Friday

I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that the collective life of a family afflicted by a cancer diagnosis is one of highs and lows, ups and downs, meltdowns and revelations. After imploding a few days ago, feeling as if I'd never arise and see the sun again, I'm now in the comfortable, quiet post-meltdown phase of the process. A place where silence and stillness no longer make my skin crawl. Where I'm comfortable listening to the raindrops on the window panes and the repetitive ticking of the wall clock. Where I'm okay with hearing my own thoughts once again, because they're no longer stained with worry and worst-case scenarios. I am, to try to make an already long paragraph more succinct, at peace.

It's funny, but as challenging and exhausting as my lowest days are, I don't regret getting angry and losing focus now and again. I'm not perfect, so it helps me to look back on those weak points and recognize how dangerous it is for me to lose my hope, my faith. The knowledge helps me to track my own progress, so to speak, to see how I'm changing over time and how walking this path has altered me in both good and bad ways. And it gives me a greater appreciation for -- and joy over -- those every day moments that I'm guilty of taking for granted, even now, seven months into the ongoing quest for healing.

Today was a good day. School was closed for a furlough day and Alta Bates was conducting maintenance on their radiation equipment, so both Abby and Logan had the day off from their usual pursuits. A spur of the moment burst of inspiration prompted me to call Kelly, the preschool director, to see if any of the children in the class that should've been ours had been sick of late. She said no and I decided then and there that today would be the day that we'd go for a visit.

It was, to be blunt, a now or never kind of thing: For one, it was the only weekday morning he'd have available for the next several months, and in addition, at some point, his counts will likely be affected, rendering him unable to be out and about. And on top of those reasons, I also wanted to see how he'd react to a school setting, since he's been out since last May. Logan was excited about the prospect, especially when I told him that it was umbrella day, but also nervous about meeting so many friends at once, so he asked Abby to tag along and she complied. (And yes, Logan refers to them all as friends, even though he doesn't know them, because to my little sunshine, everyone is a friend. I wish I had that kind of tender heartedness.)

He did well, but was clearly ill at ease at times. He looked to me and to Abby for support and comfort, and was substantially more tentative than I'd ever seen him in an educational setting. But he participated: He colored an umbrella, drew a picture of himself and wrote an accompanying trio of words, had a snack, played outside, took part in the umbrella day activity. Most notably, he helped hand the teacher, Ms. Hope, supplies that she needed during the latter half of class time. I was struck by how much he wanted to be useful; how he delivered the first stack of items, and then returned to retrieve a second stack. I love how he wants to be a good person, how he wants to lend a hand when he can. He doesn't take, take, take as is so common in today's world. He gives, and enjoys himself when he does so. One of the many things I adore about my son.

Before we left, I tucked his precious papers -- the only ones he'll produce in preschool this academic year -- into the zipper compartment of my camera bag and will find a very safe, very special place to keep them. Because for Logan, this wasn't just another day at school: It was his only day at school. And I want to remember it via the photos I snapped and the beautiful artwork he created. I want to sop up every second and try to hold them all in my heart for as long as possible. And that's not because I'm scared that there won't be future like-moments to soak up, but because regardless of what the future holds, he won't ever again be a 4-year old in school. So much of his four-year-old-ness has been about hospitals and illness, that it was refreshing and heartening to see him do something that was once very much a part of his usual routine, even if it was for just a single day.

As we headed home, the rain came down in buckets; cats, dogs, horses, chickens and beavers, as I joked to Abby and Logan in the car. I asked Logan if he could hear the cats meowing and the dogs barking, and he listened for a moment before tentatively responding that yes, he thought he could.

At the house, I discovered the day's second blessing sitting on our front porch. I'd been told by a new friend -- who I met just yesterday at the grocery store after she recognized Isaac from a photo -- that a package was making its way to me from back East, and there it was. I hauled it inside, opened it up, and found inside the most awesome baby swing/cradle/rocker/ingenius device ever. Really. The 4Moms MamaRoo infant rocker. I put it together (which is no small feat for me, as I'm not exactly technically inclined or particularly good at reading assembly instructions) and nestled Brady into the pocket, and he happily slept in Tree Swing mode for a few hours. It's definitely a blessing and my thanks to 4Moms for the gift.

What they don't know is that just a few days ago, I'd remarked to a different friend that I wanted to borrow a white noise machine to see if it would help Brady to sleep better at night. I was surprised and pleased to find that the MamaRoo offers, you guessed it, several different types of white noise. So yes, God knew what I needed before I knew that I needed it. I may feel alone and tired these days, but I appreciate the God-moments when I recognize them.

Well, friends, I'm rapidly losing my focus, but wanted to jot down a few things here for you before I headed off to bed. Please keep praying for Logan's healing, and for our family's well-being. Thank you for your support and for keeping us close to your hearts. Good night.