1. The Hallway of Contrasting Memories
There are spaces that, the moment you step into them, pull memories back like a whirlwind. Today, we returned to the 8th floor, the 8QB wing of Children’s Hospital. This is the place where, only a few months ago, the “Victory Bell” rang out joyfully when Will finished his last dose of chemotherapy.
On that day, the air was thick with hope. We held each other and cried, believing that the “poison” being pumped into his small body had fulfilled its mission to destroy the cancer cells. We walked out of those doors with the posture of victors.
But today, while the hallway remains the same, the feeling is entirely different. My footsteps felt heavy. The neon lights on the ceiling seemed dimmer. Walking back into that space today felt like walking into a different world—a world where hope is being tested by cruel and unforgiving numbers.
2. Signs of a Rising Enemy
For the past few days, Will seemed okay. He was managing his breathing, the chest pains had subsided, and life seemed to have found a fragile, artificial peace. But then, on the way to the hospital this morning, he turned to me and said, “Mom, I must have slept wrong on my shoulder last night. It’s hurting.”
When he pointed to the spot, my heart tightened. A terrifying silence filled my mind. I knew that location. I remembered the PET scan results. It was the tumor on his clavicle. A mother’s instinct, combined with the sensitivity of someone who has become far too familiar with medical charts, told me this wasn’t about a sleeping position. It was the knocking of an old enemy.
3. The Number 800 – A Blade Through the Soul
The bloodwork results came back, and the number 800 appeared like a silent sentence. Alkaline Phosphatase (ALP)—a marker that anyone fighting osteosarcoma understands all too well.
- At his Stage 4 diagnosis: The number was 500.
- At the end of his chemo in September: The number was 170.
- And today: It soared to 800.
That number isn’t just medical data; it is the cruel whisper of a disease saying it is ravaging his body faster than ever. It sits in my stomach like a heavy block of lead, making it hard to breathe. Every effort, every hope for remission feels like it is shaking violently against the power of these cold, hard numbers.
4. The Question That Shattered My Heart
In the midst of my struggle with these dark thoughts about the ALP levels, Will looked at me with eyes that were clear and full of trust. He asked: “Does that mean the Cabo drug is working, Mama?”
The question took my breath away. He was looking at the changing numbers and hoping they were a sign of victory. He is fighting with all the innocence and courage of a 14-year-old boy.
How could I answer him? We have always chosen honesty; we haven’t hidden anything from him since the day of his diagnosis. But watching him receive bad news after bad news while still maintaining such a rock-solid faith—it is truly beyond my endurance. How does a child not get beaten down? How does he find the strength to stand back up again when every step forward is met with a terrible setback?
5. Exhaustion and the “Mustard Seed of Faith”
I am tired. I am so tired that I don’t even have the strength to cry. This isn’t the exhaustion of missed sleep; it is a soul-deep erosion of the spirit. Waiting for the next scans on January 8th feels like a slow form of torture. The numbers dance in my head, painting a picture of a disease eating him alive day by day.
And yet, in the middle of this depletion, I am still trying to cling to a “mustard seed of faith.” I am still asking for mountains to move. I am still hoping for a miracle that science cannot explain.
Tonight, my prayer is no longer made of polished words. It is only a choked sob: “God, I need a miracle. Please give me the strength You gave Will yesterday—so that I can pick myself up and face tomorrow. I know You will not forsake me, but I need a sign, something to feel Your presence near…”
6. Epilogue: We Do Not Walk Alone
Will’s story is more than just the story of a pediatric cancer patient. It is a lesson in resilience, unconditional love, and the power of faith in the darkest hours.
If you are reading these lines, please stop for a moment. Offer a prayer, a positive thought, for Will and for our family. Miracles sometimes don’t come from grand gestures, but from the connection between hearts—from the collective power of thousands of pleas.
We will keep fighting. Will will keep smiling and asking about those rays of hope. And I, his mother, will keep clinging to that mustard seed of faith until the very end. Because love is stronger than death, and faith can move mountains.
Please stay with us. Do not let this candle go out. 🙏✨
