It's Linear

Time is linear.

I've repeated that phrase to myself many times today. If I hadn't, I think my heart would've literally broken into two messy halves every single time I had to stomach someone gleefully chirping Happy New Year! Yeah, whatever.

Some people view 'New Years' as an opportunity to make a fresh start; to wipe the old year's slate clean and make better choices moving forward. But for me, it only means one thing, if I look at the big leap from December 31 to January 1 as something more than a simple tick in time: I'm leaving Logan behind. How can I wipe 2012's slate clean without wiping him out? I know it sounds ridiculous; after all, aren't there pithy sayings up the wazoo claiming that those we love never really leave us? I call BS on that. It's a nice thought, but it's just not true. I can't hold him or hug him or talk to him or ask him questions. He's just not here. That doesn't mean his spirit isn't alive on some plane of existence, but he's not... here.

For now, I can wake up each morning and think "One year ago, Logan was still here with me". Soon, I won't be able to say that anymore. And in less than five hours, I won't be able to say that he's been with me at all "this year".

It's not that I want 2012 to last forever. It's been the worst year of my life by leaps and bounds. It's been a mix of devastation and horror that's rocked my faith to its very core. I still haven't recovered, in fact. I don't know if I will. I know I won't ever be the person I once was. But will I at least be genuinely happy again? Will the sun ever shine as brightly as it once did? Will the brutal physical effects of two years of gut-wrenching stress ever right themselves, or am I doomed to age early? I don't know.

It's more that life just feels so wrong as it is. We float through each day, alternating between feeling 'okay' and 'wretched'. Never really happy or at ease or enthusiastic. I'm sure I hide it well; I've had practice hiding things for a long time. But that doesn't mean that under the layers of me, I'm not heartbroken. Because in a very real way, I am.

I fear that as we move into 2013, Logan will be forgotten. I've begged and pleaded --pathetically, embarrassingly, probably annoyingly-- for people to share my tribute to Logan. And I'm thankful to those who have. But a lot of you haven't. And I know you haven't; I can check the stats. So why don't you do it? Inconvenience? Discomfort? Don't like me as a person? Goodness knows I've not asked for much, other than prayer. I simply don't understand why it's not getting more attention than it is. I want people to know his story and how awesome he was, but I keep hitting walls. And that's hard and frustrating and maddening.

I didn't choose this life; it was given to me. The reality is that it could very well have been given to ANY of you, so how would you handle it? Would the notion that your child could be forgotten sit well with you?

I didn't really start out intending to rant and rave. I've just been feeling frustrated, and well, sometimes we have to get it out. Please forgive me for foregoing the silly hats and champagne and party poppers this year; after the brutal succession of Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas, my heart's just not in it.

So yeah: Time is linear. And it's important that I view it that way, because the leap from year to year is merely a step. And from that vantage point, Logan isn't so far away after all.

Legacy

Anyone connected to me on Facebook is probably totally tired of hearing about this, so you can feel free to tune it out. But I want to get it out there for others, too.

Remember this tribute that I wrote shortly after Logan passed away? (Click the link.) Well, I decided to nominate it for a Yahoo! Contributor Network award. It felt a little obnoxious to go the self-nom route, but I really want this. I don't care about the monetary prize. I want it because I want more people to read about Logan and how he lived his life.

See, the great majority of people like me --moms who fight tooth and nail to save their children for months or years on end, only to have their hearts broken by worst case scenario outcomes-- don't get much attention. We just don't. Our kids die, and most people forget about us and our heartache. (Not that any of you have, since you're still here reading! Don't think THAT.) We're not sensationalized like some, and though I'm not all about sensationalism, I AM about making sure my child is remembered for being the amazing, incredible, fabulous person he was. It's my job to push it and make sure he has the legacy he so much deserved to have in this life.

So do me a favor. Help me out. Click and read the article. It's linked above. I just read it again to be sure I'm not pimping something that's not very good, and I still think it's good. Worthy. If you think it's worthy of recognition -- if Logan and the way he lived his life is inspiring-- please share it with your friends and family. Part of the award criteria involves page views, and I'm truly worried that I'll be lacking in that department.

Okay. I won't mention it again. But he's worth it, folks. He's totally and completely worth it.

The Paintbrush

With Christmas right around the corner, I desperately want to say something profound. Meaningful. Memorable. But I'm just... me. I don't concentrate well, my thinking is scattered and I'm generally here and there and everywhere, mentally. So I'll just do what I can and leave it at that.

It rained a lot today. A friend joked that she saw the Ark go by this afternoon, and I could totally see why, between the puddles in the yard and the standing water on the patio. But it wasn't just rain. It was much more than that. It was intermittent rain; driving torrents interwoven with bright beams of sunlight. Which, of course, meant rainbows. Big, beautiful ones that arched across the sky. When we (yes, we) left for church this morning, I saw my first of many on the day. If not for the line of houses on our street, I could've seen the whole thing, end-to-end. It was sort of like being on Kaua'i, just... colder. And less tropical.

The bright bands of color were comforting. I haven't been really into the whole God-thing lately, but I could see Him painting a picture. And I like to think that He let Logan hold the brush now and again.

Then later, despite the rain, we stopped by the cemetery to check on the flowers and wave hello to our Sunshine. I think Adam and I were both touched to find a pretty potted plant sitting there, keeping his space looking fresh and alive. So thank you to whomever left it for him. Those gestures mean a lot.

Okay, I think that's enough for now. I can't muster the energy to really write. But I wanted to say hi and Merry Christmas.

Thanks and Stuff

Thanksgiving was much harder than I'd imagined it would be.

I mean, all of the holidays since Logan went Home have been challenging, but yesterday... different level. And I'm not entirely sure why. It's probably because of the meaning and intention behind Thanksgiving. Maybe I'm an ingrate, but it's very hard for me to be grateful this year. It's hard to look back and remember the hell we've suffered and express gratitude. It's hard to wake up crying in the middle of the night. It's hard to remember how it felt to hold Logan as he drew his last breath. It's trauma. It's not something I'm just going to move beyond right now; maybe not ever. But definitely not yet.

I don't know. I guess that's not fair of me. But it's my life. My reality. And no amount of preaching by others or reflection on all that I DO have can outweigh our tremendously painful loss. Unless you've been where we are... no, you don't understand and you can't really relate. That doesn't mean I don't want you to talk to me. Not at all! It just means that it doesn't help to hear things like 'oh, I totally get it' when no, you don't.

But anyway. We had a nice dinner with Adam's extended family. But if I'm honest, my heart wasn't in it. I wanted to be at home, wearing pajamas, cuddled in my big comfy recliner, wrapped up in my plush heated blanket, watching something completely trivial on TV. Maybe it's hiding, though I'm more inclined to call it surviving.

On the bright side, I took Abby out for a little Black Friday shopping this morning. At Bath and Body Works, I picked up some sparkly Twisted Peppermint Shimmer Spray, not because I want to smell like candy, but because Logan loved it. I remember him watching me get ready in the morning, and can still hear him chirping 'use the sparkly stuff!' He'd take the bottle, spritz it on my forearms for me, and then happily note my shimmering skin. The memory fills my heart with warmth. And that's just what I need these days.

9 Months

Nine months.

It's hard to believe it's been nine months since I last saw my Logan-ey take a breath. In a way, it feels like it's been less time; in another, it blows my mind that I could've gotten pregnant and produced another child in the time it's been since he left us.

But time is a funny thing. I think it betrays us, in a way. It's the taker of memories and experiences and youth. I suppose that's a little cynical. But as I told a friend recently, after the year I've had, I'm fortunate that I'm merely cynical.

So how am I? I struggle mightily with that question. Some days, I feel almost normal. Others... not so much. Sometimes I just start crying and have no idea why. But I'm trying to maneuver through this life that has been gifted to me. Because it's important to remember that despite our circumstances, life is still just that: a gift. Right now, I don't know how to make the best of it. I don't want to just roll with the punches and float along; I want to make an impact. I want Logan's life to make an impact. But I don't know what those things look like. At least, not yet. Hopefully some day I will.

Part of me is dreading the holiday season. The other part of me is grateful for a chance to celebrate. When Logan was still here, I once asked him to name his favorite holiday. His response? "Easter. And Christmas. And my birthday. And Halloween, and Thanksgiving. And Valentine's Day..." He loved them all, he really did. So I need to honor that. And in the process, hope that doing so doesn't break my heart even more.

Under a Rainbow

I don't think I could make this stuff up if I tried.

When I got up this morning, it was pouring down rain. The grey skies coupled with the cold air and the rain did nothing at all to help my already-sour mood.

I trudged through the lunch-making --if you can call stuffing a pizza Lunchable and a bag of baby carrots into a backpack 'lunch-making'-- and the getting-dressed and the diaper-changing. Then I wasted a little too much time on the computer and had to scoot more quickly than I'd have liked to get Abby to school on time. But we managed. And then I dragged myself to preschool to drop Isaac off for the morning.

And then, despite the driving rain, I drove to the cemetary. I don't really know why, since I usually go to water the flowers. But I was in auto-pilot. With sheets of rain streaming down my windshield and an equally impressive sheet of tears streaming down my face, I pulled up next to Logan's grave, and cut the engine. And I sat there, listening to the rain pounding on my roof and the sounds of Brady singing his ABCs in the way-back seat. I told God that I felt abandoned. I asked, for the thousandth time, why He hadn't saved my baby. I asked how He expected me to believe in anything after the horror that was watching my son die. I asked, point blank, why He didn't love me.

It didn't feel good, sitting there in the car parked next to my son's grave, living out a scene from a nightmare most people never even have to imagine.

After a minute, the sky directly ahead and up brightened a bit. The sun didn't break through, but for the first time this morning, I saw a ray of light so subtle that I questioned whether there truly was any light at all.

