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, April 20, 2013

From Beyond

I just had an intense Logan wink. Not a God wink per se; I write about those every day and more often than not, I have to look to find them. No, this was something of an entirely different breed.

I was driving home from our Mother/Daughter dance class a little while ago. I'd just gone through the McDonalds drive through for a coffee (for me) and a McMuffin (for Abby) and was a few minutes from home. My mind wandered a bit, and despite the absolutely gorgeous day about to unfold itself, the prevailing emotion was sadness.

As I drove along, I wondered about my life. My surviving kids' lives. Adam's life. Our life together. I wondered: Is my life just ruined? And if it is, is that okay? Will I learn to live with it?. I thought it might make a compelling blog entry, if I were ever able to fully answer those hard questions.

And then as I turned at a stop light, Lee Brice's I Drive Your Truck came on the radio. I turned it up. A lot. (So loud, in fact, that I almost turned around to apologize to Abby.) If you read my other blog, you know I wrote about it a month or two ago; how I relate to the message and the heartbreak and the need for release that it expresses so well.

So I sang the words with my heart. And I cried, like I usually do when I hear that song.

And then I saw our friends and neighbors at a stop sign, driving in the opposite direction. I stuck my arm out the window to wave hi.

At the next stop sign, a golden retriever, leash firmly in mouth, trotted by. And I smiled.

Then I heard a weird revving and rumbling from my back seat, but didn't think much of it.

And then a strange sensation came over me. I can't really describe it. But along with it came a chipper message:

Hi Mommy!.

And then the song ended. And the feeling faded. But it was Logan.

Why do I know? Because of the song and its timing; how it came just when I was wondering if my life would ever mean anything again. Because the neighbors across the street? They lost their mom and grandma not long before Logan passed. She was a wonderful woman and when I think about Logan, she's often there with him. And the dog? When Logan was young and overflowing with happiness, we called him our golden retriever. And this golden retriever was free, no leash holding him back. Like the choking leash that is cancer no longer holds Logan back.

And that revving and rumbling from my back seat? It came from a toy Lightning McQueen that one of the little boys left on the seat. I have no idea how long it'd been there because it'd been silent until this morning. And if there's one worldly thing that defines my sunshine, it's Cars.

I don't really have any good closing words for this so I guess I'll just end... here.

Saturday, April 6, 2013


I've felt compelled lately to point out what feels like a glaring truth:

I love to talk about Logan.

I get the feeling from some folks that he's a taboo subject, never to be brought up. That couldn't possibly be further from the truth. He's one of my favorite subjects. I like to talk about who he was, what he loved, where he is now, what I think he'd be doing if he were still here... all of it.

It's painful when I say his name and other people go silent. I see their eyes dart around uncomfortably. Then they usually change the subject, or just leave it up to me to fill the airspace. He's not taboo. He's not this untouchable thing. He's my kid. He's alive in my heart. And knowing that other people remember him... well, that's like gold to me. I don't get the dance recitals or little league games or report cards or playdates. All I have are memories to keep him alive.

That was rambly, huh? I haven't felt as poetic as usual lately. I've felt decidedly more... blunt. I love pretty words, crafting sentences and manipulating the musical ebb and flow of the written word. But sometimes, things just need to be said --and understood-- with no other pretense.