A Heavy Coat

On days like today, the pain and heartache of all we've endured over the past 14.5 months rips and tears into my personhood, into the very essence of who I am on this earth. I suppose that sounds dramatic, but unless you've been me, I can't make you understand the depth of my frustration and disappointment and honestly speaking, hopelessness. Sometimes it feels as if there's a heavy winter coat weighing me down.

There was nothing particularly monumental or unusual about today. In fact, it was 'just another Saturday', and included a few of our normal ho-hum weekend activities, including lunch at Sweet Tomatoes (Logan's favorite haunt) and a trip to Walmart.

So I guess it was something about the conflation of what normal used to be -- 15 months ago -- with what it is now. There's something so intensely painful about comparing those two realities that I can scarcely breathe when I think about the contrast. It's like comparing fresh, untouched, purely alabaster skin with sun-scorched, blistered flesh. It's days like today that have a way of reminding me of what we've lost, of how our innocence has been torn away. To put it simply, my heart hurts.

I get upset whenever someone says 'well, you should just be glad Logan is alive'. Yes. Of course I am. I've seen amazing things happen. But at the same time, I don't think it's realistic to expect me to just be thankful for those things without feeling sad sometimes. After all, it's MY son who's barely recognizable thanks to steroids. It's MY son who can't dance because his legs are too weak or because of spinal issues -- not sure which; the MRI this coming week will tell us what's going on. It's MY son who's become a whining ball of complaints. He's not the same child he was 15 months ago. Cancer --evil-- took that away from us. I mourn the loss of that sweet boy, and I wonder if he'll ever be back. I don't know if God will restore him or not. And that breaks my heart, but the Logan I once knew was truly one of the best kids on this planet. He's still here, but his spirit is wounded. He's more cautious, less outgoing, more worried of what others think and less silly and carefree. It's true that he may have naturally evolved into the person he is now even without the scourge of disease, but I don't know. All I DO know is that the past year has changed him, and I'm sad over it. And I'm allowed to feel sad over it without anyone telling me otherwise.

I guess this isn't saying much. I have no pretty words to share nor any great observations, and certainly no grand proclamations of faith or hope. I feel tired and defeated and alone. And I write because long ago, I promised to be honest with you. So here I am.