Some updates do not arrive like sunlight breaking through clouds.
They don’t feel like victory, but they are not defeat either.
They arrive quietly, heavily—carrying both relief and fear in the same breath.
This update is one of those.
After days filled with waiting, long hours in sterile hospital rooms, and the kind of silence that presses against your chest, the doctors finally shared their latest findings.
The good news came first.
The cancer in Will’s leg is no longer active.
The skip lesions—the ones that had caused the greatest concern—are dead.
For the first time in a long while, the words “reduced surgical risk” were spoken out loud.
We sat there, stunned.
Not jumping for joy.
Not crying tears of celebration.
Just breathing—slowly—because for the first time in months, Will’s body had shown us something we hadn’t dared to expect: resistance.
After endless rounds of chemotherapy.
After pain, exhaustion, and nights filled with silent questions about how much time was left.
One part of his body had finally forced the disease to loosen its grip.
The tumors in his leg—the place where all of this began—are quiet now.
No longer active.
No longer spreading.
They are dead.
It is a victory.
A small one.
But a victory nonetheless.
Yet before that hope could fully take shape, reality reminded us how fragile it still is.
The report on Will’s lungs remains heavy.
Two cancerous nodules are still there.
And they are larger than before.
The words landed hard, sharp enough to steal the air from the room. But then the doctor added something that none of us were prepared for:
They have grown… but they are necrotic.
Cancer—yet dying.
A contradiction that feels impossible to understand.
How can something grow while it’s already dying?
How can a disease continue to take space inside a body while losing its life at the same time?
We don’t have a clear answer.
Medically, they call it tumor necrosis—a sign that chemotherapy is working. The cancer cells are no longer healthy, no longer alive in the way they once were. But they remain. They still occupy space. They still matter.
They are weakened, but not gone.
And that is what makes hope feel so delicate right now.
Not the kind of hope that bursts into celebration.
But the kind you hold very gently, afraid that gripping it too tightly might make it disappear.
Will listened to everything in silence.
No tears.
No anger.
No “why me?”
He simply nodded, as if he had already learned how to receive incomplete answers. Later, when it was just the two of us, he asked quietly:
“So… am I winning or losing?”
No one teaches you how to answer that question.
Because cancer is not a clean battle with a scoreboard. There is no clear win or loss. Some days you move forward a step, only to be pulled back the next. Some test results carry light and darkness at the same time. And some moments force you to hold two opposite emotions in a single heartbeat.
I told him the only truth I knew how to say:
“You’re fighting. And you haven’t given up. That already counts as a kind of victory.”
The truth is, we are still in the middle of the journey.
The road ahead is uncertain.
The nodules in his lungs require close monitoring.
No one is making promises.
No one is offering guarantees.
But no one is saying there is no hope either.
And sometimes, that is enough to keep going.
Hope, at this stage, is quieter than it used to be. It no longer looks like long-term plans or confident reassurances that “everything will be okay.” Hope now lives in much smaller places.
It lives in the way Will still wakes up smiling on some mornings.
In the way he jokes that hospital food is “not terrible.”
In the fact that he still has the strength to stand, to walk, to laugh.
In the words the doctors said softly but clearly: “We have more time.”
More time.
For some people, that sounds ordinary.
For us, it is priceless.
Because more time means more chances to love.
More moments to hold hands.
More days for treatment to work.
More opportunities for healing.
More space for a miracle—if miracles truly exist.
This update is not a celebration.
It is not a surrender either.
It is the truth.
The truth that we are walking a thin line between fear and faith.
That cancer does not disappear overnight.
That progress and uncertainty often arrive together.
But above all, it is the truth that Will is still here.
Still fighting.
Still breathing.
Still holding on.
And as long as there is cautious hope, we will keep moving forward.
More details will follow when we know more.
Thank you for every prayer, every message, and every silent moment of support.
