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, July 16, 2014

'Cars' and Such

The Little Boys got up early this morning and rather than honoring Brady's request to watch "Paw Patrol," I turned on "Cars." I was planning to head back to bed to catch a few more zs, but I didn't. I was drawn into that big opening race scene... the music, the bright colors, the flashing lights, the Elvis car grunting "uh" at just the right moment. All of it.

I can remember Logan watching this movie. I can remember how he identified with those "cars with faces," as he called them; how he'd wiggle his bum with the music, bring the sass with his bottom lip, and then explode into a fit of giggles.

This movie was such a huge part of his life and who he was while he was here on this earth that it's as if it's an inextricable part of him; actually, it's almost like the movie is a part of him, and he is a part of the movie.

So when I watch it, it's almost like I'm seeing him again. Of course, I know I'm not. I know I'm just drawing on the past --squeezing my eyes shut and holding on to those memories for as long as I can-- but it's what I have. So I treasure it, even if as I watch, the tears come early and often.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

My Talk-stimony

I'm still not entirely sure what to call it, but a few weeks ago, I was one of the speakers at my church's women's retreat. I had two months to prepare; it was a rather open-ended assignment that was supposed to focus on my experience with Logan's battle and being real with God. The morning of the event, I had a handful of bullet points outlining my takeaways from the experience, but no real... plan.

And this is what I wound up saying. I can't speak for how good or bad it may be, but I CAN say that it was pretty much entirely God giving me the words.

Sunday, April 13, 2014


I'm a fiercely competitive person. When I was a student, I hated earning anything less than a strong A. In fact, a B warranted a bitter round of mental self-flagellation. And a C... well, the horrors of that particular scenario are too upsetting to rehash.

Like all humans, I seek out activities that will allow me to shine. I know I'm a good writer so I write. When I was a kid, I knew I was a good dancer, so I danced.

But life isn't all about adhering to the straight and narrow and doing what we know we're good at doing. Sometimes, maybe more often than we'd like to think, conquering a challenge --a real, bona fide challenge-- is more meaningful than earning fifty As in a row.

When it comes to running, I will never win a race. I'm self-aware enough to realize that someone else on the road will always be faster than me --a whole lot faster!

But that doesn't mean I should torch my tennis shoes.

This morning, I ran my first-ever complete 5K. To this moment, I'm not sure how I did it, because I'm not in great shape and my knees are creaky and my lungs were burning by the time I crossed the finish line. But I finished. And I finished 869th out of 1855 participants, right smack in the middle of the pack. A solid 'C', if you will.

And I am so pleased.

So I got a C in 5K running. The me of my youth would probably be annoyed over the time and would be kicking me for not trying harder. But the truth is, I tried as hard as I could. When I crossed that finish line, I knew with 100% certainty that I had done my absolute best. I laid every bit of what I had to offer out on the table.

And it was good enough for 869th place.

Because here's the thing. If I'd said 'aw, naw, I'm not doing THAT because I suck at running,' I never would've been out on that road, utterly alone amid that pack of joggers. And I never would've had the morning to run and remember and focus on Logan and all he went through just to live a few extra months with us. And I never would've called out to God to ask for help when I wasn't sure I could make it. If I'd stayed in my comfort zone, I never would've been in the position to need help. And believe me, after not training at all for the past year, it's a miracle I managed to jog 3.1 miles straight without stopping! A true miracle. Had I remained tucked into my happy zone, I would've missed seeing that prayer for help be answered. The whole 'You are strong in my weakness' thing? Totally true.

So, open yourself up to miracles. Put yourself in uncomfortable situations. And then ask for help.

And you'll get it.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

The Weight

A few weeks ago, Abby and I started taking walks together after dinner, while Adam puts the Little Boys to bed. We had a particularly poignant exchange a few days back that's really stayed with me.

As we strolled through the park, I asked her why she's mean to Isaac and Brady. Why she excludes them. Why she'll be nice one moment and then horribly unkind the next.

She released a great sigh. I thought she was going to say something snotty or dramatic; I thought she would, for the upteenth time, accuse me of loving her less than the others, or even worse, of not loving her at all.

But she didn't. And what did come out of her mouth shocked me.

With a sad sort of reticence in her eyes, she looked up at me, swatted a hair out of her eyes, and said I included Logan. I loved Logan. And he died..

The words were like a slap to the face. She's scared that if she loves them like she loved Logan, they'll leave her.

I wasn't sure what to say. I cleared my throat, but my 36 years on this planet haven't given me the right words to respond. So instead, I told her to never fear loving someone else. I told her to love as well as she could; to embrace others for who they are and to look for shades of God in everyone she meets.

And then we got home and she went up to bed and I sat alone in the dark, ruminating over how unfair it is that my 9-year old has to shoulder such an impossibly heavy burden.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Two Years

I wish I had the words to express how it feels to be sitting in this moment, two years removed from Logan's passing, but I don't. And that's because I'm not sure the words exist. The feeling is more of a set of musical notes, thrown together by a tone deaf composer struggling to compose a morceau. They're frantic and sad and tired and hopeful... but those words are too weak for the reality of the emotion. They're much too weak and imperfect and base. But since I can neither sing nor compose, words are what I have.

I feel old. When I think about the past several years, I realize how good I had it back in the summer of 2010. I was pregnant with Brady, and Abby and Logan and Isaac had fun playing together, splashing in the plastic baby pool in the yard and reading books and using their imaginations to become kings and queens and dogs and cats and knights and damsels in distress.

And then the mirror that showed the reflection of Heaven in my house cracked and the darkness came; it crept slowly into my heart like darkness does, enveloping me in fear and anxiety and overwhelming worry that said it's going to be bad. He's going to die and you know it. He's going to die. And I struggled to shut out the doubts and worries and to "just have faith" as well-meaning folks liked to say.

And I did my best. I get angry because I tried harder than anyone I know to rally the troops and to plead and beg for his life.

And then... February 11, 2012 came. And it all ended. And my heart, which had been on a roller coaster for a year and a half, broke in two.

Why? Why him? Why not someone else instead? Why anyone at all?

I'd like to say that it's been mended in the two years that have passed, but that would be a lie. It's still very much broken. I've gotten exceptionally good at compartmentalizing my feelings; I cry, but only when I have the time or when it won't be embarrassing or when it won't upset the other kids or cause their doe-eyes to grow yet wider with concern.

The truth is that I miss him every single day. Every single day I think about who he would be if he were here; if he hadn't been dealt such a horrible hand. I wonder what he'd be doing in school and who his friends would be. I mourn the relationships that I never got to have with the moms of the kids he never met. Every day I do those things. And I wonder how I'll get through the rest of my days missing him, though I suppose I'll get through them like I've gotten through the past 731: I'll get up and take care of his siblings and go through the motions. And I'll look for God and for signs that He's still there, even though most of the time, I don't really feel Him at all.

And I'll be positive, because though by nature I'm a glass-half-empty kind of woman, Logan was not. And the positivity that earmarked his time on this earth deserves to live on.