Thursday

Every now and then, I let the harsh reality of our situation eat away at me. Today was, regretfully, one of those days. I woke up in a bad mood, and it snowballed from there. I think the weight of knowing that the MRI is next week --10 months to the day since we discovered that something was horribly, horribly wrong with my sunshine-- coupled with uncertainty over the future and the sheer exhaustion involved with coping effectively became too much to bear. The wall of "I'm okay-ness" that I've erected around my heart to protect both myself from the reality of my life and others from the awkwardness of dealing with someone like me cracked just a small bit. But it was enough to send me into something of a tailspin.

It's hard to avoid being furious all of the time these days. Not just angry, no; furious. There's absolutely nothing that's fair about this. I learned long ago that life isn't fair; that many times, good things happen to people who really don't deserve them while awful things happen to good people. It's just the way things are in a fallen world. But that knowledge doesn't make this situation any less painful. And it doesn't make the platitudes that are often shared with me any less bitter. I confess than when someone reminds me that God loves me and Logan and our family, I often think yeah, right, easy for you to say that. You haven't spent the better part of the past year watching your child suffer. You haven't felt this kind of pain, heartbreak, disappointment, exhaustion. It's not that I'm unteachable; I've thought on that subject many, many times in recent months, wondering if I am merely unreachable. No, it's merely that it's hard for me to accept statements like those from anyone who hasn't been in my shoes. And yes, I do know that it's unfair of me. But it's the way I feel, and I vowed long ago that I'd be honest here. So there it is.

I feel like I've been running a race for the past 10 months. Not a physical, feet-pounding-the-pavement kind of race, of course --goodness knows I can't run a quarter of a mile these days--, but an emotional race, a race of mental endurance. Unlike an actual race, the finish line isn't visible, and it's maddening to wonder if we're close or still miles and miles away. I can't just radio ahead to my spotter to find out where I am on the course. Heck, I don't even know what the course looks like. Nope, I have to keep running even though my heart aches and my body is utterly exhausted. There's not really much of a point to that observation; I suppose it's just me trying to explain how I feel in more relatable terms.

Anyway, all of that aside, Logan is still at CHO. And I still don't know when he'll be home. We're waiting on him to be able to hold down his oral medications. He did okay with them today while I was there. He's still throwing up blood, but apparently that's not something that will hold him, as his counts have remained stable and they aren't worried over its source.

I'm never sure who reads this and who doesn't, so I'll ask that you please pray and ask fellow followers who don't always read to do so as well. We need energy to cope. I'm empty. We desperately need healing for Logan. We need a clear MRI. It's not really a 'We'd like this' kind of request at this point; no, we need it. We need normalcy, we need a return to our life. We need to have our family together, we need to not be at CHO every single day. The strain is really becoming too much. We need hope, faith, patience. I need to feel like our plight hasn't been forgotten, as school gets out and vacations begin. I need to know that we're being remembered, that Logan is still remembered. Because we're stuck where we are for the forseeable future. There won't be any vacations, no trips home, not much of anything for us this summer. And it stinks. Thank you for being part of Logan's team.