Quiet Will
Live Oak, Florida. Population 6,843. A tiny town in north central Florida, the county seat of Suwannee County. There are oaks everywhere, hence the name. Each limb is drapes in Spanish moss, which, ironically, is neither.
Meet Quiet Will Carpenter. He’s a soft spoken kid. He doesn’t talk much. He is your all-American college kid. Honey brown hair. Honest smile.
Last year, he was a freshman at the University of Central Florida. A fierce swimmer, a competitive fisherman on the UCF Bass team. Will is also a football fanatic and pulls for the Jacksonville Jaguars—but hey nobody’s perfect.
He was studying mechanical engineering. A sharp kid like Will is talented enough to be designing space probes for NASA. Classic overachiever. This kid is going places.
He doesn’t talk much, but he’s the genuine article.
Last year, on Christmas Eve, Will had a sinus infection. No big deal. His lymph nodes were pretty swollen so his mother took him to the hospital. They were on the way to Christmas dinner with family when they made the detour to the emergency room.
The doctor looked him over. It was no run-of-the-mill sinus infection. It was worse. Much worse. They never made it to Christmas dinner.
Within days, Will had already left school and began hardcore treatment. The mild mannered fisherman was subjected to the systenatic that is American Healthcare. He underwent all the usual oncology stuff. He was exposed to chemo, meds, and obscene amounts of daytime television.
His family survived on vending machine food. Slept in waiting rooms. Waited on test results. They cried. They prayed for miracles. Doctors ran more tests.
Will received radiation treatment on his face, spine and shoulder. He was administered every drug you’ve ever heard of, and many you haven’t. And recently, he was fitted with a gastronomy tube, simply so he can eat.
To say this past year has been “hard” is like saying World War II was a minor disagreement. This last year has been absolute perdition.
His affliction is called alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma. It is aggressive. It is a rare cancer, especially among kids. About 3 percent of childhood cancers are alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma (ARMS).
In medical-speak: ARMS is a small, round, blue cell tumor in skeletal muscle tissue, and it is thought to originate from mesenchymal cells. In layman’s terms: this stuff is bad news.
Meanwhile, Quiet Will has been taking each blow on the chin, without complaints. He’s been suffering bravely. He barely makes a peep. He’s remained lighthearted. Upbeat. Humorous even.
Will’s aunt says this of her nephew:
“Through it all, Will has been positive, funny and he even chastised us when we dared to ask why God did this to one of our children.”
Recently, Will’s family received another crushing blow.
His medical team said his cancer was deemed “chemo-treatment resistant.” The cancer is spreading through his bones and connective tissue.
Unsurprisingly, this quiet kid is remarkably positive. He is not throwing any pity parties. He is not feeling sorry for himself. Neither is he giving up. He is still fighting like heck.
There is, however, one request Will’s family has. And this is why I am writing to you.
Will’s aunt says: “Will told me not long ago that one of his biggest regrets is not talking more when he was healthy, to meet new people, and get to know people better.”
I aim to change this.
Although you and I are strangers, I feel like we’re friends. And friends do stuff together. So if you have spare time, you can join me in sending a note to: Quiet Will, PO Box 835 Live Oak, Florida, 32064.
Your letter doesn’t have to be well written. We’re not looking for Bill Shakespeare here. Just remind Will that he’s special. Tell him you’re praying. Share a funny story. Draw a picture. Write a poem. Tell a joke.
If you’re unsure about what to say in your letter, just remind our quiet hero that miracles do happen. Every single day, in fact. We know for certain that miracles occur.
Because Will Carpenter is one.