TL.“Who cares, just do you”—the words that helped a cancer patient reclaim normal life for one day
Some things in life are simply not fair.
Two boys should be worrying about ball practice, summer plans, and who’s winning the next game—not learning how to live inside the boundaries of childhood illness.
But that’s the reality for Noah and Will.
Noah battles Type 1 diabetes, and by every account, he rocks it with strength beyond his years. Will is facing something even heavier, navigating the exhausting world of pediatric cancer, where every day comes with risks most families never have to think about.
And yet, in the middle of all the unfairness, something beautiful is still standing strong:
Friendship.
Noah and Will grew up playing ball together. They went to different schools, but the bond stayed. Summers were filled with the kind of childhood memories that feel almost sacred now—four and five nights at a time staying together, swimming, fishing, running wild along the riverbank like nothing in the world could touch them.
Then life changed.
And when illness enters the picture, you never really know what will happen to friendships. Some people fade away. Some don’t know how to show up. Some get uncomfortable with the reality of sickness.
But Noah did the opposite.
On Monday, Will’s mom received a message that melted her completely:
Noah asked if he could come hang out with Will.
Just like that.
No awkwardness. No distance. Just a friend stepping in, standing beside him, rocking alongside him the way real friends do.
Will has temporary setbacks, but his personality is still what wins people over. He’s fun. He jokes constantly. Acts dumb. Keeps the house loud enough that his parents are always yelling at him about something.
That joy is still there.
But cancer has changed what “normal” looks like.
Right now, Will can’t even fish—and that alone wrecks his mom. Something as simple as being outside too long is dangerous. Getting too hot, sweating, risking dehydration with kidney concerns… it’s too risky.
Being in public with zero counts is risky.
Everything is risk.
Cancer doesn’t just attack the body—it shrinks the world around a child.
This week, they had to make a trip to Birmingham for a new port. Another reminder that life is now measured in procedures and appointments.
And in the middle of it, Will asked a question that hit straight to the heart:
“Is there anything fun me and Noah can go do?”
That’s what hurts. Fun becomes something you have to chase between treatments. Normalcy becomes something you schedule around survival.
His mom’s original plan was to work that day. The port issue already turned it into only a half day.
But Will asking to do something fun erased work entirely.
Because when your child is fighting this battle, you don’t postpone joy.
You make it happen.
So they went to Dave & Buster’s.
Only about ten people were there. Quiet. Manageable. A small pocket of the outside world that felt almost safe.
His mom became the “freak mom,” wiping down every game, squirting hand sanitizer constantly, doing everything she could to protect him physically…
while knowing deep down this was about protecting him mentally too.
He needed this.
A little normal.
And then came the moment that stopped her cold.
When they pulled up, Will said:
“Mom, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
She assumed he meant infection risk.
But he didn’t.
He said:
“No. I’m worried about my leg and other people.”
That broke her.
Not fear for himself…
but fear of being seen.
Fear of making others uncomfortable.
Fear of being different.
That’s another thing illness steals: the ability to just exist without thinking about how you look to the world.
And in that moment, Noah stepped in.
Because sometimes a friend’s voice reaches deeper than a parent’s ever could.
Noah said:
“Who cares, Will. Just do you.”
Will paused.
Then he said:
“You’re right. I don’t care. I’m going in.”
And he did.
He walked into Dave & Buster’s and owned it—not because the fear wasn’t real, but because he chose to live anyway.
His mom watched him overcome something huge: the fear of being out in public, the fear of being different, the fear of carrying illness where strangers can see it.
And she noticed something else.
He was polite to the server. Kind to the workers. Still himself.
She knows she and Jason have made parenting mistakes.
But moments like this remind her they’ve done a few things right.
Because today wasn’t just about arcade games.
It was about courage.
It was about friendship.
It was about a fourteen-year-old boy reclaiming a piece of childhood for one afternoon.
And a best friend standing beside him, saying simply:
Just be you.
