As irony would have it, Logan and Brady were both sleeping until the very second I sat down to type this entry. At that precise moment, Brady started screaming. Fortunately I was able to just pick him up, walk down the hall and then put him back down again without issue. So I guess all of that means I should make sure that I say what I'd planned to say, huh?
Logan's 24-hour methotrexate number came back at .9; they like for said number to be between 1 and 10. We were a little concerned that it was too low, but nope: Molly explained the number by saying that it was likely due to the fact that they'd increased his hydration since he was a day late clearing last round. Yesterday's number was .3, and this morning's, .17. So prayerfully, he'll be released tomorrow -- the number just needs to drop below .1, and he needs to not wind up with a fever.
So what's so special about tomorrow? Well, it just happens to be 1/11/11, my 33rd birthday. The one I've been looking forward to for years for purely 'the numbers are just too stinkin' cool' reasons. I hadn't thought for even half second that he might be home in time to celebrate the start of my next year, but it's a distinct possibility and it wows me.
I think I spend too much time underestimating God.
His hemoglobin was a bit low this morning (7.4, I believe), but they're holding off on a transfusion. The doctor on service this week, Dr. Garcia, doesn't think he'll need one for a few more days; something about the extra hydration diluting his blood and artificially decreasing the number. So we'll see. Hopefully the number won't drop like a rock and necessitate a transfusion tomorrow.
Okay, I've been ordered to draw a Christmas tree, so I'm off to work on that.
Monday, January 10, 2011
H.E.L.P.
I'm breaking the mold here to post about Brady, but I really, really need some help. The past two days have been horrible. My first three babies were all awful fussbuckets from 2 weeks on. They nearly drove me insane with their incessant crying and screaming. (And I mean incessant. I don't think I saw Logan awake and not crying until he was 4 or 5 months old. It was THAT bad.) Logan and Isaac both had severe dairy intolerances, so I started off with Brady by eliminating ALL traces of dairy from my diet. And it seemed to work beautifully until a few days ago. Now he's crying all the time and awake all the time, so that means I don't get to sleep and I have no help overnight (or during the day, for the matter, but it's less intense then for some reason because I'm *supposed* to be up during daylight hours anyway).
Anyhow, PLEASE pray that whatever is bothering Brady will clear his system and that he'll go back to being a mellow baby for me. I absolutely cannot take another cranky, horrible baby. On top of everything else, I feel like I deserve a baby who doesn't cry all the time. I have too much other drama in my life and I need a good baby. I NEED one or I'll fall apart emotionally. Thank you.
Anyhow, PLEASE pray that whatever is bothering Brady will clear his system and that he'll go back to being a mellow baby for me. I absolutely cannot take another cranky, horrible baby. On top of everything else, I feel like I deserve a baby who doesn't cry all the time. I have too much other drama in my life and I need a good baby. I NEED one or I'll fall apart emotionally. Thank you.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Logan Update: 1/8/2011
I can't believe we've been on this cancer journey for nearly five months. Intellectually I know it's been that long since I stood tearfully quivering in the pediatrician's office as I absorbed the news; my first thought was this is my fault; I was upset over having three boys. The heart-piercing pain and terror are still remarkably fresh in a physical sense; when I let myself go back, I can feel them all over again. But emotionally, wow. Time can truly fly by. And in many ways, it has.
Today was a good day for Logan, I think. The past few days have been marked by many, many, many complaints of boredom. While it's annoying to hear an incessant stream of 'I want something to do; I'm bored's, it's also a relief since it means he feels well enough to BE bored and to complain. He had a brief nap in the afternoon, and drove the car around the floor a few times, beeping at the nurses' station as always and doing his crazy little dances. He also enjoyed shooting paper airplanes toward his door; his room this round is right next to the nurses' station and it amuses him. A lot. And honestly, I think he amuses them, too, so it's a win-win situation.
His morning nurse, Stephanie, remarked on how well he's done so far. She was wowed when I told her that the MRI showed that the mass is down to 15 to 20% of its original size, and was -- her word, really! -- amazed by how he's handled it all and how well the tumor has bowed to the treatment. I wish I'd had the guts to say it aloud, but I thought it to myself: God does amazing things. We have to expect and ask for amazing things if we want to receive them.