I started the car, but quickly cut the engine after a feeling came to me that simply said 'wait'. I can't say it was a voice. It was more of a feeling. And I don't know why I listened to it. I just did. I sat in the silence again for a moment, and then I felt something else: 'get out'. Grumbling, I opened the door, and stepped outside. I whirled around, muttering (aloud -- if you'd been there, you would've heard me) something along the lines of 'okay, so why am I wasting time getting out of the car? Just so I can get wetter than I already am? And then I stopped. And I mean dead-in-my-tracks stopped. Because right there in front of me, stretched all the way across the sky in an end-to-end perfect arc, was a rainbow.

Of course, I whirled back around and took its picture, because that's what I do.

I don't know what to make of it. But it brought me a small amount of peace in the moment. And it brought to mind lyrics from a song I've rehashed many times over the past 8 months, including earlier this morning:

Lord, make me a rainbow
I'll shine down on my mother
She'll know I'm safe with you
When she stands under my colors.

For non-country music fans, the lyrics are from The Band Perry's "If I Die Young". I hated that song for a long time, but now... well, now it speaks to me. Especially when I'm standing under those colors.

Misfire

I tried to go to church today.

I guess that sounds a little strange. After all, I either went or I didn't, right? Not exactly.

Feeling emboldened, I quietly slipped into my purple 'nice' dress and my dress boots this morning and then quietly slipped back downstairs to join the others. Part of me wanted it to be a non-event. I wanted to just get into the car and take the short drive like I had every single Sunday for many years before my world fell apart. Who cares that I hadn't been since before Logan passed away? It's not as if it should be a big deal to go to church.

But on the other hand, it was a very big deal. Huge, really. It felt like a step of faith. And I haven't taken many of those lately. So it felt like a good time.

But in hindsight, I don't think it was.

We arrived. I got out of the car. I remember wandering sort of blindly along. A few people noticed me and said hi. A lot of others... didn't. And that was okay. I didn't want to be a spectacle. But at the same time, I wanted to feel... important, I guess. Not that I'm any more important than anyone else. It's more that I'd hoped that people would think 'wow, she's here. After all of that shit she had to deal with, she's finally here.'

I guess that's a little vain. But if I weren't me, it's the way I'd look at someone who was me. If that makes any sense. Maybe it doesn't.

So I went in. A few more people said hi. And then the music started and I had to leave. I can't cope with music yet. I can't deal with the way it seeps into my core and throbs and moves through me like mercury. I'd planned to sit outside and sip my coffee for a few minutes, but it didn't turn out that way. No, I sat outside and cried for a long while. A very long while. Every time I'd start to collect myself, the tears would start all over again. And I didn't want to be seen sobbing. Not after everything. I didn't want to be that pathetic person who's life went to hell a few years ago and just can't seem to get past it. At least, not publicly. I can be her in private, but in public, I can't cry. I especially can't sob uncontrollably.

So I sat outside by myself in the cold, trying to figure out if I was still angry with God after all. And I don't think I am. I think I'm just profoundly sad. I know that people want to say Oh, I've had awful things happen to me and I know how it feels but, well, you don't. Not just because you haven't lost a child, but because you're not me.

I don't say any of this to alienate anyone else. Though I fully realize that it's precisely the kind of effect this kind of statement has on others. It's just a feeble attempt at putting myself out there (sans the sobbing hysterically in public part, of course).

So, yeah, church. It wasn't really what I'd hoped it would be. I'd hoped to feel like I was home again, but I didn't. If it's possible, I think I felt angrier and more alone and more sad than I've felt in a long while.

Of course, it's probably my fault. It must be, after all, because it's probably me who's changed, and not anyone else. I lost my child. And I have to live with the fallout. And being there reminded me of how much the past few years have changed me. Of how much innocence and faith and trust I've lost. And I was profoundly jealous of the people who walked by; the people I used to know whose lives haven't been transformed --ripped to bits and pieces, really-- by a maelstrom.

I have six more days to decide if I want to go back. Or if it's time for me to find a new place to meet God. One that isn't marred by painful memories.

Everywhere

I had a brief chat with the preschool director this morning. I was sitting on a bench, taking photos of the kiddos as they ran laps around the concrete path that encircles the playground equipment, when Kelly plopped down next to me. She asked about our trip and shared some thoughts on Logan. And I, in turn, shared a few thoughts of my own. Afterward, she smiled and said I should share my little tidbits here. So here goes.

I've not been into the whole faith-thing lately. It's hard to be denied the one thing you want more than anything. It's hard to watch your child die after you've begged and pleaded for his life. It's hard to keep believing after losing such an intense battle with evil. It's hard to cope with well-meaning people who try to help by repeating platitudes. It's all just, well, hard. So I guess there's little point in dwelling.

But every now and then, I can feel the sunlight on my face again. I feel like maybe I could have real, iron-clad faith again. Some day.

In addition to the omnipresent Corvettes last weekend, I had a few interesting moments that touched a nerve. The first came in New Smyrna Beach as Abby and I were checking into our oceanfront condo Saturday afternoon. As I stood filling out an information card, a blonde woman entered the office. She stepped up to the desk next to me, and gave her last name to the clerk. It was Logan. I did a triple take, and asked if she'd said Logan. She said yes, and asked if it was my name too. I said no, and pointed to the bake sale poster on the wall behind her as I explained that the poster child was my son.

Logan.

But sometimes it takes multiple hints to get through to someone as stubborn as me. Just yesterday, as Abby and I were standing in the security line at the airport in Orlando, the woman behind us put her boarding pass on the desk in front of the official. The edge of her wallet concealed all but one important piece of information, her last name. Which happened to be... Logan.

Once again, I did a triple take.

I know that the name Logan is a relatively common surname, but to have direct interactions with two folks in such short succession seemed statistically unlikely at best. More like flat-out amazing.

And it got me thinking about God all over again, and about how Logan must surely be wherever Heaven is. I don't know if he can see me or hear me or if he even knows who I am anymore. But he must be there.

Cookies and Corvettes

Tonight as I go to sleep, my heart is filled with sugar and spice and all things gooey and crumbly and chocolaty.

Today was the Team Logan Bake Sale. Abby and I flew all the way from home in Northern CA to Orlando yesterday, and then it was on to New Smyrna Beach this morning for the big event.

It's not a confession I want to make, but I had a bevy of concerns and fears about coming, and those qualms kept me from even making travel plans until 10 days ago. I mean, what if it didn't pan out well? What if no one showed up? What if there weren't enough cookies and cakes and candies to sell? What if I left feeling like Logan had been forgotten, or worse, like no one cared to get to know the amazing person he was?

But of course, all of my fears were just that: fears. And as the worm turned, none of them came to pass. Kathy and her team of local volunteers were completely on top of every single detail. (Or at least it sure seemed that way!) The people here are wonderfully friendly and, well, delightfully Southern: kind, patient, funny. Plenty of folks showed up to buy what we were sellin', and I was truly humbled to see arms overflowing with goods headed for the check-out line. These people know what it means to be generous. Not one of them --not a single one, save Abby and myself-- ever met Logan in person, yet somehow, they knew him. They got him and his plight, and they gave cheerfully to help others. And I'm grateful for that. For all of it.

I think Logan would've liked New Smyrna Beach. I think he would've adored the car show that's held each month. They close down Canal Street and park along the sides of the road. And people stroll along, checking out car after car after car. He would've loved checking out the makes and models and telling me which ones he wanted to have when he grew up. He would've liked shaking his groove thang to the music. He would've pointed out every flame job and every Corvette.

And he would've had quite the task at hand, because I've never seen as many Corvettes in a single day as I did today. They were everywhere. On the road from Orlando. In parking lots. At stop lights. Riding along the coast. At the car show. Blue, red, yellow, black, orange, white. So many that Abby and I eventually lost count. But I took photos. Lots and lots of photos. Not because I think he was those cars, but because I can hear his chirpy voice exclaiming Look! A Corvette! every time I see one.

And if he can't be here with us physically, there's nothing better than a good memory. After all, no other mechanism can provide a glimpse of an uncomplicated past when we were simply a mom and her sunny little boy playing a game of Name that Car.

Do You Bake? Does Your Mom Bake? Your Dog?

Okay, so I guess your dog probably doesn't bake.

I cannot believe I've yet to post about this until now, but here goes.

My friend Kathy, who lives all the way down in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, is hosting a very special event on October 13. She's named it the Team Logan Bake Sale, and is hoping to break the Guinness Record for largest bake sale ever. Created under the Cookies for Kids' Cancer umbrella, the proceeds from the sale will go to children's cancer research.

The effort means a lot to me, because the "Logan" in "Team Logan" is none other than my sweet boy.

If you're a local to that area and can help out in person, contact Kathy. If you're not local, that's ok: You can still bake something sweet (or savory!) and mail it to Kathy for the sale. We're getting down to the wire, and I know she still needs help, especially if you have a special talent with gluten-free, vegan, sugar-free and other specialty items. But really: ANY kind of treat would be appreciated. And ALL of the proceeds go toward helping kids like Logan who are still fighting their cancer battles.

Click here --> Team Logan Bake Sale site! to visit the official site. Click the Become a Volunteer Link at the top of that page to contact Kathy. Or, you can visit the fundraising page by clicking here.

Thanks so much for thinking about helping with this event. I can't really express fully how it feels to have something I can do to help. Even if I can no longer help Logan, it heartens me to think that efforts like this one could one day stamp out childhood cancer.

Just a Note

It's been a while since I last wrote. Too long, I think. I just haven't been able to come up with much to say. In some ways, it feels like life is normalizing. And in some ways, that's a good thing. But in others, it's terrible. I don't want life to be normal or ordinary; it can't be anymore. With each passing day we get further away from Logan, at least in one sense. And that's hard. There isn't and never will be anything ordinary about that. My soul screams out against the very notion. But life is... life. It has to be lived, one way or another. I'm not exactly sure how to do it right now, but I'm feeling it out.

