After reading the scans yesterday and hearing our oncologist say the treatment didnt appear to be working with new spots, I dreaded the walk back to the car. We have never hidden anything from Will about his diagnosis, so as I pushed his wheelchair toward the parking deck, I told him calmly that I was going to message his MD Anderson oncologist because his chemo pill didn’t appear to be doing what we had hoped.
He asked if it had spread.
I told him there were a few new spots, and that the PET scan wasn’t clear on his previous ones.
He got quiet as we pulled out of the parking deck.
I asked him if he knew what was different now, than what it had been that morning. He looked at me confused, so I asked again—what is the only thing that’s different this afternoon than when you woke up today?
He couldn’t answer.
So I told him, nothing.
You feel the same right now as you did this morning. All we received were words on a piece of paper—and those words do not change the life we woke up to today. They don’t change how your body feels. They don’t change the joy waiting for us at home. They don’t get to steal our peace.
I told him we were going home to eat a big steak Daddy was cooking, and we were not letting fear take over our mindset.
We sang praise music all the way home.
We did not let the devil win.
I prayed out loud while driving and told Will my prayer would not change. I will continue to thank God for healing Will’s body of every single cancer cell. I will continue to speak life—only life—over my child.
I didn’t lose sleep last night.
I didn’t cry.
Because yesterday didn’t take anything from us that today had already given.
And we’re still standing.
