Cracked.

That's me. I feel like I am the aftermath of an earthquake: The ground shook and trembled, and now I'm cracked, fractured, broken, whatever word you may prefer. Mentally, physically... you name it. That's me. And on top of dealing with the earthquake in the past, I live in fear of aftershocks, too. I've been calling, crying, whispering, groaning out to God and... nothing. At least, nothing I can see or feel. And I'm so very tired of it all.

At this moment, I'm upstairs in my bedroom. It's 10:20 PM and my dear little Brady is downstairs, safely in his portable crib, screaming his precious head off. Just as he's been doing for the past 4 hours. I couldn't take it anymore so a few minutes ago, I put him down, tried to give him his pacifier (which he unceremoniously rejected with a filp of the tongue) and came to my room for a few moments of respite. I don't know what's bothering him. I can't figure it out. I've been careful with my eating, since he's sensitive to dairy protein and soy, but apparently I must've made an epic error at some point. I prayed so fervently to God for a mellow baby just this once, but no. It didn't happen. And now I'm home alone with a screamer while Adam is at CHO with Logan. My life is not fair. I don't think I've whined much lately, so I feel like it's okay for me to complain a little. So yes: MY LIFE IS NOT FAIR.

Logan had an okay day. His brain pressure (I'd use the technical term, but frankly I'm not sure I can spell it and don't really understand how it all works anyway) stayed consistent overnight and into today, only rising above Dr. Sun's threshhold of 20 when he became agitated over this or that. He spent much of the day sedated and with his eyes closed, but he was aware and responsive, and all of his neurological evaluations were normal. Just before Adam and I changed shifts, I patted his little hand and said 'do you want me to go get daddy?' and he nodded, just slightly. Then for some reason, I asked him to look at me, and he opened his eyes, just a crack -- his eyelids are very swollen, so it's the best he could do -- and looked up at me. And I felt something inside me release a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. He's still in there, I thought. And it was such an amazing relief.

A CT scan showed that there was no additional bleeding and that the swelling appeared normal for the circumstance. A team of nurses and a respiratory therapist opted to remove his breathing tube mid-afternoon, which was great, since it broke our collective heart to see him crying at times, his body heaving and shaking, tears rolling down his cheeks, but no sound escaping his lips. I did have to restrain myself from smacking the RT; she took forever suctioning, and then she'd start to remove it and stop. I'm pretty even-keeled when it comes to all-things medical, but it irritated me that she told Logan she was going to take it out 'right now' and then she made him wait 5 minutes. Not cool. His life is hard enough without someone jerking his chain.

The Usual Suspects came by to see him and check on his progress, filtering in and out throughout the day. Dr. Sun, his nurse Sue (who, according to Adam, took one look at him and immediately said I'm sorry, and then proceeded to ask how we were all handling what had happened), Dr. W (the transplant doc), Dr. T, Philippa, Molly.

And it was a brief conversation with Molly that left the deepest impression of all. I bumped into her as she was on her way into the PICU to see Logan late this afternoon. She asked how he was doing after yesterday's surgical incident, and I said okay, that he'd been extubated, was talking, watching TV, and so on. I noted that he'd lost a lot of blood and that we were glad that he seemed to be on the mend. And then she said it: Yeah, it's hard to lose 5 or 6 units and bounce back quickly.

Wait, did she just say 5 or 6?!

I said that I thought Dr. Sun had said two, but she seemed fairly certain that the report had indicated that he'd received either 5 or 6 units. I thought back to Philippa's earlier remark that Logan had single-handedly had the blood bank hopping, and to Dr. T's revelation that had a less skilled surgeon been involved, things may have ended... differently, to which I replied that we were definitely aware that he could've bled out on the OR table. I just hadn't realized, until Molly said 5 or 6, that he'd been extremely close to doing just that. When you consider that a 4-year old child only has 6 to 8 units of blood in his body as it is, losing 5 or 6 is... huge. So though I'm upset with God for the crap that is my life at the moment, I'm also tremendously grateful that He helped Dr. Sun to stop the bleeding quickly.

Anyway, I need to go rescue my still-screaming infant from the horror of his crib. I'm too drained to be specific tonight, but keep praying. I'll just say that I'm running low on hope and faith. After the hellacious week we've had, between the news that the cancer had spread and the near-bleed out in the OR, I've just about HAD IT. I'm in near-desperate need of something really good -- really, intrinsically good, not a really good cork to a really bad problem. I hope that doesn't make me selfish, but I'm approaching the end of my rope. And I hope God knows it. And cares.