I have to confess that I've been feeling segregated from others for a while now. I've never been especially socially savvy --just ask anyone who knew me in high school, ha-- but I tried. And I've tried harder than ever as an adult. But then we found out Logan was sick and bam, I lost my social life. The one I'd tried so incredibly hard to build. I became a curiosity to some people and a person to be avoided to others. But it never really felt like I had... friends. It was too much to deal with actual, real-live friends when I was trucking back and forth to CHO while 9 months pregnant. And then while I was trucking back and forth to CHO with a newborn and the insanity that prevails with a small herd of kids who rely on you. And now, with all of this horrific crap in the rearview, I feel almost as if the people who were my friends prior to my life going to hell moved on without me. And of others, I find myself wondering 'do they really want to talk to me or do they just feel sorry for me?' I guess that's junior high of me to think that way. Or maybe it's true; I don't know. I only know what I suspect; I don't really know what other people think or want. Nor do I understand their motivations. I can't. I'm not them. I'm just... me. I'm the me who's been charged with being a freak. I'm the one whose kid died. I'm the one who some people just can't bring themselves to talk to because it's SO painful to think of a kid dying that it's easier to just walk away. To pretend that I don't exist at all. But let me tell you: the worst thing you an do to me is to act like Logan didn't exist and like he didn't pass on. I extend a lot of grace to a lot of people, but I have a hard time forgiving the ones who know what happened yet stay silent. Because it may go away for them as long as they don't think about it, but it will never go away for me.

Anyway. I just ache for my Logan. That's the root of it all, when it comes down to the teeniest of underlying brass tacks. I wish I could touch his little hands. Comb his hair. Smell him. I can't tell you how much I wish I could inhale his scent. How much it would mean to me to be able to put my hand on his chest and feel his little heart throbbing inside. But I can't do those things. And I hate that. There's really no other word for it. But as I've noted one hundred and fifty four kajillion times now, it is what it is. And it is. At least, for now.

Alligators and Crocodiles

A photo of my Sunshine now hangs on a wall in his preschool classroom. Today, I went to see it. I wasn't sure what I'd find when I opened that door and stepped inside, but I did it anyway. And I learned something.

The last time I visited that room, I couldn't hold back the tears. I worried, at the time, that they'd never stop. That I'd never again be able to visit that place --a locale that played host to some of Logan's happiest final memories-- without donning a heavy coat of grief.

But today, I went inside. And it felt... okay. I remembered his first day there about a year ago. I heard his little voice playfully chirping his customary parting exchange with his teacher... see ya later, alligator; after 'while, crocodile. What I didn't feel was the heaviness --the grief-- I'd expected to feel. And I'm glad, because he was happy there. He would want me to be able to be there and feel that happiness again. It felt like progress. Like a step forward amid a lot of steps back.

See ya later, alligator.

After 'while, crocodile.

Speak in Love?

Tomorrow, Abby starts the third grade. I've experienced a succession of whoa, how'd THAT happen?! moments in recent days, so I think I'm ready for it. I'm not so ready for the big day that Logan's not going to have tomorrow. I'm not ready to not walk him to school and into the special kindergarten waiting area. I'm not ready to not meet his teacher and fret over whether or not she's the best possible person to entrust with the care of my precious cargo. I'm not ready to not watch him trot inside his classroom, look back with that big beautiful smile, and wave a hearty good-bye for the day. And I'm definitely not ready to not feel that sense of victory I longed to feel for a year and a half; the sense of victory that comes after beating a horrible disease and moving forward in life. But it's really neither here nor there; I can't change the reality by wishing it away, after all. So where does that leave me?

Right here. Dealing with daily life. The good of it. The bad of it. The ugly of it.

And of course, since there's an election approaching, there's plenty of the latter. In the face of so much ugliness from so many sources, I've felt pressed to speak the truth, but to do it in love. What does that mean? Well, for me, it means keeping my trap shut when I want to issue a verbal beatdown. It means speaking gently and logically to defend my points. It means not attacking, even if I feel attacked.

It's a hard thing to do. And I fail a lot. But it's the right way to live. It's what Logan did -- he spoke in love, no matter what the circumstance. If a 5-year old could do that, it behooves me to at least give it a try. So this election season, it's what I'm trying my hardest to do. Because that, my friends, is the essence of tolerance.

Prove It, Then.

A couple of days ago, I had a little conversation with God. For the pre-loss me, it was such a commonplace occurrence that I probably wouldn't have touched on it here. But I suppose it's no great secret that I haven't exactly been on speaking terms with the Big Guy for the past few months. Too many feelings of betrayal and anger and frustration and, well, pain. So the last thing I've wanted to do was talk to God, a.k.a. the all-knowing, all-powerful creator of the universe who ignored my fervent prayers and didn't save my little boy from death.

But a few days ago, sitting alone in the dark in my family room after everyone else had gone to bed, He and I had a brief exchange. I'd been wondering a lot about the reality of God and of Heaven, so I just said

Okay, God. Prove it.

I guess that sounds pretty obnoxious and part of me cringed, fully expecting to be struck down for such a flagrant display of insolence, but the tank was low and I was being direct: if You're there, and if Logan still IS, then prove it.

Of course, there was no great clap of thunder. Lightning bolts didn't pierce the night sky with any brilliant flashes of pure white. No grand voice boomed down yes, of course I'm here, don't be ridiculous.. In fact, the room remained silent and still and familiar.

But even without the fanfare, I know He heard me.

How?

Abby's new teacher called me this morning. She was attentive and caring and seems to be a great match for my daughter and our circumstances. She asked for the names of a few girls who Abby particularly enjoys spending time with, and I gave her two: Bridget and Isabelle. I also gave the name of a good friend down the street. She said she didn't know offhand if any of them were in the class because she'd just gotten the list, but when the rosters were posted late this afternoon, we were surprised to find not just one or two but all three of them in Abby's class. It seemed an unlikely scenario given that there are four different third grade classes, but it happened anyway.

And this afternoon, I had the oddest encounter with a contractor. Our backyard is a complete disaster; we ignored it after Logan got sick, and it's a mess. We started the renovation project by contacting a few local tree services to give quotes for removing two trees and an old tree stump. The very first guy to come by was a tall, burly man, probably a few years younger than me. As I showed him the trees, I explained the root of the disrepair. He looked down at his clipboard and went silent for a moment before quietly responding I have a baby in Heaven, too. I said I was sorry to hear it, and he quickly added But that's where they are, with Jesus. And we'll see them again someday. You'll be there, too. And he looked right at me. This big, burly guy had tears in his eyes and looked me squarely in the face as he told me that our children were in Heaven. And that we would be, too. Then he looked back down at his clipboard, muttering something about wanting to give us a great deal because he felt like God was using him. And he rattled off an incredibly low quote. Part of me wanted to hire him right there on the spot; after all, he'd witnessed to me even before he knew that we believed in Jesus or Heaven or... anything. But we have others lined up to give quotes, so we'll let them do so. But what a story, right? I thought so.

Okay, so neither of those things really prove anything at all. But they're a start. I can feel the ice beginning to melt. And ironically, the more the ice melts, the more I can feel the sunshine --MY sunshine-- tickling my skin.

104 Weeks

Do you know where you were exactly 104 weeks ago?

I do. I was sitting in the PICU at CHO. I was 21 weeks pregnant with a baby I'd just learned was a little boy. And I'd also just learned, mere hours earlier, that my sunshine had a massive tumor growing in his brain.

I've felt like I've been in hell many times over the past two years. But 104 weeks ago marked the very first trip of them all.

It marked the beginning of what I prayed wouldn't be the end. But it was anyway. I know, I know: heaven.

But he's not here. Don't marginalize my feelings by bringing up heaven; it makes me feel like my feelings aren't valid or valuable or justified. But they are. I know they are. I know that if your child suffered and died that you'd feel the same way. I'm not you, no, but I know it. I know the sting of that kind of loss. I can promise you that despite what you may think, the promise of heaven doesn't make it all better. It's not me being negative; it's just the truth. The bitter, human truth.

I knew back on February 11 that six months out would bring with it a brutal set of anniversaries for us. Logan's birthday. Then a breath. The day that we knew something was wrong. And then a half-breath. Then our 10th anniversary. And another breath. And then the day that the pathology report came in and the feeble sticks we'd erected to keep the world from falling in on us snapped under the weight of the doctor's words.

I'm haunted by how the events of this week are mirroring what happened two years ago. Abby has a playdate with the daughter of the very friend who watched her and Isaac while we took Logan to the doctor the day that his eye turned in... 104 weeks ago today. She hasn't had a playdate with her since that day. Without thinking, I asked the same girl we'd asked to baby-sit for us on our anniversary two years ago to baby-sit for us later this week. It's almost like time is moving forward and certain events are repeating themselves, only this time, things will go as they should've gone the first time. A pleasant playdate for Abby. A nice dinner out for us, in place of what happened two years ago: the exhausted consumption of a pair of soggy sandwiches from a hospital cafeteria vending machine at 11 PM.

It feels almost like I'm drowning at times; each time a wave passes, another one is right there waiting to batter me and knock me off my feet once again.

But anyway.

6 Months

Yesterday marked six months since Logan departed this life. On one hand, I can't believe it's only been six months. On the other, I can't believe it's already been that long. Some days, I feel like I'm starting to forget the finer points of who he was. I can't just close my eyes and hear the exact tone of his voice anymore; I have to think harder and concentrate to come close. And even then, it's not perfect. It's just... close.

