The Logan Update: 2/20/11

In less than 36 hours, Logan will return to CHO for the second attempt at his second resection. Neurosurgery. It's not something simple like a compound femur fracture or a busted lip. It's brain surgery; brain surgery on my darling, sweet, wonderful, spritely four and a half year old son who is obssesed with Cars, adores his big sister, finds tremendous delight in opening mystery eggs while playing Farmville and wows everyone he knows with his sunny disposition and incredible vocabulary. A surgeon will cut his head open, navigate through delicate and essential tissue, and carefully pick out chunks of material that should never have been there in the first place.

Even as I type, my heart cries out in protest. This kind of thing should never be necessary. Children, the little lambs of God, shouldn't be subjected to this kind of horror. But they are. And that's a hard truth to swallow. I'm sure that it's hard for you, my friends, to read about, but believe me when I tell you that it's innumerably harder for me to write it and to own it. I can't take a break from reading my blog when it gets too emotionally difficult to handle. No, this is my reality.

It still stuns me when I wake up in the morning and realize that this is my life. My once near-perfect, quiet existence has devolved into, for lack of an eloquent expression, a complete and utter mess.

I wish that I could say that I feel a satisfying, comforting sense of peace over everything that's happened and all that's to come, but I'd be lying. I feel worry, fear, anxiety, anticipation. At the same time, though, I feel a tinge of excitement, purely because it's exciting to feel like we'll at long last be taking another big step toward beating this beast once and for all. Of course, I wrote similar words a few weeks ago before the near bleed out in the OR, but they're no less true now than they were then. The fact of the matter is that in order for Logan to have a shot at kicking this cancer to the curb for good, the mass has to come out. Period. So onward we go.

It's been a pleasant weekend. The plan changed a little when Dr. Sun's nurse, Sue, called yesterday to say that the MRI would be today at 10 AM. Adam took Logan in while I stayed home with the other kids. When they returned, we all piled into the van and headed to McDonalds for late lunch. On the way, Adam remarked that the radiologist who had performed the scan said that the mass appeared to be stable since the last MRI, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. It's true that we've been the victim of mis-read scans before along this journey, but I won't let the memories crowd out the pleasure of those words. I'll simply thank God that the mass still looks relatively similar to how it looked weeks ago and call it a day.

Lunch was surreal, in a way; or as surreal as a meal at a fast food joint can ever be. We crowded into a big booth with a rounded bench and munched away. As I looked into the faces of each of my children, I felt a distinct sense of sadness over the uncertainty that plagues my family. It's painful to internalize how much they all love each other; how much they live for each other and how inextricably entwined their little lives truly are. They're the best of friends (and at times, the worst of enemies, but alas, that's the scourge of siblinghood, I think) and each has shaped so much of the others' personalities that together they create a perfect, priceless piece of artwork, one that's splashed with more colors than a simple spectrum could ever reflect. They may not represent perfect love, but they certainly represent deep, true love. And despite our less than ideal circumstances, we're blessed to see it displayed through all of them.

Heading into Tuesday, I can't help but feel like we need your prayers more than ever. It's a crucial day headlined by a crucial event. Please pray for Dr. Sun's hands to be God's hands as he works, and for great wisdom for him and his team. Also, pray for peace and strength for Adam and I as we wait. And as always, please pray for complete healing for Logan. I know that all it would take is a simple thought from God to make him well once again, and I pray for that with everything in me, with every ounce of energy I can muster, with every tear that falls.

Thank you, and have a blessed Monday.