Latest Update: Little Will Forced into Emergency Hospital Treatment for Bone Cancer.
At first, the evening felt almost normal â the kind of quiet normal that families in medical battles learn to treasure.
I got home around 6 p.m. Will told his Granny he would come downstairs at 8 to watch a movie. It was a small promise, an ordinary plan, but those small plans mean everything when life is usually measured in scans, labs, and hospital corridors.
Then, at 7:30 p.m., my phone rang.
It was Will.
His voice was faint, strained in a way I immediately recognized but never get used to hearing.
âMom⊠can you come here?â
When I walked into his room, my heart dropped. Will was sitting in his gaming chair, crying â and Will does not cry. The pain in his chest and back was so intense he couldnât stand. He couldnât shift his weight. He couldnât even explain it without wincing. In that instant, fear rushed in, sharp and overwhelming.
All I could think about was the reality we live with every day: how aggressive this tumor is, and how long Will has been off chemotherapy. When your child has cancer, your mind never goes to mild explanations first. It goes straight to the worst ones.
Jason tried to help Will up, but the pain only made him scream louder. We couldnât get him downstairs. We couldnât get him comfortable. Nothing worked.
Jason called 911.
I called Childrenâs oncology.
Everything started moving fast â too fast.
The paramedics arrived quickly and were incredible, calm and focused, but they wanted to take him to another facility first. In that moment, my nerves completely snapped. I knew what Will needed. We didnât need âsomewhere else.â We needed Childrenâs â the doctors who know his history, his scans, his body, his fight.
Jason didnât hesitate. He put Will in the car and drove straight to the hospital. I followed behind them, my hands gripping the steering wheel, my voice breaking as I prayed out loud the entire way.
I wasnât praying quietly.
I was worshiping. Crying. Singing at the top of my lungs. Begging God not to let fear steal our joy tonight. Refusing to surrender to panic, even though it was clawing at me with every mile.
When we arrived, everything became clinical again â bright lights, fast footsteps, familiar hallways. Will was taken back immediately.
CT scan first.
Then X-ray.
Then EKG.
Each test felt like a held breath. Each pause between updates felt endless. I watched Willâs face, searching for signs â not just of pain, but of who he still is beneath all of this.
And then something happened that broke me and healed me at the same time.
As the pain eased just enough for him to joke, Will looked at us and asked, completely seriously, if he could still go elk hunting next week.
In that moment, I finally exhaled.
Because that question wasnât about hunting.
It was about hope.
It was about normalcy.
It was about a boy who refuses to let cancer take his spirit, his plans, or his joy.
Thatâs who Will is.
Even on the worst nights, when his body betrays him and fear presses in, he still reaches for life. He still laughs. He still dreams forward. He still believes there will be a next week.
My heart can finally breathe again â at least for now. Heâs laughing again. And in this journey, laughter is never small. Itâs evidence. Itâs resistance. Itâs faith in motion.
Cancer steals certainty. It steals sleep. It steals peace. But nights like this remind us of something just as real: fear does not get the final word.
We donât know what tomorrow will bring. We rarely do. But tonight, we made it safely. Tonight, Will is still Will. And tonight, that is enough.
đ The full update â and the moment that broke me and healed me at the same time â is in the comments below.
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