About Us

Our family of 6 (dad Adam, mom Sherry, big sister Abby and little brothers Isaac and Brady -- who was born on December 14, 2010) joined the ranks of pediatric cancer fighters when our 4-year old son Logan was diagnosed with a dangerous and highly malignant form of brain cancer in mid-August 2010. Logan's cancer journey began abruptly on Sunday, August 15, when his right eye suddenly turned inward during dinner. Twenty-four hours later, we were checking into Children's Hospital Oakland and finding out that life sometimes takes you places you'd never, ever imagine yourself going.

Saturday, June 23, 2012


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, June 20, 2012


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.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

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.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

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.