Last night he finished the last drug of cycle 5, and is currently in the process of clearing said methotrexate. Even during the disastrous cycle 2, he still cleared it reasonably well, so I'm praying for more of the same. And then there's a lot of waiting until February 1st, when we have a third MRI to see how things look.
I have a lot of muddled thoughts floating around in my little head. After the emotional tornado that was last week when we thought the chemo hadn't worked, the past several days have felt like a tropical vacation (which I tell ya, I could really use! Hawai'i, here I come... eventually). I feel at ease, comfortable. But in the same breath, I'm trying to avoid feeling TOO comfortable; there's danger inherent in feeling TOO comfortable. When I feel TOO comfortable, I forget to pray, and prayer is still very much needed as we march toward Logan's eventual healing. I'm mindful of that, thank God. So I'm still doing all I can to remember to lift him up each and every day, multiple times a day.
And that's where I'll have to leave you for now. I'm finding that my thinking is far too muddled to say much else coherently right now. Thank you so very much for your continued prayers for Logan's recovery and for expecting miracles. May God bless you all richly.
Today was a good day for Logan, I think. The past few days have been marked by many, many, many complaints of boredom. While it's annoying to hear an incessant stream of 'I want something to do; I'm bored's, it's also a relief since it means he feels well enough to BE bored and to complain. He had a brief nap in the afternoon, and drove the car around the floor a few times, beeping at the nurses' station as always and doing his crazy little dances. He also enjoyed shooting paper airplanes toward his door; his room this round is right next to the nurses' station and it amuses him. A lot. And honestly, I think he amuses them, too, so it's a win-win situation.
His morning nurse, Stephanie, remarked on how well he's done so far. She was wowed when I told her that the MRI showed that the mass is down to 15 to 20% of its original size, and was -- her word, really! -- amazed by how he's handled it all and how well the tumor has bowed to the treatment. I wish I'd had the guts to say it aloud, but I thought it to myself: God does amazing things. We have to expect and ask for amazing things if we want to receive them.
Last night he finished the last drug of cycle 5, and is currently in the process of clearing said methotrexate. Even during the disastrous cycle 2, he still cleared it reasonably well, so I'm praying for more of the same. And then there's a lot of waiting until February 1st, when we have a third MRI to see how things look.
I have a lot of muddled thoughts floating around in my little head. After the emotional tornado that was last week when we thought the chemo hadn't worked, the past several days have felt like a tropical vacation (which I tell ya, I could really use! Hawai'i, here I come... eventually). I feel at ease, comfortable. But in the same breath, I'm trying to avoid feeling TOO comfortable; there's danger inherent in feeling TOO comfortable. When I feel TOO comfortable, I forget to pray, and prayer is still very much needed as we march toward Logan's eventual healing. I'm mindful of that, thank God. So I'm still doing all I can to remember to lift him up each and every day, multiple times a day.
And that's where I'll have to leave you for now. I'm finding that my thinking is far too muddled to say much else coherently right now. Thank you so very much for your continued prayers for Logan's recovery and for expecting miracles. May God bless you all richly.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Sunshine and Rainbows
It may seem a stretch to believe me when I say I'm seeing sunshine and rainbows -- after all, my kid is still hospitalized and battling aggressive cancer -- but it's true. I never really knew how intense sunlight could be or how bright a rainbow could look until I'd been through a really dark, ominous storm.
We're not completely out of the storm yet, but I can see the beginnings of light creeping over the horizon. Adam and I (and Brady, of course) met with Dr. T and Philippa at noon. He showed us Logan's past two MRIs -- after rounds one and two and the most recent one -- and pointed out the areas that the radiologist mis-interpreted. Even to my untrained eye, it was more than clear that the mass was markedly smaller. He said that it seemed like the radiologist mistook areas where the tumor had dissolved for areas with lower contrast. When I asked how much of the original mass remained, he guesstimated 15 to 20%. When I pressed for his thoughts on the scan, he said he couldn't be happier with how things are going so far, and seemed optimistic for the future. I can't even begin to tell you what a relief that is to me. He's a no-nonsense kind of guy, so it's hugely encouraging to see him so heartened by the tumor's response to the treatment.