I wish I were less angry than I am. I'd hoped that by six months, I'd be more at peace. I'd hoped that God would've shown me things to prove that He's out there and that Logan still is. But I haven't seen much, and it's disheartening. The essence of faith is, at its root, believing something to be true even without rock solid proof. I understand that. But now... now I need to know it's all true. Wishing, hoping, suspecting isn't enough. Not now. And I get tired of well-meaning Christians who have no idea what it's like to lose a child telling me that I should just believe. Yeah, whatever. It's an easy thing to do when you've never had something awful --truly awful and heartbreaking-- bite you after you'd poured your entire being into begging for a good outcome.

The big misfortune of yesterday was that it happened to be a Saturday. Logan died on a Saturday, which meant that the entire day, it felt like I was dodging memory bullets: seeing Adam on the driveway waiting for us after dance and the immediate sinking awareness that something horrible was happening; feeling my heart drop into my toes when I walked into the PICU room and saw his heartrate and oxygen sats; making the torturous decision to spare him a heart attack and just... let him go. You don't get over that kind of thing. Ever, I fear. It stays with you, and somehow "oh, just have faith" doesn't do much to make it better.

But despite all of that, I thought I was okay until bedtime. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I felt... angry. I don't like to give in to anger much. It's not worth the emotional energy cost. I yelled for a while, then cried for a while. And then I went into Brady's room because I needed to hold someone small. Someone who wouldn't remember or feel the despair that I sometimes feel. It hurts me that Brady won't remember Logan. But at the same time, it also means he'll never have to bear the burden of losing him. So I held him in the darkness and cried some more. It didn't make it better. But at least it didn't make me angry.

It's been a hard couple of weeks, yes. Not that that's something new or noteworthy, really, because every single week is hard and painful. It's been torture watching Logan's summer birthday buddies turn six. Pure torture. It's been torture listening to parents complain about birthday parties and the advancing ages of their children. Every time I hear a complaint, I have to stop myself from smacking the person and responding "I sure wish my kid was getting older this year". I bite my tongue, because I know no one really cares. No, that's not fair. Some people do care. It's more than I know that very few people *get it*. After all, if you *got it*, you'd stop complaining about stupid, trivial things around me. That's what I meant to say. But it's just my reality, after all, and people are entitled to bitch and moan about stuff regardless of whether it's truly bitch and moan-worthy stuff. We all have our problems, sure. But some of our problems are way bigger and way more painful than others'. But I'm biting my tongue. Yep. Not a word.

Anyway. I have macaroni and cheese to make and plants to water.

What's Left of Me

Yeah, it's a Nick Lachey song. But the boybander has nothing to do with this.

The words just resonate with me:

What's left of me.

I feel like I go about life these days with what's left of me and nothing more. I could try to make it better with the pretticisms that well-meaning folk try to toss my way, but it's still my bitter, cold reality. Maybe I'm an awful person for it, but the thought of Heaven doesn't make it better. Maybe if I were a better person it would. But it doesn't. I still lost my son nearly six months ago. I didn't get to see him turn 6 last week. I didn't get to kiss him at bedtime tonight or sing him You Are My Sunshine. Nothing makes that better.

I'm broken in a way that can't be fixed, at least not in this realm. I'm not who I once was. I'll never be that person again. She died along with Logan. Though she looked like me, talked like me, had my sarcastic sense of humor and my broken-at-least-twice-by-the-kids nose, she wasn't me. It's probably pretty creepy, but a moment ago, as I typed that last sentence, I considered writing a eulogy for that person. A lot of you didn't know her personally. Did you know that she never missed a spelling word --ever-- in elementary school? Or that she took dance for 14 years? Or that the only thing she ever truly aspired to be was a mom? Did you know that she had an affinity for peanut butter and chocolate ice cream? Or that she had really awful allergies? That she suffered with health anxiety for years, and just as she seemed to get it under control, she discovered that her son, who she loved as much as any other person on the planet, was critically ill with a horrible disease? Did you know?

She wasn't, by any means, perfect. But she was me. Some days, I miss her. I miss feeling like praying had a point. I miss feeling like God would take care of my family and not let awful, horrific things happen to people I love. I miss being able to be genuinely, fully happy for an entire 60-minute block of time. I miss glee and joy. I miss being able to connect with other people, because as much as other people may try, they just don't understand. And those who do... I can't handle being around them. Not now. The collective pain of loss is just too strong. I miss being more patient and understanding. I miss feeling like I can be honest about how I feel --about what's true-- without worrying that I'll offend someone. I miss a lot of things. I miss her. It's hard to be What's Left of Me.

Anyway. That sounds a lot more depressive than I'd intended. But it's true. All of it.

And I feel compelled to add something here, so bear with me. I can't give Logan a hug or tell him I love him. If there's someone you need to forgive or to whom you owe an apology, don't waste time. Don't get caught up in the crap of the past. Even if you think you're over it and it doesn't affect you, unforgiveness --either the kind that you hold in your heart or the kind that's held against you when apology is withheld-- is toxic. If that person is still alive --if you are blessed enough to be able to find closure-- do what you need to do to let it go. Today. I can almost hear the protests... But you don't understand how AWFUL this person was... Nope, maybe I don't. But I do know how awful it is to not be able to say what I'd like to say to someone who's gone.

Distraction

Over dinner tonight, I remarked to Adam that I'm profoundly grateful for the Olympics. I'm not generally a big sports junkie, but he didn't have to ask why. The value of a time-consuming distraction is immeasurable. And I'm fully immersing myself in that delightfully immeasurable distraction.

Logan's 6th birthday is in two days. It's not that I'm trying to forget it or avoid it. No, I could never forget. I don't want to forget. I want to honor the anniversary of the day I first laid eyes on and fell in love with him. I want to do the things that he loved to do, eat the foods that he loved to eat, and be with the people he loved best. And I'll do those things on July 31.

But to keep my heart from breaking until then, I'll distract myself with the Games; with stories of triumph and victory and success. And in some cases, sadness and disappointment. And I'll continue my frenetic freelancing, too. Because a good distraction can be hard to find, and I'm blessed to have a good one at my disposal.

Overwhelming

It's 11:24 PM. Once again, I'm not asleep. I should be; Abby and Isaac have VBS bright and early in the morning. But it doesn't really matter that I should be sleeping; I'm just not.

Life feels utterly overwhelming right now. VBS is hard to take. I remember how much Logan enjoyed the two years he attended. It's hard to see the kids who would've been his classmates. It's hard to see the parents who know what happened to us but don't say a word about it. I guess that sounds weird, but one of my biggest fears is that Logan will be forgotten. I fear the day when people stop talking about him. I fear the time when it'll become commonplace for me to say 'well, I have one more child, too...'

On top of that, Isaac's OT evaluation is tomorrow. At CHO. The OT office is in the main hospital building, not far from the room where Logan departed this life. I've not been back there since that day. I'm honestly not sure if I'll be able to go inside. I remember how hard it was to go inside Logan's preschool classroom for the graduation ceremony he was denied. I remember how the feeling of sorrow was so powerful that it seemed to rip away at my very flesh. And now going back... I just don't know how it'll hit me.

And of course, the impending birthday. I cried a lot today. The first few times, they were random tears. Of sadness, of course. Rooted in missing my sunny boy. But the third happened when I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom, flipping through an album containing his artwork. I came across the invitations he'd written to his friends. Invitations to a birthday party that won't happen. I remember snatches of the day that he wrote them out. It seemed silly at the time; his birthday is July 31, yet there he was in October of last year, writing out personalized invitations asking his friends to please come to his birthday party. We'll do what he wanted to do, but there won't be a cake or candles or a happy birthday song. There won't be a birthday boy turning six years old. Nothing makes that any better. But I know that it has to be okay because nothing can change it. It's just... not.

Before I lie down once again to try to rest (knowing full well that I'll probably wind up staring at the ceiling for an hour yet again), I want to take a moment to thank everyone who's reached out to me these past months. Even if I haven't been responsive, I've appreciated the contact. The effort. Because I'm not going to reach out right now. I can't. I'm too busy using my own hands to try to hold the pieces of my heart together.

Mid-Month

I did something a little 'off the beaten path' yesterday. I asked my Facebook friends --at least the ones who were willing-- to share their personal 'Worst Thing' moments or times. The times that were most challenging, heartbreaking, upsetting, life-changing. You get the point.

I didn't do this to be nosy or to pry or to try to out-worstify (sorry, I can't find the word I'm looking for there) anyone else's worst-ever event. No, I asked with precisely the opposite goal in mind: so I'd know that despite how things look on the outside, despite how shiny and happy everyone else seems to me in the wake of losing Logan, there isn't a single person out there who hasn't suffered some sort of pain during this life. It wasn't all about focusing on the bad; no, it was a way for me to look at the bad, and see how it's changed others for the better. To get a small outsiders' taste of another's journey.

I've heard from a good number of people. In a way, the results have surprised me. Some of the events shared broke my heart. Some of them made me gasp. But none of them --not a SINGLE ONE-- changed my view of the person who shared, except maybe to make her (and I can use 'her' here because every respondent has been female) look stronger. Like a survivor. And that's not a bad thing.

If you were one of those gals who took a risk and shared, thank you. I know it can be hard to trust someone else with your pain, but I'm glad you took a risk on me. It's totally cornball, I know, but your story has now become a stone laid down along my path to healing.

At Night

It's a double-edged sword.

I'm a night owl; have been for as long as I can remember. I much prefer watching the moon trace its route across the sky to a bleary-eyed sunrise over the ocean. I like the silence and the stillness of the darkness; the peace that comes at the close of a long day. It feels like a long, relaxed sigh. But it's a double-edged sword, because in the silence, the sadness emerges from where it hides during daylight hours. And that's hard. The quiet stillness used to be my friend, but now it's something different. It's the bearer of tears that I should probably cry but would rather just hold in. It's uncomfortable. Almost unwelcome. Yet it comes every day without fail, just like for me, the memories of Logan's last few weeks return like a flood to inundate me with regret.

