RM Update on Will Roberts: Approaching the Final Chemotherapy Treatments After a Home Incident

After a five-night stay in the hospital, Will Roberts walked out yesterday. The doors of the hospital seemed to open slowly, as if even they understood the gravity of the moment.

For five long nights, those hospital walls had been a fragile barrier between hope and fear. Every night, his family stayed awake, anxiously listening for every sound, every breath, and any sign of change. When Will finally left, it didn’t feel like a conclusion.

It felt more like a temporary break.

His body was exhausted, and the tiredness in his eyes ran deeper than sleep could ever cure.

But at least he was home.

And for now, home meant safety.

The days ahead were already carefully planned in the name of survival.

Outpatient chemotherapy on Thursday.

Outpatient chemotherapy on Friday.

While the schedule may have looked simple, in reality, it would involve long hours of waiting, constant monitoring, and holding their breath. Chemotherapy had stopped being just a word.

It had become a rhythm that dictated their lives—a schedule that governed their energy, their appetite, and their emotions.

Next week, they’d make the drive to MD Anderson.

Not a flight. A drive.

Because Will’s blood counts were expected to hit their lowest point exactly on the day they were supposed to fly.

The doctors had explained the risks calmly and professionally:

A compromised immune system meant that even a simple infection could be catastrophic.

A crowded airplane? Too much of a risk.

So they chose the road instead.

It would mean hours of driving, carefully planned stops, masks ready, and hands sanitized until they burned. Every mile was an act of love and dedication to his well-being.

But underneath it all, there was a silent battle.

The bone.

It had been shattered by the disease, reconstructed through surgery, and now they were waiting for it to heal properly.

The orthopedic oncologist was holding their hopes in his hands.

Would the bone be strong enough to begin the prosthetic process?

The prosthetic would mean hope, mobility, independence—a future that wasn’t just about survival, but about truly living.

They prayed for the all-clear.

For release.

Release from the restrictions.

Release from the constant waiting.

Release from the fear that something might go wrong.

When they came back, only two chemotherapy treatments would remain.

Just two.

Two final rounds inside what they half-jokingly called Will’s “prison camp.”

A place of isolation.

A place of constant medication, monitoring, and endless waiting.

They prayed that those would be the last two weeks of his cancer treatment.

And they thanked everyone who had prayed alongside them. Because no one could survive something like this alone.

But then, in the middle of all this hope, came a moment that reminded them how fragile everything still was.

Will had chemotherapy again yesterday. The kind of treatment that leaves the body feeling so exhausted that words can’t quite capture it.

Around three in the morning, Will woke his mom up. He needed to go outside.

Still half asleep, she moved slowly to guide him to the back porch.

But as she opened the door, something caught her attention.

The garage light was on.

The one that only turns on with motion.

Her heart skipped.

Through the window, she saw movement.

A shape.

A head.

And then, someone ducked down.

She heard hushed voices.

Her heart began to race.

Fear surged through her.

Without thinking, she grabbed her pistol.

Her body surged with adrenaline as she ran through the house.

When she reached the garage, the silence shattered.

It was chaos.

Metal crashing.

Plastic shattering.

She turned the corner, ready for the worst.

What she found left her breathless.

Will had tipped over in his wheelchair.

His worm business kit—something she had just ordered for him—was scattered across the floor.

The table with the microwave was overturned.

Plastic mold material was splattered everywhere: the walls, the floor, the surfaces.

And then, the voice on speakerphone.

“Will, are you okay?”

“What happened?”

Will jumped up immediately.

“I’m okay, Mom.”

“I’m okay, I promise.”

Then she smelled it.

Burnt plastic.

Fire.

Her stomach dropped.

The gallon of mold mix was open and spilled everywhere.

He had used a plastic measuring cup in the microwave, and it had melted completely through the bottom.

Jason had told him not to touch the kit until they set up the proper area.

But Will had broken the rules.

She stood there, emotions crashing through her.

Fear. Relief. Anger. Gratitude.

“I was more scared thinking someone had broken in than about this mess,” she said, finally breaking the silence.

Will’s eyes were filled with panic.

He begged her not to tell Jason.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to be out there.

Jason had slept through it all.

The noise. The mess. The near disaster.

By 3:30 a.m., exhaustion had consumed her.

Will tried to help clean up, but he was slipping, almost falling.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to cry.

She just wanted to protect him from everything.

But what terrified her most wasn’t the mess or the fire risk.

It was the fact that Will was so independent. So afraid of being a burden.

If the fire had spread, she knew he would have tried to fix it himself.

He would have been too scared to ask for help.

Because he didn’t want to bother anyone.

And that broke her heart.

Then came the explanation.

Will had been doing a wheelie in his wheelchair.

The same wheelchair she had told him repeatedly not to pop wheelies in.

She had seen him disappear out of the window as he leaned back.

And then, the fall.

A moment frozen in her mind forever.

A stain on the garage floor that they would never forget.

By morning, the chaos had settled.

The fear had faded into exhaustion.

The house was quiet again.

The chemotherapy treatment had gone smoothly.

Will was home.

He was peacefully snoozing on the couch.

Alive. Safe. Still here.

And once again, that was everything.