It still feels like Will’s vision—that miracle at the very last minute when everyone expects the worst—is moving in that direction. But today, the reality is heavy.
While he’s in yet another MRI that he hates, I’m sitting in the waiting room reading the CT scan report from this morning. It shows progression of disease. That means the chemo trial drug is not working. The PET scan appears largely unchanged, except for a new spot in his right femur—which explains the crippling pain he had shortly before Christmas that landed him in the hospital.
And yet… we keep pushing forward.
Right now it’s just me and him. Please pray that I find the right words—words that don’t break his determination or dull his grit. Pray for strength as I have to give him this devastating news, and pray that I can keep myself together while doing it.
When Jason isn’t with us, Will always wants to talk with me about Heaven… about dying… about what comes next. And that is hard. The hardest thing I’ve ever done—other than burying one child—is having to talk about death with a child who is old enough to fully understand the hell on earth he is living through.
The devil continues to try to defeat us—but it will not happen.
I have already contacted our oncologist at MD Anderson and told him to let us know the moment we need to be there, and we will make it happen. We will listen to whatever approach he believes may still help.
Please keep the prayers coming.
This just means we live each day like it’s our last.
We keep loving hard.
We keep believing.
We keep fighting.
We will continue to March Forth.