It's July. I know that's an obvious observation, but July is rife with meaning for us because the final day of the month marks Logan's sixth birthday. The one he mapped out for us before his last hospital admission. The one that he wanted to celebrate with lunch at Outback, dinner at Chuck E. Cheese, a chocolate Cars cake, a pinata and blue sprinkles. I never got to ask him precisely what he wanted to do with said sprinkles; I just knew that they were on the list. So when the 31st arrives, we'll do and have those things. Even if my heart should completely shatter, we'll do and have those things. Because he wanted them.

I haven't written much because my thoughts are painfully --frustratingly-- disjointed. When I start writing, I'm never sure where my mind will go, or whether I'll even be able to hold a thought long enough to make it make sense to myself (much less anyone else).

I'm not in a horrible place. No, some days, I feel almost good. When Abby, Isaac and Brady --I can't say 'the kids' anymore; no, I have to name them because 'the kids' will forever include Logan, even though he's not here-- are well-behaved and cute and in good moods, I feel like life could be 'right' again some day. But then the moment fades and I remember that my life will never be 'right' ever again. It'll never be okay that Logan isn't here. It'll never be okay that he was taken from us. That doesn't make life unlivable or without purpose; it just makes it... hard. Chore-like. Passable at times. Even happy at times. But never truly okay. And I know that eventually, I have to be okay with that.

I haven't said much about God. It's a sore spot, despite my previous assertions to the contrary. I think it's impossible --right now-- for me to not blame God for what happened. It's impossible for me to not feel a sense of betrayal so deep and so sharp that it takes away my breath. I don't understand God. I don't understand the way the world works. I still don't believe that He wanted this to happen to our family or that He planned it. No, suggest that to me and you'll still receive a written (or if you're lucky, in-person) tongue-lashing.

Still, it breaks my heart to know that I poured my entire existence into praying for healing yet it didn't matter in the end. I can't explain that. So I push God --and at times, the very notion of God-- away. It's a silly thing to do, really, because all I want is proof that Heaven is real and that Logan is there. At my core, I long for proof that I don't --and probably can't-- have. After all, I believed Logan would be well and a physical part of our family for a long time to come, yet he died anyway. I had faith. And it wasn't rewarded. And amid the racket from people who are well-meaning but truly have no idea what they're talking about, I have no idea where to go from here. Not a clue.

And so I roll with the waves. I get up every morning and go about the business of the daylight hours. Then after the sun sets and Adam turns in and the house is silent, I think and I cry and I hope for something. For proof that he's still out there, even if I can't see him now.

Paradise

Today was remarkable and wonderful for several reasons. But the one that's most important to me was also today's most substantial --and definitively unexpected-- surprise.

After dropping Abby, Isaac and Brady off with Adam's parents yesterday evening, we returned home and got up before the sun to catch our long-awaited flight to Kaua'i. Just the two of us. It's the first time that we've had a getaway involving just us since a friend got married when Abby was 11 months old. And the time before that? Our honeymoon, almost 10 years ago. We were, to be terse, quite overdue.

The frustration of having our original seat assignments wiped out was erased when we found ourselves in the coveted exit row, and the trio of small boys behind us were stunningly well-behaved. I sat playing a game on my iPad as the plane ascended. It was quiet. It was calm. The hum of the engine nearly lulled me to sleep. And then, after we'd been airborne for an hour or so, I heard it:

Mommy, I promise I'm fine. Really, I'm fine.

When I first heard that voice, I quickly convinced myself that I'd imagined it and went back to my game. But then it came back again, repeating those same words, and the tears just... came. Out of nowhere at all, it seemed, until I was almost completely overcome with emotion.

I poked Adam and told him I think Heaven is... and I looked out of the window... UP. And he said he'd been wondering the same thing.

I don't know why I felt like I did or why my sense of Logan was so strong on that airplane, but I do know that I felt closer to him than I have since he passed away. I felt like he was up there somehow. Like somehow, we were passing through his home and he took the time to say hi.

And I know that no matter how many wonderful things we see while we're here, those minutes high over the ocean will remain my best memory of all.

Wednesday

Sometimes, it amazes me that it's been more than four months since I last saw my Sunshine. And it takes my breath away to realize that I won't see him again at all; at least, not here.

I'm still awaiting the magic moment when I just know he's with me. Not the moment when I hope he's there or feel like he might be there. I'm talking about the moment when I know he's there. I got a vague taste of the moment over the weekend, but the sense was more of sand trickling through my hand rather than something to grasp fully. Not the 'real thing' yet.

This past weekend was devoted to dance recitals. Three of them, to be precise. Isaac performed Saturday afternoon, Abby performed Sunday afternoon, and Abby and I performed during all three shows, as members of the Mother/Daughter class. We were country girls, shakin' it for... well, Luke Bryan, I guess.

The whole 'return to the stage' thing was important to me for lots of reasons. I grew up dancing. Though I dabbled in jazz, ballet and pointe, I am and always have been a tapper at heart. There's something utterly freeing about being on stage, performing a routine that I know by heart (even if it wasn't, in this weekend's case, tap). I don't usually think of myself as being particularly good at much of anything, but I was a good tapper.

Anyway, given my Logan's love of dance during his time on this earth, it's no surprise that I felt closer to him while I was on stage. It's not so much that I could feel him, because I couldn't. It's more that I knew that if he were still with us in a physical way, he'd be totally enthralled with seeing his mom on stage. And that meant something to me. It's like a little pearl of delight that I can hold in my heart.

So that's that. I've been chronicling our summer on a different blog, located here: One Summer of Fun.

A Really Big Wave

I no longer spend a lot of time thinking about the future. Taking each day as it comes is how I survive, which is probably why I was a month late ordering dance recital tickets and still have yet to sew the elastic bands onto the cowboy hats for the mother/daughter dance. (I now have approximately 24 hours to get it done.) In a way, it's maddening, because in my previous life, I was punctual. I did things way ahead of time just so I wouldn't have to stress over them as the deadlines approached. But it doesn't work that way anymore. At least, not right now.

As I got up this morning, I could feel an epic wave looming overhead. Today and tomorrow are easily two of the most emotion-laden days we'll have to face this year. Why? Today, Brady is 18 months old. A year-and-a-half. I still think of him as my tiny baby, and though he is indeed on the small side, he's far from an infant. He's bubbly, perky, energetic. He's also one of the most pleasant, patient toddlers I've ever known. Today, however, is also the anniversary of Logan's homecoming following his BMT cycle. Hs went through so much during that 50-day stay at CHO, yet we were quietly, hold-your-breath hopeful that he had come home healed once and for all. I remember him getting out of the car exactly one year ago. I remember how he took a moment to silently --but still gleefully-- admire the banner and Cars-themed decorations and bunches of balloons that welcomed him back to a semblance of a normal life. I could tell he was overwhelmed, but pleased. Gratified. Happy.

And there's tomorrow. Tomorrow, Isaac will be four years old. Birthdays are blessings through and through, but four will be hard for me. It was only two weeks after Logan's fourth birthday that we discovered that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

So much emotion, so little time to feel it.

In the Silence

I've been quiet. I've spent a lot of time holding my tongue, mostly because it does no good to annoy people who can't possibly understand how it feels to be, well, me. I guess that sounds a little self-involved, but that's me right now: utterly self-involved. I think it'd be impossible for me to be just about any other way. So I have to be okay with it. And by extension, so do others. Maybe that's not fair. I don't know.

I went by Logan's preschool class graduation a few weeks ago. It was incredibly difficult. I can usually stifle emotion, but as I sat outside waiting for the ceremony to begin, I couldn't contain the overwhelming sadness. And once I went inside, I couldn't help feeling like I was raining on someone else's parade; the special day of kids who lived long enough to officially graduate from preschool and enter kindergarten. I've heard a lot of friends lamenting the end of their children's final days in preschool lately, but I can tell you this: it's such an unadulterated blessing to get to watch your kids finish a year of school. And it rips my heart out to hear and see those complaints. Sorry, but it's true. It's hurtful, though I fully acknowledge that no one probably thinks that the words are hurtful. And all in all, I guess that's okay. It has to be. My pain and loss are at the forefront of my own mind, but I know it's not fair to expect anyone else to be thinking about them. Especially not in the face of what are major life events for them. Major life events that I'll never have with my Logan. But anyway.

I just wanted to check in for a moment since it's been a while. Abby's last day of school is tomorrow, so the summer is upon us. I just need to figure out, eventually, how I feel about that.

Season's End

I was mulling a few truths a little while ago, and it occurred to me that unless you know me personally, you probably don't know that I'm a freelance writer on the side. I do mostly entertainment news and TV show recaps for a few select reality competitions. I know that seems random. But it's important that I start this entry with that tidbit of 411, since the rest of it won't make a lick of sense unless you're in-the-know. So with that out of the way....

It's been an emotional week. Not that I've had what I'd term a non-emotional week for nearly two years, but the past few days have been extra emotional. Why, you ask? Because, and this will sound a wee bit insane, but because Dancing with the Stars and American Idol both ended.

Say what?

I know. I sound totally nuts. But to be cliche, there's a method to my madness. Or at least a vaguely discernibly understandable explanation behind it. Here's the thing. Those two shows, which I recap for a website that shall remain nameless, have been a lifeline for me this year. One began shortly before Logan departed this life; the other shortly after. They gave me something trivial to look forward to every week. They gave me a predictable activity and an escape from a life that I found almost too challenging to live effectively at times. They gave me something normal, something decidedly not painful and something familiar to enjoy. And now, they're over.

That's not to say that I won't move on with other shows. In fact, both Duets and So You Think You Can Dance premiere on Thursday. And assuming I can figure out how to Houdini my way around the DVR, I'll be recapping those two shows, too.

