TST. Health Update on Will Roberts: New Pain and Concerning Lab Results Add Weight to an Already Difficult Fight
The elevator doors opened onto the 8 QB floor at Children’s Hospital, and for a brief moment, time seemed to fold in on itself.
The fluorescent lights hummed softly, exactly as they always had.
The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, unchanged, familiar, cruel in its consistency.
This was the first time Will had stepped back onto this floor since the day he rang the bell after his final dose of chemotherapy.
That day, months ago, had been wrapped in cautious joy.
There were smiles that trembled at the edges.
Tears that came with relief instead of terror.
Hope, fragile but present, had filled the hallways as if it belonged there.
Back then, every step forward felt like a victory stolen back from cancer itself.
They had believed the poison flowing through Will’s small body was doing its job.
They believed the nausea, the pain, the hair loss, and the endless exhaustion were proof that something evil was being defeated.
They believed survival was quietly assembling itself in the background.
Today felt nothing like that.
Today, hope did not greet them at the door.
It hid somewhere deep in the walls, silent and distant.
Will walked beside his mother, his steps slow but steady.
His breathing had been manageable these past few days.
The chest pain that once stole his air had eased enough to let him laugh again, to let him sleep.
For a moment, life had almost resembled something ordinary.
On the drive to the hospital that morning, Will shifted in his seat and frowned.
“Mom, I think I slept wrong on my shoulder last night,” he said quietly.
“It’s hurting.”
He lifted his arm slightly, showing her where the pain lived.
She knew instantly.
The memory of the PET scan flashed through her mind with cruel clarity.
The clavicle tumor.
The one they hoped would shrink.
The one they prayed would respond.
Her heart dropped so fast it felt physical, like something heavy collapsing inside her chest.
She said nothing.
She smiled the way mothers do when they are breaking.
Bloodwork came first.
Needles.
Tubes filling with red.
The quiet bravery of a child who had been poked too many times to flinch anymore.
They sat across from the oncologist in a small room that had heard too many conversations like this.
The doctor’s voice was calm, measured, practiced.
Numbers appeared on the screen.
Alkaline phosphatase.
Up three hundred points from the previous week.
Eight hundred.
The highest it had ever been.
For families familiar with osteosarcoma, that number carried weight.
It wasn’t just a statistic.
It was a signal.
A warning.
It had been five hundred at Will’s stage four diagnosis.
One hundred seventy at his last chemotherapy session in September.
Now it sat there, heavy and undeniable.
A known tumor marker.
A number that whispered truths no one wanted to hear.
As his mother asked questions, trying to sound composed, Will watched her face.
Then he asked his own question.
“Does that mean the Cabo drug is working, Mama?”
The room seemed to stop breathing.
That single sentence cut deeper than any needle ever could.
A fourteen-year-old boy, still clinging to the idea that this medication might be saving him.
Still hoping.
Still believing.
They had never lied to him.
Not once.
From the day of diagnosis, they chose honesty.
They believed truth mattered, even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
But there is something uniquely unbearable about watching a child absorb disappointment again and again.
How does a child not crumble under the weight of repeated bad news.
How does faith survive when hope keeps being tested.
How does someone so young learn to stand back up after being knocked down by reality over and over.
His mother smiled.
She answered gently.
She avoided the words that would shatter him completely.
She carried them herself instead.
By the time they left the hospital, her body felt hollow.
Not empty.
Hollow.
As if something essential had been scooped out and replaced with exhaustion.
She was too tired to cry.
Too tired to scream.
Too tired to process the possibility that the cancer might be growing fast.
The waiting was unbearable.
The unknown worse.
January 8th loomed in her mind like a storm on the horizon.
The next scans.
The next confirmation of what her heart already feared.
The bloodwork numbers replayed in her thoughts, over and over.
Eight hundred.
Eight hundred.
Eight hundred.
It felt like the disease was eating him alive while she stood helpless, clinging to the smallest fragment of hope.
A mustard seed.
A miracle.
Mountains moving.
Her spirit felt threadbare.
Her mind exhausted.
Her faith stretched thin but not broken.
That night, when the house finally grew quiet, she sat alone.
Will slept in the next room, unaware of how fiercely she was fighting the darkness for him.
She folded her hands.
Not with eloquence.
Not with strength.
Just honesty.
God, we need a miracle.
Whatever Your plan may be, please give me the strength You gave Will just yesterday.
Help me stand back up.
Help me face tomorrow.
I know You will not forsake us.
But I need something.
A sign.
A whisper.
A presence.
Please be near.
Please hold my family when I cannot.
In Jesus’ name.
Amen.
And even in the silence that followed, she held on.
Because mothers do not stop believing.
Even when belief costs everything.
