Jittery

Tomorrow is the day. The day. Logan's second MRI. It's been in the back of my mind for a month or so now, ever since we had the initial date of January 4th, he did well with cycle 4, and it was moved up to December 28th. Tomorrow is the day that someone will find out how well chemo rounds 3 and 4 did with regard to shrinking the tumors. It probably won't be us, since Philippa said not to expect news until Wednesday when Dr. Sun, the neurosurgeon, has a chance to take a detailed look at the images. But still, someone will know what's going on.

And I'm scared.

Of course I am: A lot rides on these little pictures of his brain and spinal column. The results will dictate what comes next: Surgery, chemo round 5, or the transplant cycle. My quiet prayer is for the transplant cycle; I'm hoping that it will show no signs of the tumors and that surgery won't be needed, since Logan had a hard time recovering from his initial procedure back in August. The transplant cycle is the big karate chop to Logan's cancer -- the real knockout round. And I know the team wants to get him to transplant as quickly as possible, so as to have the best possible chance of preventing additional tumor growth (or recurrence down the line). Relapse is particularly common in kids with AT/RTs, so the sooner we can punch it out for good, the better.

Even though we're nearly 4 1/2 months into this process and we've spent countless hours at CHO and life has changed indelibly and forever, part of me still feels like I'm walking around in a dream. Fortunately, the edges have softened a little, allowing me to call it a 'dream' (even if it's still a bad one) instead of a 'nightmare'. After all, it'd be hard to still call it a nightmare after we've seen the amazing things we've seen and interacted with the incredible people we've met. I was telling Adam the other day that I really enjoy knowing Philippa and Molly. They're incredible women and so very good at what they do. But then I paused and sighed, and noted that I wished I didn't know them at all. But I do. And I'm glad to know them. People as good as they are can't possibly be party to a full-on nightmare, so I thank God for them. They probably don't know it, but they make this whole ordeal much easier.

I've given up on the 'whys' for now (though I'm sure I'll go running back to them at some point, since I'm human and it's hard to not wonder why our family? Why Logan? It's just part of my essence to be a Doubting Thomasina.) I still think it's because he's so purely good to his core. I still believe this is a spiritual battle. And I still believe that Logan's prayer army has helped to bring our situation to the Lord in a vigorous, can't-be-ignored kind of way. And I thank ALL of you who pray for him and who've recruited others to pray for your invaluable role in the process. I ask that you continue to pray and to spread the word to your praying friends and churches. I know it sounds a little selfish for me to ask over and over again, but there are always more people who can jump aboard, and I cling to the healing stories in the Bible that have been brought to my attention so many times: The paralytic who was healed thanks to the faith of his friends, the woman who was healed because of her own faith. I'm calling upon my own faith to guide me, and it says to recruit, recruit, recruit, so that's what I'm doing. It's what any mother would do to save her child. So onward I go, even if I sound like a pestering, persistent, annoying gal at times. What can I say? In many ways, I'm just a bulldog.

Please pray for us as we await the results, and for an uneventful MRI for Logan. He's not happy about going back, but it's an outpatient procedure so at least he should be home by evening. More than anything, please pray for good, workable results. I want God to really wow them. I told Molly a few months ago to expect great things, amazing things. That faith has a role in this world and that Logan has a purpose here. And I want God to prove that to her. Of course I do; he's my little guy and I love him so dearly that no other outcome is acceptable. So it's my prayer. My big, scary, almost-too-much-to-hope-for prayer. And I thank you for praying it with me.

If faith can move a mountain, it can knock out a cancer. Believe it.

I want to believe; help my unbelief.