But I'll mourn the end of the shows that carried me through some of my darkest days thus far. Even as I write this, I think it sounds weird. But I guess weirdness is just a part of who I am. And I'm okay with that.

Hodgepodge, Mishmash and all that Stuff

I keep feeling like I should write something here. Anything. But nothing really comes to me these days. It's sad: I'm a writer with no inspiration. Or at least not enough to get my juices flowing.

Mother's Day was, as I'd assumed it would be, hard. It's always difficult to wake up sad and then fight negative emotions all day long. But that's pretty much what I did. And I got through it. I'm hoping that one day, I won't just get through those special days. I'm hoping that I'll find joy in them again. But I don't know when that'll happen. I don't know if it will ever happen. That's one of my biggest fears.

Other than that, I've been in an extended 'crap' mood. I guess that's pretty blunt, but it's the truth. Tired, betrayed, forgotten. It stinks, but I've discovered a painful truth: people forget about you around the 3-month marker. I could stop and apologize to everyone who's stayed present, but the underlying truth still remains: I feel forgotten. I feel like Logan's been forgotten.

It's not that I expect the world to slow down because I lost my son. Okay, well, maybe I do. But I know that's not a realistic desire. No one else will care about what happened to Logan like my family does. It won't ever mean as much to anyone else. Everyone else on the planet will do what they do when something tragic happens to someone else: send a note of condolence (or say nothing at all, which, if I may repeat of the upteenth time, I precisely the wrong thing to do to someone like me) and then move on with life. I get that. But it's painful when the notes stop coming. When the letters notifying us that a donation has been made in Logan's honor become fewer and farther between. When it feels like everyone else feels like it's time to move on. When it feels like others feel like maybe I should just buck up and deal with what happened and... get over it. As if that would ever happen. As Miranda Lambert sings in her hubby Blake Shelton's song Over You, which was written in memory of his brother who passed away as a teen, I'll never get over him. I don't want to get over him. I just want to find a way to incorporate his memory into my life in a way that's not excruciatingly painful. I don't know how to do that.

I guess the only other thing I want to say is this: cut me some slack. I'm pretty much in hell, so I like to think that maybe, just maybe, some of the less-than-smart things I say could be pardoned without comment. I feel judged, and I don't need that on top of my grief. Believe me, I really don't.

Cry a Little

A friend asked yesterday if I cry while type my posts. The short answer is no, but there are exceptions that pop up every now and then; the days when everything feels extra-specially unfair and frustrating. If my allergies weren't so horrible today and if a fresh batch of tears wouldn't certainly seal my sinuses completely shut, I'd probably cry right now.

I used to love holidays with my kids. I viewed them as these intangible, precious little jewels. Carefully capsulated moments when we could all just spend time together in the collective cocoon of family, quietly enjoying the little oddities that make all of us unique and special.

Now? Not so much. At least, not yet. There are a few dates on the calendar that I'm dreading this year (and the beginning of next): Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, my birthday. And Mother's Day. Mother's Day may well be the most emotionally taxing and challenging of them all.

Mother's Day, unlike those other special days, is expressly for celebrating the bond between a mother and her child. I'm intensely grateful for Abby and for Isaac and for Brady. It'd be an insult to suggest that I'm not, nor do I need reminders that 'hey, at least you have them'. I'm thankful that I'll be able to get up on Sunday morning and celebrate with them, to whatever degree my heart can take the revelry.

But I absolutely ache for the little lamb who's not here anymore. Mother's Day is, on many levels, just another reminder that he's gone. No class tea party, no special slideshow, no adorably sloppy handmade present woven together with equal parts love and good intentions and presented with equal parts glee and pride. Nothing. In a way, it feels like he's already been forgotten, although I know that's not really the case. Because if nothing else, his mommy won't forget him. How could I?

Logan left us three months ago today. I'm still waiting for the day that I'll 'feel' him with me for the first time; it hasn't yet happened. I saw him in a dream last week; he was several rows ahead of me in a dance class, standing on a chair and shaking his booty. But I didn't get to talk to him or touch him. I could only watch. And then I woke up and the disappointment was almost too much. I'd like to be able to touch him in a dream. But maybe I can't handle that yet. I don't know.

And there's certainly a lot that I don't know. One thing I DO know, however, is that it sucks that writing this made me cry. And that I should stop typing and let my poor sinuses recover.

Today, Today

Today sucked.

There's really not another word for it. I woke up feeling off, then cried several times without impetus other than a gut-busting sense of sadness. Then someone who I'd considered a good friend reacted very badly to something I'd written and let me know about it. Unfortunately, it wasn't a good day to cross me. It's never truly a good day, but today... well, today was extra-difficult. And I didn't appreciate being pushed. Not today, not after I'd shared that today was going to be a hard one for me. I wish I could take the whole 'well screw you, then' tack and not look back, but I can't. No, I can't, because I try to not hurt people or say the wrong things.

It's not that I think I'm perfect or blameless. I certainly don't think I never do anything wrong. On the contrary, I live most of my days feeling like what happened to Logan was my fault. It doesn't matter that it's not supposed to be a hereditary condition. It doesn't matter that everyone says I did everything I could. It doesn't matter because he's not here. Because despite everything I did, I couldn't save him. And for some reason, God decided He wasn't going to let me have my little boy back again. I'll never understand that, not when I see people recovering from trials largely unscathed. I'll always wonder why Logan had to die. And my days will probably always be a little less sunny than they ought to be.

Anyway, I've said my bit and now I'll go lie down. Brady has an appointment next week to have his intermittent eye-blinking issue checked out. And of course, I'm scared about that. I'd pray about it, but the honest truth is that I'm just not into praying these days. I'm too heartbroken to open myself up to God right now. I know that'll sound counter-intuitive to some of you, but look at it this way: I trusted God to heal Logan and restore him to us. And He didn't do that. So no, I don't really trust God right now. I can't. Some day, I hope I will again.

00, One Year Later

One year ago tomorrow, Logan entered Day 00 of his stem cell transplant cycle: the first of two days of infusions. Two infusions of his own stem cells that were supposed to help to save his life. Obviously, given the outcome we experienced, I approach tomorrow with extraordinarily mixed feelings. On one hand, I'm sad. No, that's not a strong enough word. I'm devastated that he's no longer within arms' reach. I'm crushed that I can't hold him and look at him tomorrow and think "wow, we were so close to losing you but we didn't."

But at the same time, I enter Day 00, One Year Later feeling an intense sense of gratitude. Because although things didn't go as we prayed they'd go, that stem cell transplant bought us more time together as a complete family. It bought us a summer of fun for the kids, extra video clips, dance parties and days bumming around the house that we otherwise would've been denied. So even amid the sadness of a day that we wish we could remember without tears, there's still something to treasure.

And that's important, because I can't live only thinking about what I lost or what could have been. No, I have to live remembering the awesome thing I had in him. How special he was while he was here, how much he loved, how he danced, how he laughed, how he sang songs and put everyone at ease with his gentle demeanor. Those things are what matter, and I can't let them get lost in my grief. That would be a disservice to my son and to his memory.

Love you, Logan. Happy re-birthday number one.

God is good!... Right?

When I first started typing this entry, I wanted to call it "Shut Up, Sherry". I say that to myself. Repeatedly. Every single time I hear someone complain about something absolutely trivial, I tell myself to shut up because if someone wants to be miserable over something that's insignificant in the long-run, who am I to tell them otherwise? Who am I to remind them that "hey dude, your life is pretty awesome so hold your breath til the wave passes by and you can come up for air"? I feel entitled to say things like that, if only because I held my breath for a year and a half (figuratively speaking, of course) before having the wind knocked out of me in February by the biggest wave I've ever seen. I'm still trying to get up. I could continue complaining about that because even God knows what happened to our family was completely and utterly unfair and wrong. But I don't think Logan wants me to live that way.

Yeah. So where am I going with this?

Right here. A friend recently had a health scare. In the super duper grand scheme of things, it wasn't anything extraordinarily dangerous. But she was, understandably, scared and worried. I had to 'Shut up, Sherry' my way out of muttering 'this is what my life was like every single day for 18 months; not fun, is it?' I'm not proud of that, but I'm human. Wonderfully, imperfectly human. And sometimes I think stuff; stuff that's not particularly helpful. But I wouldn't be real if I didn't admit to it. I wouldn't be very honest if I didn't cop to occasionally hearing about someone's day in the ER and thinking 'you think that was bad? I spent 18 months doing that, only with an inpatient. Oh, and after everything we went through to save his life, he died anyway'. And that's not because I'm a big jerk. It's because I desperately want someone, anyone to understand where I'm coming from. Where I've been. But anyway, I'm getting off-track again.

At the close of my friend's ordeal, when she discovered that things were okay after all, there was a lot of 'praise God!' and 'God is good' bandied about. And it made me think: is that true? Because if the outcome of our family's situation is any indicator of God's goodness --if God is only good and worthy of being called good in the face of good news-- then the answer is a resounding, gong-banging NO WAY, JOSE.

But of course that's not true. God is, by His own claims, good through and through. Evil sucks, but it's here to cause trouble and to bring pain. So my now long-winded challenge for all of you is to do what I have to do every single day: to find something to be grateful for, even though life is extraordinarily painful, hard and unfair. Even though my heart breaks when I see families with four children out and about. I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to approach those families and say 'oh, I have four kids, too! One of them's just... not here.' Yeah.

I could say a lot (lot, lot, lot) more, but I'll save it for another day.

I Thought It Was You

When I was younger, I was --for some reason I can't explain-- drawn to a country song called "I Thought It Was You". It's sung by a guy named Doug Stone, and talks about a relationship that's come to an end. He waxes poetic on his former flame as he describes seeing someone he mistakenly thought, at first glance, was her:

I thought it was you / Took a moment to catch my breath / Tried to brace myself / Still don't have a clue / How to leave your memory behind / After all this time...

