A Chip in the Windshield

There's a chip in my windshield. Not particularly profound as an observation in and of itself, but to me right now, it takes on a deeper meaning.

Don't get me wrong; there is literally a chip in my car's windshield. A pebble flew up and hit it while I was driving home on the freeway tonight, both startling me and leaving a fresh imperfection on the surface of what had always been smooth and shiny glass. The little pockmark is directly above my line of vision so though it probably won't get in the way, it'll always be visible as I drive.

That chip represents Logan's cancer to me. It marred something that was pretty and neat and near-perfect. The windshield is still fully functional, but it's been permanently damaged. So has Logan. His hearing is no longer perfect. His head is badly scarred. And no matter what I do, I see those imperfections. They're a new part of my reality, as is the chip.

But you know what? Within the context of the entire windshield, the chip is incredibly tiny. Though I can see it and it looks huge to me because it wasn't there before and its presence irritates me, the chip is not the entire windshield. And eventually, its presence will fade from my conscious mind; I won't see it anymore. The physical effects will still be there, of course, but down the line, they won't seem as all-encompassing.

So that's my deep thought of the evening. It's been something of a hard latter part of the day for me, so it's comforting to me to write those words; to have them written on my heart so I could share them here. I hope they make sense and that they speak to someone here.

Logan spiked a fever this evening. I knew it was happening when I arrived at CHO to relieve Adam's mom at 5. He was hooked up to the monitor at the time, and his heartrate was too high. His heartrate always soars shortly before and during fevers. Sure enough, two hours later his temperature had risen to 102.something. He's had a hard time coping with the Etopiside and Thiotepa, and the nausea and vomiting have been worse than usual, so he threw up his Tylenol immediately. Blood cultures were drawn, and the resident planned to check with the fellow to see about starting the meds that would zap the line infection he's already had twice during the past months. Of course we don't know that it's a line infection, but there's good precedent to suggest that it is. His throat is also hurting him, so chances are good that he's developing mucusitis already. All he wanted was ice water, but he threw it up every time he had some.

It breaks my heart into millions of pieces to watch him suffer. I know this is hard to read; I figure that's why I keep losing followers (which, by the way, is like a little knife to my heart. Whenever the number falls, I wonder what I did wrong and why that person didn't want to know my Logan anymore). But I have to write it. I have to push through my own pain and tiredness and try to make some degree of sense of it all. Or, barring that, I have to have a record of the entire journey so I can look back one day and say that was awful, but it was redeemed.

Please, as always, pray for Logan's complete healing. I can't stress the sheer urgency of that request. Tomorrow marks his final day of chemo drugs. Not just a final day for now, but possibly, prayerfully, hopefully, wishfully THE final day EVER. The day that could push him into remission and back to health. PLEASE pray that it will be so. Pray for extremely effective treatment. Pray that the drugs that he's suffering with will make him well. Pray that the doctors and nurses will take good care of him over the coming days with the strike looming next week; pray for wisdom and patience. For me, please pray that I will be kind and understanding; I'm upset over said strike and over the parallels between this cycle and the near-disastrous cycle 2, which also began with a strike looming. Pray for all of our relationships with one another, and for the wisdom to know when we need help.

Thank you, and good night.