So where do we go from here? Of course, we finish cycle 5. He's on day 3 and chugging along. He had lots of energy this morning, though at the moment he's snoozing thanks to some Benadryl and Reglan (which are given for nausea control). Earlier in the day he was be-bopping around the floor, singing and executing his patented dance moves and complaining that he was bored and wanted something to do. He has tonight's drugs, and then tomorrow is Methotrexate day. Hoping for good clearance again and a fast recovery.
Post-cycle 5, he has another MRI scheduled for February 1st to see where we are. Dr. T said that Dr. S thinks it's a long shot that this cycle will completely dissolve the tumor and that it's likely that he'll need another surgery to remove it, but we shall see. It's my personal prayer that he be able to avoid another resection, so please keep that wish in your thoughts and lift it up, if you will. Of course, God knows what's best on the road to healing, so whatever would be best for Logan's recovery is what I want most. If there is still residual tumor, Dr. S will go in sometime in early to mid-February to try to remove it. If not, he'll go straight to the transplant cycle, which involves 9 days of chemo followed by the stem cell transplant. Dr. T said he's responded well enough to the treatment that he doesn't think another stem cell collection is warranted -- in other words, he doesn't think two transplant cycles will be necessary to wipe out every vestige of the disease.
After the transplant cycle is complete, he'll begin 6 weeks of radiation: One hour per day, five days a week. They'll make a custom mask and then he'll wear it and be bolted to the table. Yeah, he'll need anaesthesia for that. Philippa balked a little, saying she thought he could do it without being drugged, but Adam and I just looked at each other and snickered: No way. He'd freak out. If the mask didn't get him first, being bolted to the table would for sure. Dr. T said they have very pointed technology when it comes to radiation these days, so damage to surrounding tissue is less likely than in times past. Because of the location of the masses, he said it's extremely likely that he'll emerge from radiation profoundly deaf in his right ear. I won't lie: I was upset to hear this part. But I have to take a metered approach and realize that a) he's done well with the drug that he's been receiving that usually costs kids their hearing; so far his has stayed normal and b) almost all of the radiation will be applied to the right side, so his left ear shouldn't be affected, or if it is, effects should be minimal. Those are things to be thankful for, even though hearing loss isn't an ideal outcome. I think down the line if he has to say 'yeah, I'm deaf in one ear but it's because I beat cancer', that's okay. I didn't really ask about developmental delays and effects; I couldn't make myself do it, and given that radiation is still several months away, it seemed premature anyway. Philippa noted that he's a smart kid so it's not like radiation would take him down too many notches, but still: It's scary.
So that's where we are for now. I'm immensely pleased with Dr. T's report and feel more at peace now than I have for months. I'm thankful to God for His provision and blessings as we've continued to muddle our way down this path. Please pray for excellent tumor response to this current cycle.
In addition, I have a few prayer requests for other members of our family. Please pray for Abby. She's becoming increasingly angry and aggressive as time passes, and we're not really sure how to handle it. The social worker assigned to us said that it's a completely normal response for siblings of cancer patients, and I'm going to see if I can get her hooked up with another kid or kids who have been in or are currently walking in her shoes. Also pray for Brady and Isaac to sleep at night. Since it's mainly me alone with them overnight these days, I could wind up being completely exhausted and that's clearly not ideal.
Thank you for your continued prayers and for following along with me as a ramble like an idiot. If there's any need I can lift up to God for YOU, please let me know. Blessings to you and your families.