I know, totally random post, right? I write about my son, not some long-lost romantic interest. Bear with me; I'm getting there. I had an 'I thought it was you' moment a few weeks ago. It had such a profound effect on me that I'm just now getting to a place where I can write about it coherently.

We went to Adam's brother and sister-in-law's house to celebrate his parents' birthdays one pleasant Sunday afternoon. I slowpoked my way inside after loading Isaac's bike --which he'd had at grandma and granddad's house-- into the car. As I added our gifts to the pile beside the fireplace, I cast a momentary glance into the backyard. And my heart leapt into my throat as I saw Logan, wearing sunglasses and doing a goofy dance. I froze. Tried to brace myself...

Of course, it wasn't Logan. It was Isaac.

But in that moment, I thought it was Logan. I was shocked by how much Isaac looked like the Logan my heart remembers so clearly. It's always startling to suddenly realize that your child has grown more than you'd noticed, but it was jolting. Shocking. Stunning and bittersweet. And the words from that song I hadn't thought of in quite some time came back to me. I thought it was you... took a moment to catch my breath.... Because for a split second, I saw him.

And for now, that has to be enough. As long as I live and breathe, it'll never be enough in the absolute sense of the word, but I'm grateful to have something.

Two Little Froggies

Given how poorly I've slept this week, I should be in bed right now trying to catch some of those elusive little Zs. But instead, I'm sitting here alone in the darkness and relative quiet of our family room, once again pecking away at a keyboard.

As much as Logan loved any and all cars, lately, it's been a story of two little froggies. But I should probably back up a few weeks.

I've been asking God --and Logan-- for signs. Signs that Logan is still out there, somewhere. Signs that there is life beyond what we can see. Signs that we don't live merely to live, but to have life. Signs that despite the hell we've lived through, Heaven still exists, even if I can't see it or feel it or hear it or smell it or touch it.

I asked again this morning when I visited his grave, as I often do after dropping Isaac off at preschool. Today, the cemetary was particularly alive, so to speak, with the cacophonous sounds of life on earth: birds chirping from the highest branches of a pair of nearby towering trees, planes soaring by overhead, cars whizzing along the road below, a maintenance truck transporting pile after pile of dirt to cover a new burial site. I was sure that my plaintive request had fallen on deaf ears.

I should probably know better by now.

When I got home later, I served Isaac and Brady lunch and sat down to check my email. As I glanced across the room, a tiny blue object caught my eye. I mentally flagged it as a choking hazard, and got up, almost mechnically, to move it to higher ground. And I stopped in my tracks as I realized what it was.

Shortly before Logan began preschool last Fall, his teacher, Ms. Holly, gave him a tiny (and I mean itty-bitty) blue plastic frog to commemmorate his status as a member of the Frog Class. Logan loved that frog. He carried it around for weeks. But until today, I'd forgotten about it. Yet there it was, sitting on my family room carpet right out in the open. I don't know how it got there. I don't know why Brady didn't eat it before I saw it. I don't know where it had been for the past three months. But it was there. One little froggie.

The story of the other little froggie began a few weeks ago when I was pulling out of my driveway to take Abby to her dance class one evening. Rather than putting my purse on the passenger seat per my custom, I left it on the seat directly behind me; the seat where Logan would sit had he not had to leave. As I shifted into reverse, my purse began to croak. I was puzzled for a few moments until I remembered the frog light that Logan had 'borrowed' from a nurse friend at CHO several months ago. That thing croaked and croaked for a full minute. And it continues to croak periodically. And yes, it croaked several times today at random intervals, reminding me of its presence in its own froggie way.

It's funny that two little froggies now remind me of my little Sunshine. He was never supposed to be in the Frog Class, after all; had he never gotten sick, he would've been in kindergarten this year. And he certainly never would've borrowed a froggie flashlight from a nurse. Yet somehow, those little frogs are in my heart. They meant something to Logan while he was with us. And they mean everything to me now.

Anger

I'm mad.

I could just smile, nod and deny being angry about what happened to Logan. It would certainly be an easy out. I could allow myself to be publicly branded the brave, strong, amazingly faithful servant who soldiers on with great resolve and self-denial during a time of gut-wrenching pain. And then behind the scenes, I could cry alone each and every night as I already do, some nights nearly drowning in the cavernous depths of my own sense of despair, with no one outside the walls of my own imagination aware of my duplicity.

But it would be disingenuous. And God's not interested in disingenuousness. And I've never been particularly good at not wearing my heart on my sleeve, anyway. To not feel anger over the atrocities that Logan suffered --that our entire family endured-- would be inhuman. We're made to feel the entire spectrum of emotion, from joy and elation to despair and pain. Of course, we do all we can to avoid the latter feelings because they're hard. Because we think we're not supposed to feel them. Because somehow, being angry about something that's egregiously unfair is wrong. But that's a load of baloney. So yes: I'm angry.

And you know something? That's just fine. It's where I am and I refuse to pretend that I'm not mad just to make myself look heroic or --in some ridiculous way-- to make God look good. I spend too much time worrying about how my reaction to what happened to Logan will affect people seeking a Savior in this lousy world. I'm terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing; of driving people away from God (or in some cases, the rudimentary notion that a God might even exist). It's a silly thing, really; after all, God will act in and around people as He so chooses. But I'm keenly aware that my words have impact, if only within the bounds of a small circle. However, I also know that I'm allowed to be upset.

A friend shared with me a few weeks ago that she was worried about my heart; worried that I'd hate God because of all we went through and the horrific outcome of the ordeal. I can't lie and say that I'm pleased with Him. And I won't lie. That would be disingenuous. I'm heartbroken. I feel betrayed. I feel left behind, forgotten, hated, despised, unvalued. I don't feel loved. I feel, at times, like I'm part of a cosmic joke that's not even funny. But if I were to deny myself these feelings, I suspect I'd also deny myself a real journey through the process of grief. I have to be angry. I have to fight it out, both with myself and with God. I have to come to a place where I feel peace again, where I can pray and derive comfort from the experience. Where I go to church not out of a sense of duty, but because I want to be there. I won't go if I'm not ready.

I'm not there now, but I will be again. Eventually. I wake up every morning and ask for a sign. So far, I haven't gotten much, just a Corvette here and there. No writing in the sky or special messages from beyond this world. And it's hard. I need to know that Logan is indeed okay. It's very hard for me to go on faith when I feel like my faith wasn't rewarded. I did everything I could for Logan. I begged for his life. And then God didn't heal him for me. He didn't restore my son to me. It broke my heart. It will break my heart every day for the rest of my life knowing that God opted against healing my baby even after I begged and pleaded and tried so hard to do everything right. After all of those trips to the hospital, the time lost with our other kids, the challenges of coping with pregnancy while knowing that Logan could die. I cannot tell you how awful it was and continues to be for me. I have every right to be angry. And I have every right to not be judged for an honest emotion, even if it's a negative one.

But some day it will be different. Some day I will wake up and it won't be as awful. It won't kill me a little bit more to think of his last days and of how much was taken from him. The crack in my heart won't deepen every time Isaac asks what happened to Logan and why he had to die. The pain won't be as intense when Abby looks at her wallet-sized photo of her best friend and asks what I think he's doing in Heaven, if he has wings, how he eats, if he eats and so on.

So that's where I am, for real. The unadulterated, unmoderated truth of me-ness for now.

Nonexistence

This life we've been living for the past 20 months now is in part one of nonexistence. Lest anyone should protest prematurely, I'll explain.

When we first found out that Logan was sick, a lot of people I'd considered to be good friends disappeared on me. I don't judge them for that decision now. It was painful to feel so alone; to feel abandoned by people I thought I could count on. But I acknowledge that it's hard to know what to do; it's impossible to know how to help or what to say unless you've been me or someone very much like me. So in a sense, I can understand why simply walking away --vanishing-- was an easy out. And in some minds, an acceptable one.

We replaced a lot of those missing links with people we met at CHO. We spent hour after hour with those people, and some of them I considered friends. I learned about their families, their pasts, their hopes and dreams, and in some cases, their biggest fears. I laughed with some of them, held back shared tears with others. I felt like we mattered, like Logan was an important person. Like I was an important person. Because let me tell you something: There's nothing like being hit with a serious illness to make you feel like you don't matter at all.

And then we lost Logan and nonexistence set in once again. Just as we lost friends after Logan was diagnosed --the people who'd always been there who suddenly didn't know how to relate to us-- we lost the new friends we'd made after he went home to Heaven. He suddenly didn't require care anyone and... poof. They were gone, almost all of them. I'm guessing we'll never hear from most of them again. I'm guessing that we'll be forgotten soon, as new patients move in and others move on. We'll fade into the obscurity that I'd wanted so desperately to avoid. I can understand it, in a way. It must be hard to think of the kids who don't make it. It must be easier --no, necessary-- to forget about them and focus on the next one in line. The one who might beat his personal odds and grow up. I guess that's how you survive that kind of job. I don't know because I could never do it myself.

I used to joke with the hospital staff that they were my social life. I don't think they realized that I was serious. Now, as a result, I mourn the loss of not only my son, but of the friends I thought I'd made there.

I guess it was naive of me to assume that they'd continue to be part of our lives into the future. Every life goes through phases; friends come and go and come again. I'm grateful for those who stuck with me throughout the duration of Logan's illness. I'm grateful for those who've come back to support me now. But I'm sad over the people who aren't my friends anymore.

I suppose this is all rather silly, but it's what I feel. So there it is. Have a good Monday.

The Weekend

It's been more than a week since I last posted, so I figured I should come in just to say hello.

There's nothing new here. Well, Brady developed a rather nasty cold a few days ago, which he so kindly shared with both me and Adam. The end result? Adam went to bed 10 minutes ago. It's 8 PM on a Saturday night. We're livin' the high life.

