Where do I start? He was so laid back when born - he was a very relaxed baby who loved his food. He had those wonderful wrinkles around his wrists like he was wearing elastic bands!
He grew into a wonderful little boy. Full of mischief, yet very gentle. No rough and tumble with his younger brother. He didn't want the limelight (something that he hated about being ill later on), he was very much into telling me about his friends achievements.he had a very school boy humour, all about poos and farts and yet he was so intelligent. He lived in what we called Will's World. It would be like he had a conversation in his head in some extraordinary subject, then would jump a few levels, and then start the conversation out loud. It was wonderful to hear him backtrack over his thoughts and how he had got to where he had.
He wanted so much to just be a normal school boy. He sat his GCSE's at home in bed because he wanted to gain entrance into the Sixth Form on merit, not because he was ill.
He was brave, and funny, God so funny. Even in the worst moments he could make me laugh, as I could him. He was determined. Determined to fight until the end. Even though his Dad and I did not want him to do the 'last ditch' round of chemo he wanted to give it his all.
And yet the fucking cancer got him. After all of that. After the horrendous side effects. After losing his hair, most of his body weight. Learning to sit, stand, swallow after his op. Learning to write again. Vomitting every day for 27 months, usually numerous times.
Having wheelchair races with his mates - setting up a course that they had to take in turns.
He was extraordinary. And he died. And I miss him.