Time is a strange architect. It builds, it destroys, and it measures our lives in ways we never anticipate until we are forced to count the seconds. For a mother, the number “nine” is sacred. It is the duration of a miracle. For nine months, I carried Will in the sanctuary of my womb. In that quiet, dark space, I held him close to my heart, feeling every flutter, every kick, and every sign of a life beginning to bloom. Those nine months were defined by anticipation, by the picking of names and the painting of nurseries. It was a journey toward a beginning.
But life, in its unpredictable and often cruel complexity, has demanded another nine months from us. For nine long, agonizing months, we have carried Will through a different kind of darkness—the shadow of chemotherapy. If the first nine months were about building his body, these last nine months have been about saving it. Tonight, as the hospital lights dim and the monitors begin their steady, clinical hum, we mark the start of what we pray with every fiber of our being will be the last dose of “poison” he will ever need.
The Weight of the “Poison”
It is a jarring word, isn’t it? Poison. As a parent, your instinct is to protect your child from anything that could cause harm. Yet, in the world of pediatric oncology, we have had to invite the toxin in. We have watched it drip slowly into his veins, knowing it was the only weapon strong enough to fight the monster inside.
For nine months, we have watched Will endure what no child should ever know. We have seen the vibrant colors of childhood fade under the pallor of treatment. We have held him through the nausea, the exhaustion, and the quiet moments of fear that he is too brave to speak aloud. To carry a child through chemo is to walk a tightrope between desperation and hope. You are grateful for the medicine, yet you loathe what it takes from him in exchange for his survival.
Tonight feels different. There is a heavy finality in the air, a sense that we are standing at the edge of a great divide. This final five-night stay in the hospital is the last peak of a mountain we have been climbing in the dark.
The Five-Night Vigil
The hospital has become a second home—a place of sterile smells, fluorescent lights, and the kindest nurses who have become our sisters-in-arms. This five-night stretch is our final vigil. It is a period of waiting, of watching the bags empty and the pumps beep, and of whispering prayers into the silence of the night.
We aren’t just waiting for the medicine to finish; we are waiting for the “After.” We are waiting to see if the nine months of sacrifice have yielded the harvest we so desperately seek. Every time I look at Will, I see the baby I carried years ago, and I see the warrior he has become. The courage in his eyes is a mirror of the strength we have had to find in ourselves—a strength we didn’t know we possessed until it was the only option left.
The Simple Prayer of the Scan
After these five nights comes “Scan Day.” In our world, Scan Day is the day the world stops spinning. It is the day when technology peers into the hidden places of his body to tell us the truth.
Our prayer is simple, yet it encompasses our entire universe: Clear scans. We pray for the absence of shadows. We pray for the radiologist to find nothing but healthy tissue and healing. We pray to hear the words “no sign of disease.” We pray for Will to be declared completely cancer-free, a title he has earned a thousand times over.
More than anything, we pray for the return of his bright, happy smile—not the brave, tired smile he wears for us now, but the genuine, effortless radiance of a boy who no longer has a war raging inside him. We want him to return to the simple joys of being fourteen: the laughter, the sports, the mundane worries of school, and the freedom to breathe without the weight of a diagnosis pressing on his chest.
The Power of the Collective
As we sit in this room tonight, we are acutely aware that we are not alone. While the four of us—Will, his daddy Jason, his sister Charlie, and I—are the ones physically in this room, we feel the presence of a vast army behind us.
We are holding tightly to faith and hope, but sometimes, when our own hands grow weary, it is the prayers of others that keep our grip firm. We believe in the power of love. We believe that prayer is not just words spoken into the void, but a tangible force that can carry a family through the storm.
This journey has stripped away the superficialities of life. It has taught us that everything can be taken in an instant, except for the love we hold and the faith we carry. We have learned to find God in the small wins, in the moments when the nausea subsides, and in the quiet strength of a son who refuses to let his spirit be broken.
Standing at the Threshold
Nine months to bring him into the world. Nine months to keep him in it.
Tonight, as the final cycle begins, we look toward the horizon. We are moving toward the light. We are tired, we are worn, and we are battle-scarred, but we are still standing. We are moving out of the darkness of the chemo ward and toward the possibility of a future where “cancer” is a word of the past.
To everyone who has stood with us, who has whispered Will’s name in the quiet of their mornings or the stillness of their nights: Thank you. You are the wind beneath our wings. You are the reason we can look at the “last dose” not with terror, but with a fierce, burning hope.
We are ready for the bright, happy smile. We are ready for the clear scans. We are ready to bring our boy home, whole and healed. The nine months are coming to an end, and we are ready for the new beginning.
