The Logan Update: 3/23/11

I've crossed the line that separates 'I feel like I'm coming down with something' from 'I have a miserable cold', so once again, if my words aren't as eloquent as I wish they'd be, I apologize. I wish that I still had the power to pour my heart into my keystrokes, but lately, my proverbial ink well has run dry.

Yesterday was Logan's last day of full craniospinal radiation, so today began the next phase of treatment: Focal radiation. It's really more of the same, only concentrated in the areas of known disease, whether disease is currently present or not. He's doing okay with it so far. The tiredness has set in in earnest; both today and yesterday, he took a two-hour nap in the afternoon. It makes me sad because the old Logan, the pre-cancer Logan, stopped napping prior to reaching age two. He'd always been an 'up early and cheerful from the get-go' kind of kid who had mastered the art of go-go-go, as most 4-year old boys do at some point or another. It's just something else that the evil bastard cancer has taken away from him. I'm bitter over it. I try not to be, but at my heart, at my very core, I am. It's just so incredibly unfair that Logan can't be a normal boy anymore. That so much of the essence of his Logan-ness has been stripped away.

If I'm honest, part of me resents anyone else who has the blessing of having a healthy, thriving, non-cancer stricken 4-year old boy right now. Every time I see someone scolding a child Logan's age, I have to fight the urge to tell them off; to let them know how their life could change in a split second, in the blink of an eye. Mine did. I never thought it would happen to my family, but it did. No one is immune.

But still I fight the bitterness. I wonder why it's happening to him. I wonder why it's happening to me. Didn't I struggle enough just carrying each of my babies? Because I'm not a woman who loves being pregnant and enjoys gishy-gushy feelings when I think back on my time as a carrier. No, I'm the kind who gets horribly, horribly sick, loses weight, vomits ten times a day through the first two trimesters and then once a day until delivery, but only with the aid of anti-emetics. With Abby, I had a sinus infection for three months. I couldn't breathe through my nose -- at all -- for 12 weeks. With Logan, I had preterm labor at 30 weeks and wound up on bedrest, which meant I couldn't attend two family weddings I'd very much looked forward to. With Isaac, I suffered a subchorionic hemmorhage at 11 weeks that landed me in bed yet again, this time for 10 weeks. With Brady, I finally had my 'good' pregnancy, only to have it shot to hell by the news that Logan had cancer when I was 21 weeks along. This whole ordeal leaves me shaking my fist at God, shouting 'Really?! REALLY?! You're threatening to take away one of the children I busted my bum carrying to term? After the nine months of sickness I endured, You might take him away from me?! Why isn't this happening to someone who had an easy pregnancy?' But alas, that doesn't even work, because at my core I wish that NO child would have to suffer. But for whatever reason, some do.

Anyway, his primary side effect so far is nausea and vomiting. He had a particularly tough day yesterday, throwing up out of the blue on four separate occasions. But in true Logan fashion, he's dealt with the discomfort like a champion. Like a hero. He'll vomit, wipe his face, and then go back to whatever he'd been doing, whether it be dancing or creating one of his patented parking lots on the couch. Or, oddly enough, eating. Although he's lower key than usual, my sunshine-y boy is still in there. Even if it's hard for me to see it at times.

My personal struggles with faith have continued. I've still not managed to get back onto my feet following the near-knockout punch that was delivered on the heels of the successful resection. I know that evil intended for this to happen to me; it intended for me to feel so discouraged that I'd wallow in doubt, worry, fear and hopelessness. So in a way, and it shames me deeply to admit it, it won that battle. But I'm trying to stand. I'm trying to rediscover hope. I'm trying to have enough faith to believe that my son will be well and making people laugh as a healthy, cancer-free kid a year from now. But it's hard to hope and to have faith when you don't have the answers. It's painful to think of all we've been through as a family over the past seven months and to realize that we still don't have the comfort of a 100% for-sure answer to the big question that looms like a raincloud over our days.

But all of that's really neither here nor there, because we have to live day by day, and stressing over the future accomplishes nothing. With that in mind, please pray as always for Logan's complete healing; for God to use the radiation to wipe out every single cancer cell. I know He can do it. He did an amazing, incredible job on the primary brain mass; I know He can handle this, but I confess that I struggle with letting it go. It's silly, really, since I can't possibly control it myself, but it's still very, very difficult. You really have no idea how challenging it is until it's YOU in the situation, it's YOU realizing that you can't make your beloved child well again. Pray for wisdom for the doctors and medical staff, for milder side effects -- both short term and long term -- for Logan, and yes, really, my heart just goes back to healing again and again. I know I've not written much of late, but my heart cries out for you to pray for complete healing for my son. Health for the rest of our family would also be appreciated; as previously alluded, I have a horrible headcold, and Abby is still struggling to rebound from her own illness. Please pray a bubble of protection around Logan that will keep him safe from the bug that's floating around our home.

Thank you for your prayers and for being part of Logan's team. Blessings.