stressor is figuring out where you put a monster deer head so that it doesn’t make direct eye contact with you when you’re trying to sneak a late-night snack in the kitchen.
There is a profound healing in that shift.
Perspective from the Floor
While Will is over the moon, not everyone in the house shares his enthusiasm. Rocky, our faithful four-legged companion, is currently alternating between being deeply confused and visibly offended. He’s spent years being the primary “non-human” focus of our affection, and now there’s a giant, unblinking rival taking up prime real estate. If dogs could file formal complaints with HR, I’d be in a hearing right now.
But beyond the humor and the logistical nightmare of interior design, there is a deep, thrumming vein of gratitude. This deer represents a moment where Will was just a boy. Not a “warrior,” not a “patient,” but a teenager who went into the woods and came back with a story that will last a lifetime.
The Art of Happiness
I want to extend a massive thank you to Mr. Doc Stephen’s and his family. In a year that has felt like an uphill climb through a thicket of thorns, you have brought so much happiness to Will. You didn’t just help him with a hunt; you helped him reclaim a piece of himself. Every time he looks at that mount, he won’t see a hospital bed; he’ll see the woods, the crisp air, and the thrill of the chase.
So, here I am. Standing at the intersection of “I can’t believe we’re living this” and “I’m so glad we’re living this.”
I am officially accepting interior design tips. If anyone knows how to blend “Medical Command Center” with “Cabela’s Showroom,” my inbox is open. I’m also accepting prayers—mostly that I don’t trip over those antlers in the dark.
Today, we aren’t talking about nồng độ (levels) or lesions. We’re talking about where to put a legend. And in this house, that is a victory worth crying over.
