In this journey with childhood cancer, we have learned a bitter lesson: the word “easy” is often just a cruel illusion. We walked into this round of Methotrexate with a slightly lighter heart than usual. Last night, the dose ran through Will’s system without a single red flag. No alarms chimed from the infusion pump; no warnings flashed on the monitors. It was a night so quiet that we allowed ourselves to believe, even if only for a fleeting moment, that maybe this time would be smooth.
But this morning shattered that belief into a thousand jagged pieces.
The Moment the Air Vanished
There is a specific kind of terror that words cannot fully capture. It is the moment you look at your child and see their tiny hands curling inward, the fingers locked in painful, uncontrollable cramps. But the most bone-chilling part was when Will tried to speak. He looked at me with eyes full of confusion and a silent plea for help, but his tongue would not cooperate.
Watching your child struggle to form a simple sentence is a fear that hits straight through your chest and steals the oxygen from your lungs. In that moment, the world outside the hospital walls ceased to exist. There was only me, my son, and a devastating reality unfolding before my eyes.
Methotrexate is a deceptive enemy. It doesn’t always announce its presence with nausea or exhaustion. Instead, it wages a quieter, more sinister war—silently attacking the heart, the kidneys, and the central nervous system. When the word “toxicity” began to heavy the air in our discussions with the medical team, it brought with it shadows of seizures and worst-case scenarios that no parent should ever have to imagine.
A Child’s Darkest Question
As doctors hurried in and out, ordering more labs and discussing contingency plans, Will’s mind raced to the darkest place a child can go. He looked up at me and asked a question that brought my world crashing down: “Mom… do you think I have a brain tumor?”
How do you answer that when you are trembling yourself? I did the only thing I knew how to do. I crawled into the hospital bed beside him, pulling his frail body close to mine. I used my hands to massage his locked fingers, praying silently through my tears while he cried in pain. His hands were clamped in a constant, agonizing cramp, to the point where he couldn’t even hold a spoon to feed himself.
In that hour, all the medical knowledge and mental preparation felt useless. I was just a mother wishing with every fiber of my being that I could take his pain and make it my own.
The Silent Thief: Magnesium
After moments of high-stakes tension, we finally found a clue: Magnesium. His levels were critically low. Again.
Chemotherapy is a heartbreaking paradox. The very weapon sent to save his life is also the thing that strips his body of every good nutrient left. It drains the energy, siphons the minerals, and leaves the body empty and exhausted. The medical team immediately started magnesium through his IV and administered Ativan to calm his fraying nerves, hoping to bring some semblance of relief.
While reading about the effects of severe magnesium deficiency gave me a small measure of peace—knowing this wasn’t a new tumor—the image of Will struggling to speak has left a permanent scar on my heart.
When Love Outshouts Fear
In the middle of the emotional wreckage, Jason—as steady as he always is—found a way to bring the light back in.
Since Will couldn’t feed himself, Jason turned the breakfast tray into a stage. He transformed spoons of cereal into “airplanes” flying directly into Will’s mouth. He intentionally smeared marshmallows on Will’s face, doing anything to coax out a weak, precious giggle. Even there, in a room defined by illness, love found a way to be louder than fear.
When Jason noticed dried mud still tucked between Will’s toes from his days playing at home, he joked, “Man, this must be ‘mud toxicity’ from riding that four-wheeler too much!” We laughed. That laughter is how we survive. Humor doesn’t make the cancer disappear, but it makes the burden a little easier to carry. It reminded Will that he is still a boy who loves the outdoors, not just a “patient” in a bed.
A Plea for the Night
This road is brutal. It wears down the body of the warrior and gnaws at the spirit of those standing beside him. But tonight, as the magnesium drips into Will’s veins, we are choosing to stop and breathe.
Please stand with us in prayer:
- Pray that this magnesium correction works quickly to stop the cramping and restore his speech.
- Pray for peace to fill our minds when fear tries to scream its lies.
- Pray for strength when we are simply too exhausted to hold ourselves together.
We are still here. We are still fighting. And most importantly, we are still believing in a brighter tomorrow. Because we have seen that even in the darkest hours, love always finds a way to win.
Thank you for being the village that carries us when our own legs are too weak to stand.
Send a Message to Will:
Will reads your comments every night. Your encouragement is the best medicine for his spirit.
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