Some Mondays are forever memorable. The first Monday in March of 2025 was one such day for Robertson County teen, Issac Gleaves, and his family.

It was Issac’s junior year at White House Heritage High School. He called his mom, Jennifer, the previous Friday from the nurse’s office.

“I’m in here because my stomach hurts, but I don’t want you to pick me up. I just want you to know,” he said.

Jennifer gently shakes her head as she recalls that time. “He just kept saying it wasn’t a big deal.” Yet as the ache persisted and led to other complications, Monday — the day Issac was supposed to get his driver’s permit — turned into a trip to the walk-in clinic.

Running the typical tests, doctors surmised the stomach pain must simply be constipation. So Issac was sent home with instructions to take medication and call if anything changed.

Jennifer recounts, “(Our doctor) called the next morning and said, ‘He’s still in pain?’ I said yes. She said, ‘Go back. Immediately.’”

This time, the Gleaves were sent to Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital. “It was crazy,” Jennifer says. “They were running in and out of the room, running tests.” Through the blurred haze of medical-speak, Jennifer did catch a word that put her on full alert.

“I heard ‘oncology.’ I stopped the doctor and said, ‘Wait. Start over. I don’t understand anything you just said, but I know what that word means.’”

The doctor explained Issac’s diagnosis. He had a tumor wrapped around his psoas (so-az) muscle and main artery. It was pressing against his kidney and bladder, causing his abdominal pain.

The flurry of medical movement had just begun. Issac didn’t leave the hospital — he was admitted for a two-week stay.

“He immediately got a port. He immediately got chemo,” Jennifer says. “It was just boom.”

The pattern of treatment, recovery, surgery, and back again would continue for nine months. Through it all, Issac kept smiling.

“He was never sad,” Jennifer says. “Never once. He never said, ‘Why did this happen to me?’”

When he lost his hair, Issac didn’t cover his smooth head. Instead, he let it shine, embracing the physical effects of battling cancer with unshakable confidence. He even went to school with his colostomy bag tucked into his jeans pocket.

“Everybody would ask, ‘Are you okay?’” Jennifer says. “And he’d say, ‘I’m just chilling.’ That became his thing.”

Treatments left Issac too weak to tackle a traditional high school schedule, so he pivoted to online learning. Heritage High School uploaded his classes, and he dug in, completing all the coursework. Unbeknownst to him, he had fulfilled all his graduation requirements.

The Gleaves were told at the end of last semester that Issac would graduate with other early Robertson County graduates in January.

“We were shocked,” Jennifer says. “We were planning Issac’s return for his final semester.”

All Issac wanted to do was get his driver’s license and drive himself to school. He didn’t talk about playing at Disney or Universal — his dream was every teenager’s rite of passage.

Issac took this shift in true Issac form.

He didn’t grieve not walking in pomp and circumstance with his classmates. He kept smiling. On January 22, just after receiving the official “all clear” from his oncologist, Issac was handed his diploma.

Issac’s smile defies circumstances. One might be tempted to think that his positivity muscle was strengthened through battling cancer. But if you’ve met Issac, you know — it was his smile muscle that kicked cancer out.

Keep smiling, Issac. It’s contagious, and your community is watching.