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, May 9, 2015

Mother's Day

Part of me --the part I shove down deep so I can keep functioning in this world-- hates Mother's Day. There. I said it. Part of me hates Mother's Day.

There are so many ways to criticize that statement, I know. I'm sure you thought of one just now. You might've blurted out but it's such a blessing to be able to have babies. So many women can't. And you would be right. Perhaps you felt a compulsion to remind me that I'm fortunate to have produced not just one but four babies. Not everyone is so fortunate. And you'd be right about that, too. You may've wanted to tell me that I'm just so lucky that I have three healthy kids here with me. Also true.

But nothing takes away the sting of not having my Sunshine here. Like the shepherd, my heart still looks for him and laments his absence.

Most days, I can keep going because I have to. I have places to go. Tasks to accomplish. Most days, I can smile and tell you --with great genuineness in my heart-- that I keep going because I need to keep living for everyone else. It's not as if me being sad will help anyone, after all.

But not on Mother's Day, the 24 hours devoted to motherhood. I can't hide from my pain on Mother's Day. Despite my best efforts, it comes bubbling to the surface to remind me of what I've lost. There are no hugs, no kisses, no handmade cards, no affectionate notes from Logan. If I close my eyes and block out the sounds of the world, I can still hear him. Feel him. Smell him. But it's not the same. It'll never be the same.

It just hurts. There's no poetic way to say it.

Truth be told, all I want to do on Mother's Day is hide away at home. I just want to be away from other people, alone with my compact little family. Because for me, it's not just a day of celebration: it's a day of remembering. And grieving an amazing thing that I once had.

I don't think I'm alone in feeling that way.

It's not that it can't or won't be a good day. It's just a different kind of day for me. A day when I want space that I probably won't be given to reflect on something I wish to the good Lord I didn't have to think about at all. Of course, it's just a day. And then it'll be over.