Back to the Grind

It's 11:41 PM and I'm sitting alone in my family room. It's silent, save the ticking of the clock on the wall and the click-clack of my own typing. But instead of feeling comfort in the silence as I often do, tonight I feel loneliness. The quiet sting of a solitude I wish I didn't have to face. Again.

We took Logan back to CHO this afternoon to begin his consolidation cycle, so we're officially back to the grind. The seemingly never-ending car rides, the impatience, the shuffling of schedules, the cessation of family life as we know --and love-- it. I'd be lying mightily if I claimed to feel any emotion other than sadness surrounding our predicament. But it is what it is. I'm resigned to that. My resignation doesn't make it less painful or unfair. It just makes it... what it is.

The in-depth consult with the BMT (Bone Marrow Transplant) team member, whose name I quite shamefacedly admit I cannot recall, went as well as could've been expected. She reviewed his test results, which were all --thankfully, praisefully, wonderfully-- within normal ranges. And then we once again went over the laundry list of side effects of the drugs he'll be receiving over the next six days. The horrible nausea and vomiting, the hair loss, the tiredness, the long-term implications including hormonal deficiencies and the chance of secondary malignancies.

I half-listened and half-watched Logan as he played with Brady, giggling every time my sweet baby stole his big brother's precious Cars hat from atop his head. And I wondered, for the thousandth time, why this is all happening. Why Logan has been chosen to suffer through this. Why our family is being warped and turned and twisted to the point of breaking. I don't allow my mind to go there often anymore, but today, while sitting at that table, signing consent forms, hearing about the side effects and the implications, it was hard to push the thoughts away.

Logan, as is often the case, was largely unaffected by the gravity of the situation. He was delighted to see Molly again -- because, as he admitted, he 'looooooves' her-- and flitted around his room like a butterly in a glass jar. We played an animal matching game, Disney Yahtzee, a Nascar Playstation 2 game (he was bummed that there was no Cars game available, but since the hospital didn't have one and we don't own a system at home, he had to deal with what they had) and a Leapster game. There was food ordered and just, generally, plenty of energy on display. It was hard to leave when the time came. I could tell that he was in 'hospital mode', sniffing back his own tears to keep me from getting upset; sadly telling Brady that he'd miss him; giving me the biggest, greatest hug I'd received in some time. But that's the thing about hospital time: There's always a separation coming. I can't just go upstairs and kiss his head or look in on him whenever I'd like. It's just reality.

So right now, as I sit here at home, Adam is 3o miles away with Logan in a hospital room in Oakland. He tested positive for the Rhinovirus, which causes the common cold, so he wasn't allowed inside the immunocompromised ward. Instead, he's in an isolation room, which greatly complicates matters for us. Since no one under age 10 is allowed inside an isolation room, it means I can't take Brady with me as initially planned, so Adam and I had to scramble to figure out an alternate plan. We'll try an array of options before settling on one, but it's really just another thorn in my side, another frustration. Just as it was a thorn in my side to realize that the parking garage attendant wasn't present when I left at 5 PM today, so I wasn't able to buy vouchers, and had to pay full price for my 4-hour stint in the garage. It's silly to be upset over something like that, to waste mental energy over something as silly as parking. It is, after all, merely a pesky little thorn. But even the most trivial, tiny thorn can prick the skin and make it bleed.

Please join us in continuing to pray for awesome things from this consolidation cycle: For minimal side effects, quick recovery, good spirits, God-moments and absolute, 100%, complete and undeniable healing.

To close, I wanted to share a thought I had as I was driving home this afternoon. My mind had wandered back to my negative thoughts of the early afternoon, when I'd waxed philosophical over 'why Logan', 'why our family', when it hit me: This isn't the life that God wants for our family. God wants to prosper us; He doesn't want us to languish in separation. And I was once again reminded that this is a battle. We've seen amazing things happen so far, and I expect, I hope, I desire to see more amazing things in the future. I don't believe that God is 'doing this' to us. I believe that God is fighting for us, for Logan, for health, for restoration. I believe that God wants to show Himself in mighty ways through this situation. To have the cup taken from us would be bliss, but for whatever reason, this treatment protocol is necessary for Him to make his grand point. And so we wait. And have faith, and trust, and believe in healing.

Thank you for your prayers and good night.