Heartbreak

It's been a day of great highs and one tremendous, gut-busting, heart rending low.

It began this morning when a diaper-clad 10-week old baby Brady laughed for the very first time. An infant's laugh is a lyrical, musical, joyous sound and I lapped it up with the enthusiasm of a little bird sipping nectar from a bloom. It continued with the news that Logan would be released from CHO this afternoon. He looked great when I arrived; just about everyone who came into contact with my little man remarked on how good he looked, on how you would never, ever guess that just three days ago, he underwent ten hours of neurosurgery. Those were both sweet, praiseworthy scenes from our day.

And then I was reminded, once again, that we're enmeshed in a spiritual battle of the ugliest sort.

While we awaited his release -- me with Logan in the PICU, and Adam with Brady and Isaac outside in the play area -- Philippa arranged for Adam and I to meet with Dr. T., which I knew was not a good sign. After all, there was no real need to meet with him given that the plan was in place and the pre-transplant cycle appointments had all been scheduled for next week and the week after.

And I was right. My stomach absolutely turned as he delivered the latest dose of toxic, painful news: Wednesday's post-op MRI showed that Dr. Sun had indeed done an excellent job with the tumors in his brain, leaving very, very little questionable material behind. However, the tumors in his spine grew tremendously since the prior MRI (roughly three weeks ago), going from a few millimeters in diameter to nearly a centimeter. And because that news wasn't terrible enough, he also informed us that there are additional tumors as well, located higher up in his spinal column. One in particular is perilously close to impinging on his spinal cord, which could result in permanent damage.

As a result, the treatment plan changed once again. He goes to Alta Bates on Monday for a CT and consultation, and then he'll begin his six weeks of now-extremely intensive radiation in the middle of the week. Dr. T. had been hopeful that the spinal tumors would stay small -- and for all intents and purposes, they SHOULD have, given how decimated the brain tumor itself was upon extrication -- negating the need for high-dose treatment, but his hopes (and ours, of course) were dashed. He'll begin with radiation of the spine to try to keep those tumors under control and to attempt to keep new ones from growing. He'll probably lose most of his hearing, his growth will be stunted, and he'll face likely-significant learning problems over time.

This evil, bastard cancer is decimating my sweetheart. But even knowing the challenges he'd face, I still believe that he would lead a happy, fulfilled life, and that he'd go on to profoundly affect others with his sunny disposition and outlook. And with one heck of a story of triumph and survival.

My initial thought when Dr. T. told us about the developments was 'Oh, God, you're in control here. Please take over and do something.' Then I thought 'darn it, I just knew that Tuesday's joy would be short-lived.' I know that I sound like a wing nut to some of you and that's okay, but I reiterate what I've said before: This is a battle. A big, ugly, aggressive, terrible, painful, rotten battle between good and evil.

And now I'm pissed off. I'm sad, of course, but my primary emotion is anger. Not with God, though I believe fervently that all it would take to heal my son is a simple thought by the Father and my simple mind can't comprehend why He won't act in a grand, visible way to grant healing once and for all. Not with the medical team, though they were responsible for missing the spots on the MRI back in December, and we're now six weeks behind where we could have been. Nope. I'm angry with evil itself, the father of cancer, disease, pestilence and pain.

So I'm calling evil out right now: I know what you're doing here. I know that you're trying to destroy my baby. But I also know that GOD is bigger than YOU. And though the mountains may shake and my heart may break, I will hold onto the truth that God wants bigger things for my son, that God has a future for him here on this earth, that he will be well again down the line.

It's tempting to throw in the towel, I admit. It's a painful path we've traveled thus far, and I know there's more pain in store for all of us. It would be easy to give up given how much he's endured. And when I asked Dr. T. and Philippa to be frank with us, both looked at us with pity eyes; Dr. T. said that he wouldn't lie, and that things weren't looking good. Philippa said, when I asked if we should start talking to Abby about what could happen, that we should probably begin to prepare her.

But Logan wasn't created to quit. He's sailed through five rounds of brutal chemo. He's gone through three brain surgeries and come out of each more easily and with more strength than the previous. He's been 5 seconds from bleeding to death. He's had blood infections, been on oxygen, had a heartrate of over 200 for days on end, undergone more scans than I can even count, and has been the recipient of unit upon unit of blood and platelets. But God made Logan astoundingly resilient and strong. He made my son a fighter in the purest sense of the word, and fight he will.

But still the worries lurk in my heart. We had a little talk about Heaven this morning. I told him that in Heaven, there are no owies, no pain, no hospitals. And then I asked him if he wanted to be here or there. And I held my breath, because children can so often shock us with their wisdom and prescience. I was relieved when he responded "I want to be here". So I told him to ask Jesus to make him all better, and he said he would. And I hope he does. And that He does.

I ask all of you with a renewed sense of vigor to cry out on Logan's behalf. To be louder, more plaintive, more dedicated. I know I ask that of you all the time, and I appreciate all you've done for our family. But this is an intense, difficult battle, and Logan desperately needs your prayers.

I feel like I should address one more topic before I close. I realize that every family facing a cancer diagnosis and grim prognosis feels that *their* child is *the* child who should survive; that he or she should be the one who receives the brush of God's hand against the cheek. It's impossible to hope for anything less. Hope needs to live in order for the heart, the soul to survive an ordeal of this magnitude. But just look at Logan's story thus far. Look at the succession of ups and downs, highs and lows, victories and setbacks. See the hand of God moving, and the forces of evil striking back with vigor. It's been a heavily rutted path, and if we have hope of beating this thing, I need to call out the evil behind it, shine a light -- THE light -- on it, and ask all of you to pray, pray and pray some more for God to perform a miracle here. As a Steven Curtis Chapman song says,

Let us pray, let us pray, everywhere in every way
Every moment of the day, it is the right time.
For the Father above, He is listening with love,
And he wants to answer us, so let us pray

I have to know that God is hearing Logan's army. I know, of course, on an intellectual level that He is. He hears every unspoken thought. But I believe in the power of intercession and in the power of a tidal wave of prayer.

Thank you for your continued support and have a blessed weekend.