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.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

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.


  1. I think you should write that eulogy for the with-Logan-here Sherry. Or maybe not a eulogy, but a requiem.

    I find that expression "it gets better" (when used about death) curious. And wrong. Loss doesn't get better or easier. Grief gets...maybe bigger and more dispersed. Instead of the acute pain, it becomes a chronic, dull, throbbing ache. It never goes away.

    You might find comfort, and I think you'll feel some happiness again. But, you're absolutely right--it changes you utterly.

    My husband said after losing our daughters, that I checked out of life for awhile. (so did he, actually). Parts of me are just now (over 8 years later) starting to have feeling. Some parts won't ever come back. Sometimes I feel like one open sore. And having other kids makes it easier and harder. There are a lot of layers. The important thing is to exist through this in whatever way works for you. God understands. He lost his kid, too.

    I'm sorry to be so negative, but I'm not good with pretticisms. I think you will appreciate the realistic (albeit dark) over smilies. I'm asking Our Lady to pray for you. She knows loss of child. Feel free to delete this comment if its too negative. I hope you find solace.

    Love, mar

  2. :( Praying Sherry, still praying.
    I agree with Mar, above, in that loss really doesn't get easier - I don't believe it does, anyway. Times fades certain things, but the pain will always sting, punch, hurt, shred, tear, burn...I've felt and still feel these for my dad...as well as for Logan. I can't begin to imagine how you feel, but know that it will never be easy, not on this "side."