About Us

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.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

The Logan Update: Wednesday, 9/1/10

My immediate frustration: It seems that our air conditioner isn't working properly. Yes, I'm serious. Because it can't ever just BE one or two different things; it always has to be twenty or thirty at a time. I got frustrated with Adam and laid down on Isaac's bed in the boys' room several hours ago just to be close to Logan (who was already asleep); when Isaac was ready for bed I moved into my own room. I tossed a little and then realized I was hot. So I waddled downstairs (because that's how I roll these days) and checked the thermostat: 77 degrees, set to a cooling temp of 75. Okay, good enough, I reasoned, even though the dining room, where the sensor is located, is actually about 5 to 10 degrees cooler than our room. So I waddled back upstairs and went back to sleep. I woke up about 20 minutes ago, again feeling... hot. So I waddled back downstairs again and... still 77 degrees. So yep, it didn't do a darn thing over the course of 3 hours. I guess that means a call to the home warranty people and another $55 or whatever down the toilet. But whatever: It's just money, and for now, we still have some. I'm more irritated that yet another thing has apparently gone wrong. I've been shaking my fist at God, asking WHY?! repeatedly over the past few weeks, and now yet another dirty diaper to change; another stupid, trivial obstacle thrown in our path. There's really nothing good about it; I could wax poetic on what a blessing it is to even HAVE AC on a 100-degree day, but I'm tired of waxing poetic at the moment. My bottle of Mop N Glo is empty, the handle on my trusty bucket broke and my buffer is in the shop. I'm just pissed off.

Me being mad isn't a new thing here. I've been trying all along to stuff those frustrations into a box as they arise because getting angry and unloading on some poor innocent bystander who happens to step into my path at precisely the wrong moment has never done an ounce of good when it comes to making me feel better. (And, you know, it doesn't really do anything to build up the target, either.) But anyway, this is all just a big digression. If Logan can cope with what's coming and I don't lose my mind and my heart doesn't break for good, I can deal with a malfunctioning AC unit.

Today was okay. Not great, not terrible, only notable because I'm keenly aware of how much life is going to change as of tomorrow and wishing with every fiber of my being that things could be better; that there could be good news for once because I so miss getting unadulterated good news. Logan did... okay. He threw up in the morning and again just before he went to bed, which of course broke my heart; the second time in particular, since he'd had his Zofran (a.k.a. anti-vomit medication) just an hour earlier. He told Adam that he wanted to go back to the hospital so they could help him. Sigh. But at least that means he won't resist when it's time to leave. We went to Safeway in the morning for some Tylenol and cereal of Logan's choosing, and then onto Arby's for lunch. We were running against the clock at that point, but he pitched a fit about wanting to eat inside (which we'd only ever done one single time), so we did. I should note that we don't typically cater to tantrums, but everything changes when your kid is heading toward chemo. As I mused to Adam the other day, if ever there were a time in his life when it was okay if he were a little spoiled, this is it. He was a tired version of his usual self for a few precious minutes while we sat in the booth alongside the drive-thru lane, identifying the make of each car that chugged by and even smiling at times. Such a mundane scene, but suddenly so poignant and worthy of memory that it takes my breath away when I think back on similar times when I didn't take a minute to just notice.

Adam and I had a meeting with the oncology team at Children's in the afternoon to go over our questions (we had more than we'd assumed once things got started) and to learn more about the treatment regimen and drug side effects. His mom came along with her trusty green notebook and pencil and sat diligently taking note all the while. I can't even get the next thought into adequate wordage here, except to say that while it's a blessing that we even have medication that can even begin to touch an awful, horrible, evil disease like cancer, it's utterly heartrending to hear how those very drugs can harm the human body. I can't even write out all of the potential side effects because it would make me cry and I don't want to break down right now, so suffice it to say that there are plenty, and that I will probably never again stress over the safety of a Twinkie or a vaccine the pediatrician offers.

Logan and Isaac stayed with Adam's dad while we were gone, and Chrissy brought Abby home from school for us (thank you). Logan apparently did fine while we were gone, though he was asleep in his room when we returned. Poor little guy hasn't napped in years, but does it almost constantly these days.

Heidi brought over dinner in the evening (thanks!) and we chatted for a while. She was what I like to call my victim of the day (which I started to abbreviate VD, but then thought better of), defined as the person who happens to step into my path and be trusted enough to warrant a barrage of commentary about my feelings of the second. (Or in this case, 45 minutes.) I shared my worries, my concerns, my feelings about wanting to go postal on the next person who cast a sideways glance in my direction, lots of good stuff. I chattered on until I felt like I was going to throw up and literally had to stop to eat.

All of this basically brings me to this precise moment in time: 12:41 AM. I'm in bed, it's warm. The 'AC' (because the stupid thing now deserves quotes to denote its stupidity) is still on, the ceiling fan is on, and I'm awake with mainly the same thoughts as usual spinning around in my head. How I want to be hopeful. Frustration with myself for struggling to be hopeful. How I'm angry with God. How much I hate cancer. How I wish I could turn back to clock and pay better attention so maybe we could've caught this thing sooner. Regrets. My own many failings. So many things.

I know I need to stop typing and go to sleep, so I'll leave off with one last thought. One of the many things I shared with Heidi were my thoughts on our car. (I know, mundane city, right?) We traded our Highlander SUV for a Sienna minivan about a month ago. We'd tried - and failed - to fit four car seats into the old car, so we took the plunge and went for a swagger wagon. I realized, as we were returning from the meeting and I passed it in the driveway, that my sense of hopelessness extended even to my car. Rather than picturing all four filled car seats tucked safely inside, I've felt sadness over having bought it in the first place. That's how defeatest I can be. I need to be hopeful. I need to believe in Logan's ability to fight and tolerate and beat this disease, but it's so hard. I continue to believe that the touch of God's fingertip would eradicate the tumors (because there is a large one as well as a few smaller ones nearby, which I'm not sure if I mentioned previously). I want to believe. But again, it's so very hard when good news is so rare.

Well, that's enough for now. This is one of my less jointed entries, so congratulations if you've made it all the way through. Please pray for a smooth transition to the hospital tomorrow (which is now today) and for the successful implantation of his chemo pump. He's also set for a quick MRI and a spinal tap, so please pray that those will come back looking as favorable as possible. (If I'm throwing it all out there, pray that the tumor will be smaller or even gone!) Pray that Logan's spirits will be high, his strength will return and his resolve to get better will remain unbroken. For Abby and Isaac, I ask for patience and understanding beyond their years as we enter this uncertain season. For Adam and myself, superhuman strength. I cannot even describe how emotionally taxing and challenging this is for us as a couple; we cannot have chinks develop in our armor.

Thank you all for your continued thoughts and prayers.

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