Anxious

I know, I know: I shouldn't be anxious. I should rest in the Lord. But as I've said many times over, I'm merely human. And I don't care who you are: I maintain that it's hard -- nay, impossible -- to not feel a little anxious when your child is 9 hours away from neurosurgery.

So yes, I feel little bubbles of anticipation gurgling in my gut. The kind that prickle and pop and dance their way up the esophagus and into the back of the throat. But oddly enough, my primary emotion is probably no emotion at all. I feel numb, tired, overwhelmed.

It's probably because underneath it all, I'm scared to pieces of all that's to come but I need to protect myself for the sake of everyone else. While I know that the sole option is to keep moving forward, I wish with all of my heart that I could go back, if only for a little while. If I could go back, I'd re-live our trip to Disneyland last April. I'd re-play Logan's joy over driving the Autopia cars and the way he laughed and ran ahead of us with his big sister and best friend. I'd re-live our afternoon at California Adventure where we met Lightning McQueen and Mater, Logan's heroes, and where Logan and Abby posed for a serious of spur-of-the-moment photos that now rank as some of my favorites of all time. I'd giggle as they soaked themselves in the Bug's Life water play area and not worry that we didn't have towels. I'd go back to my co-op days in his preschool class last year, even though I was pregnant and feeling absolutely terrible. I'd watch him circle the playground on a giant tricycle or inside the big red and yellow Little Tykes car with the broken wheel. I'd watch with rapt attention as he danced on stage at the close of Vacation Bible School, and I'd laugh instead of getting angry on his 4th birthday after discovering that he'd sneaked into the garage and opened most of his presents by himself.

I know I can't go back. And I'm grateful that I've been blessed with those memories, even if they do make me cry at this point in my life. I pray that God will use tomorrow to open the door to many years to come for Logan and our family, and simply ask that you pray the same thing as you pray for the surgeon, his team, and our family unit.

We have an early morning ahead. Surgery is set to begin at 7:30 AM Pacific, and will likely last at least 8 hours. Please, Lord, let the surgeon safely remove the entire primary mass. (Adam asked this afternoon, and he's not going after the smaller ones, as they're very small and likely conquerable via the transplant cycle chemo.)

Thank you, and good night.