I'm just floating along, I guess. Logan departed this life seven weeks ago. Sometimes I think 'wow, has it been that long already?' At other times, I feel like I'm starting to forget the little nuances that made him my sunshine, and I get scared. If we're only seven weeks out and I'm already forgetting the details, will I remember him at all a year from now? Five years from now? Twenty? We have pictures and videos and all of the things that we need to make sure Brady will grow up 'knowing' his biggest brother, but I'm not going to kid myself into believing that it's the same.

I've found myself getting angry with platitude pushers lately. You know --the ones who say things like 'God's ways are mysterious and not ours to know or understand' blah blah. It's all fine and good to say those things, but when it's YOU who's been burned; when it's YOU whose child has suffered the unspeakable... it's different. So yeah. If you ever find yourself personally knowing someone who's lost a child, please don't tell them 'it was God's will'. Please, please. I'll say what I've said 100 times and believe to be true: The God of the Bible desires good for us. What happened to Logan was NOT GOOD. So it wasn't from God. It's a fallen world. Things don't always go as planned. Not even as God Himself planned.

But with that said, I'm waiting for redemption. I'm waiting for the promise that God made that says that He'll turn bad into good to come to fruition. And I'm not just talking about the next life. I'm talking about THIS life. I won't lie: My life isn't fun right now. I have moments of peace and pricklings of happiness now and then, but the underlying sensation is pure, searing pain. It feels, emotionally, like I've been cut open and had salt poured over the wound. It feels like salt is just caked on the wound. And like it'll never be rinsed clean again. Maybe it won't. Right now, I don't know.

I've also been a little frustrated by my inability to see any signs. I've been looking; I guess perhaps I've been looking too hard. I had a single day this past week that felt more hopeful than the others. I was at Walmart (and I swear I'm not there often, even if I seem to talk about it a lot here) helping Isaac pick out birthday presents for his friends at preschool. He, of course, made a beeline for the 'car' (or, in more accurate Isaac-speak, the monster truck) aisle. As I turned the cart to follow him, my eye spied a tiny light blue Corvette Hot Wheels car on a peg. I snatched it up. We walked around the corner, and I saw another Corvette -- a blue and white Stingray with Easter 2012 decals. That one also jumped into the cart. Finally, when we circled around to where we'd started, I saw another blue and white Corvette. It joined its buddies in the cart. It was strange to see SO MANY little blue Corvettes at once. We stopped once more to check out the bin, and my eye again settled on that familiar body style... it was the same blue City of Lafayette Corvette I'd gotten for Adam for his birthday a few weeks ago. I like to think that it means something. But I can talk myself out of lots of things these days.

Anyway, that's a rough, poorly worded update from my house to yours. We're here. We're trying to find out what 'normal' means. I'm trying to not go completely ballistic on people who complain about trivial things, because we're all allowed to complain about things that don't matter. I know I have in the past. So I guess you could say that I'm spending plenty of time stewing in my own little personal pot.

And I'm waiting for... something.

The Littlest Things

I'm guessing that eventually, I'll stop counting the days as they pass by. But for now, I count. And today is the six week marker.

Lately, I've spent a lot of time looking for Logan. I guess that sounds a little bit crazy, but I'm a mom. A stay-at-home mom. Part of my full-time job is to make sure I know where my kids are 24/7. It eats away at me that I can't just look up and see Logan anymore. So I've asked God --repeatedly-- to 'show' me that Logan still 'is'. And that he's happy and okay; better than okay, really. I don't expect to see him, per se, but I hope for signs. Just little things that will serve to show me, on a daily basis, that even though I can't hold him, hug him, see him smile or watch him dance, I will indeed be able to do all of those things again some day. One Sweet Day.

So for now, my plan is to build a library of sorts comprised of those littlest things that come my way.

Otherwise, I think I'm feeling better since my last entry. I have ups and downs. Dramatic ones. I wonder, at times, if I'll ever feel a sense of uninhibited happiness ever again during this life. It's really not a new concept for me; I've suffered from ups and downs throughout the course of my lifetime. Ironically, the last time I experienced a serious down, it was Logan who pulled me out of it. He was a toddler and just the sweetest little thing; how could I possible stay down with someone so wonderful in my life? Sometimes the irony of the whole thing just... gets me.

It's completely cliche and true to psychology books, but sometimes I'll be feeling just fine and then something stupid and trivial will make me absolutely dissolve into tears. It could be frustration over a non-productive conversation with a friend. It could be a weather forecast. It could be a song on the radio. There's a new one from Lady Antebellum that I keep hearing on the radio that's made me both cry and laugh in recent weeks. It's called Dancing Away With My Heart and is about a last dance shared by a couple of high schoolers; in my mind, I manipulate the chorus a little so it sounds a little like this....

I haven't seen you in ages
Sometimes I find myself wondering where you are
For me you'll always be five... and beautiful
And dancing away with my heart

It totally changes the intended meaning of the song, but I think part of the purpose of music is to feel it; to make it relevant to life as it's lived.

In every day life, we're about to embark on a week-long barrage of birthday parties. Isaac is invited to a whopping three parties this week. It'll be fun. I love watching him enjoy himself, even if my heart isn't completely into the concept of celebrating birthdays right now.

Anyway, that's where I am. For now.

37 Days

It's been 37 days now since Logan entered into the Kingdom of Heaven. I'd like to say that I'm some variation of "good" but that would be a lie. I'm nothing of the sort.

You'll have to forgive me, because I can feel this entry bubbling up from deep within, and it may be ugly. Unpleasant. Ranting. But I need to get it out.

You know what hurts me more than anything? What drives a dagger into my heart like nothing else? The most horrible thing anyone can say to me? "It was all God's will." I'll go to my own grave knowing that what happened to my sweet boy wasn't God's will. It infuriates me that so many good Christian people would ever even entertain the notion that a horror like the one we suffered was 'God's will'. That's crap. Pure, 100%, bona fide crap. I know why people say it. It's a platitude. It's supposed to somehow put a band aid on a gaping, festering wound. It's a pat response designed to make it all okay.

But it's a LIE and it doesn't help at all. As I've said numerous times in the past, evil runs rampant in this corrupt world. Things don't happen as God planned them to happen. No. God doesn't will for young girls to be raped at knife point, for people to die in horrific accidents, for teens to be bullied to the point of turning to suicide. To say 'it was God's will' is an insult to God. With Christians making such claims, it's no surprise that so many people turn away from God. How are we supposed to seek solace in a God who wills such horrible things? What's the point of faith or prayer or hope? No, that statement is a falsehood.

What's TRUE is that God brings unimaginable good out of horrible circumstances. I'm still chewing on this. I'm wondering what kind of good is in store for us, what kind of great thing will come out of my sometimes-unbearable heartache.

So far, I've seen one glimmer. A friend of a friend is a jewelry designer. She'd been working with a mom who's creating care packages for moms who lose babies, trying to come up with a design for a pendant that could be used in said packages. She read my tribute to Logan, and found her muse in the words and actions of one of Logan's doctors. Although not initially intended to be a permanent piece of her collection, the piece drew plenty of interest, and she's added it to her website under a new section called 'In Remembrance'. Best of all, net proceeds from the sale of the necklace will go to the Cure ATRT Fund at Dana Farber. It won't bring Logan back to us, but it warms my icy heart to know that more money will make its way to a fund dedicated to eradicating that horrific disease. You can see the piece she created by clicking here.

What else. I don't know. There are a lot of things I'd like to say, but I tend to zip my lips because I don't want to offend. I guess I could lightly gloss over a subject I fear treading with a simple remark: If someone invites anyone and everyone to a memorial service, please attend if you're able. It means a lot to feel supported. It means everything in those first few weeks, actually. When people don't show... it's painful. I won't say anything else on the subject. Just know that there were no engraved invitations sent out. I spread the word as best I could. Everyone was invited. And I hoped anyone available would attend. It was a beautiful, wonderful day, but there were people missing who could've been there and I felt it.

I guess that's it. I have nothing pretty or inspirational to say. I've gotten to a place where people don't contact me anymore to say hi. I know I'm not asking; I can't. I wouldn't know what to ask *for*. I'm not in a great place and I'd like nothing better than to just stay in bed all day so I don't have to see the happy families out and about or listen to the moms berating their 5-year old boys for silly infractions of some unstated behavioral code. But I know I can't do that. Life marches on, even if I don't feel like being in the the parade.

Because You Loved Me

In the days leading up to Logan's departure from this life, a certain song would play itself in my head every time I went into his little room in the PICU. I don't believe I was pressing a play button on my own, because the lyrics wouldn't have made sense coming from me. No, they only made sense coming from Logan. And now, a little more than a month removed from that longest day, I think I finally feel ready to talk about those words I kept hearing. And their implications for this life --and what lies beyond.

I started hearing the song in question probably a week or so before he passed on. I'd enter his room, stand over him, and then they'd begin playing. And they'd continue playing for some time in a loop fashion, typically repeating the same lines several times before eventually coming to a stop, usually while I read him a story or quoted Bible verses.

You were my strength when I was weak
You were my voice when I couldn't speak
You were my eyes when I couldn't see
You saw the best there was in me
Lifted me up when I couldn't reach
You gave me faith cuz you believed
I'm everything I am because you loved me.

I know that when Celine Dion croons those words, she means them in a figurative fashion. But for Logan, they were very literal. When he passed, he couldn't speak, see or walk.

It's as if his heart somehow managed to find a way to sing the words directly into mine. It's the only way I can explain repeatedly hearing those words in my head and my soul during that last week. It's as if he said what he needed to say without uttering a word.

Although I didn't want to see it at the time, I think he was saying 'see you later' the only way he was able. And though my heart deeply grieves his absence, I'm glad that he was allowed to sing me that song.