Our family of 6 (dad Adam, mom Sherry, big sister Abby and little brothers Isaac and Brady -- who was born on December 14, 2010) joined the ranks of pediatric cancer fighters when our 4-year old son Logan was diagnosed with a dangerous and highly malignant form of brain cancer in mid-August 2010. Logan's cancer journey began abruptly on Sunday, August 15, when his right eye suddenly turned inward during dinner. Twenty-four hours later, we were checking into Children's Hospital Oakland and finding out that life sometimes takes you places you'd never, ever imagine yourself going.
Friday, November 12, 2010
A Little Bit More
The kids are in bed and Adam just stepped out to buy some diapers for Isaac, so I'm once again in my room, alone with my thoughts. My tired, confused, sad, angry, mumbled, jumbled thoughts. I'm trying to process them all; to force them all to come together like good little mind-bytes and make a modicum of sense, but it's not really happening. So I guess being blunt is my only option.
I miss Logan. Yes, he's here with us for now. He's in his little bed with his Lightning McQueen pillow case and Lightning McQueen comforter, his books, his at-home stuffed animals, happy to be away from the hospital and the nurses.
But I miss him. Before the cancer, he was vibrant, energetic, fun, spirited, silly, polite, patient, good-hearted, loving. My sunshine, as I've noted many a time before. As I sang him to sleep tonight, lying next to him on his bed and clutching his little hands, my voice cracked with emotion as I remembered singing the same words to him four years ago when he was a baby. And ironically, I sang from the same spot: Before furniture was moved and rooms were rearranged, the glider had been positioned in the exact spot as his current bed. I didn't know back then that he'd become as amazing a person as he is; that he'd bless so many people with so much happiness, that he'd put others at ease with little more than a grin, that he'd wriggle his way so deeply into my heart that the very thought of him being in pain would quite literally make me lose my own breath. As someone who'd always seen herself with a troop of little girls, Logan was the child who made it okay, and not just okay, but amazing, to have boys.
Of course, he's still here. His good heart, his loving nature, his sweetness are all still present and accounted for; even when demanding fresh ice water or asking for a new apple, he still says please and thank you, and he still says I love you without solicitation. But his energy is sapped, and in its place is a frailty that stabs me in the chest. He's so bony, so tiny, so thin, so weak. Such a far cry from the sturdy kid he was just months ago.
And it's hard to see what's happened. No, his spirit isn't broken, and I pray that it never happens. But his body is so weak, so decimated. As his mother, it crushes me to see the extent of his suffering. I cry out repeatedly for relief, for a cure, for comfort. He's 4. It's all just so wrong.
I suppose my words have run their course for now. Please keep praying for Logan's recovery and for easier side effects this round. He's been hovering just below the 100-degree marker this evening, so it seems likely that he'll probably be heading back to Oakland sometime soon. Also, please pray that somehow, this will get easier for all of us, because at times, it feels like just too much to take. Bless you and yours.