We're not completely out of the storm yet, but I can see the beginnings of light creeping over the horizon. Adam and I (and Brady, of course) met with Dr. T and Philippa at noon. He showed us Logan's past two MRIs -- after rounds one and two and the most recent one -- and pointed out the areas that the radiologist mis-interpreted. Even to my untrained eye, it was more than clear that the mass was markedly smaller. He said that it seemed like the radiologist mistook areas where the tumor had dissolved for areas with lower contrast. When I asked how much of the original mass remained, he guesstimated 15 to 20%. When I pressed for his thoughts on the scan, he said he couldn't be happier with how things are going so far, and seemed optimistic for the future. I can't even begin to tell you what a relief that is to me. He's a no-nonsense kind of guy, so it's hugely encouraging to see him so heartened by the tumor's response to the treatment.
So where do we go from here? Of course, we finish cycle 5. He's on day 3 and chugging along. He had lots of energy this morning, though at the moment he's snoozing thanks to some Benadryl and Reglan (which are given for nausea control). Earlier in the day he was be-bopping around the floor, singing and executing his patented dance moves and complaining that he was bored and wanted something to do. He has tonight's drugs, and then tomorrow is Methotrexate day. Hoping for good clearance again and a fast recovery.
Post-cycle 5, he has another MRI scheduled for February 1st to see where we are. Dr. T said that Dr. S thinks it's a long shot that this cycle will completely dissolve the tumor and that it's likely that he'll need another surgery to remove it, but we shall see. It's my personal prayer that he be able to avoid another resection, so please keep that wish in your thoughts and lift it up, if you will. Of course, God knows what's best on the road to healing, so whatever would be best for Logan's recovery is what I want most. If there is still residual tumor, Dr. S will go in sometime in early to mid-February to try to remove it. If not, he'll go straight to the transplant cycle, which involves 9 days of chemo followed by the stem cell transplant. Dr. T said he's responded well enough to the treatment that he doesn't think another stem cell collection is warranted -- in other words, he doesn't think two transplant cycles will be necessary to wipe out every vestige of the disease.
After the transplant cycle is complete, he'll begin 6 weeks of radiation: One hour per day, five days a week. They'll make a custom mask and then he'll wear it and be bolted to the table. Yeah, he'll need anaesthesia for that. Philippa balked a little, saying she thought he could do it without being drugged, but Adam and I just looked at each other and snickered: No way. He'd freak out. If the mask didn't get him first, being bolted to the table would for sure. Dr. T said they have very pointed technology when it comes to radiation these days, so damage to surrounding tissue is less likely than in times past. Because of the location of the masses, he said it's extremely likely that he'll emerge from radiation profoundly deaf in his right ear. I won't lie: I was upset to hear this part. But I have to take a metered approach and realize that a) he's done well with the drug that he's been receiving that usually costs kids their hearing; so far his has stayed normal and b) almost all of the radiation will be applied to the right side, so his left ear shouldn't be affected, or if it is, effects should be minimal. Those are things to be thankful for, even though hearing loss isn't an ideal outcome. I think down the line if he has to say 'yeah, I'm deaf in one ear but it's because I beat cancer', that's okay. I didn't really ask about developmental delays and effects; I couldn't make myself do it, and given that radiation is still several months away, it seemed premature anyway. Philippa noted that he's a smart kid so it's not like radiation would take him down too many notches, but still: It's scary.
So that's where we are for now. I'm immensely pleased with Dr. T's report and feel more at peace now than I have for months. I'm thankful to God for His provision and blessings as we've continued to muddle our way down this path. Please pray for excellent tumor response to this current cycle.
In addition, I have a few prayer requests for other members of our family. Please pray for Abby. She's becoming increasingly angry and aggressive as time passes, and we're not really sure how to handle it. The social worker assigned to us said that it's a completely normal response for siblings of cancer patients, and I'm going to see if I can get her hooked up with another kid or kids who have been in or are currently walking in her shoes. Also pray for Brady and Isaac to sleep at night. Since it's mainly me alone with them overnight these days, I could wind up being completely exhausted and that's clearly not ideal.
Thank you for your continued prayers and for following along with me as a ramble like an idiot. If there's any need I can lift up to God for YOU, please let me know. Blessings to you and your families.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Logan Update: 1/5/2011
We're back to the same old-same old routine that we've grown to know over the course of the past 4.5 months: Logan and Adam at CHO, me at home with the other kids. Of course, things are a little more challenging on the homefront with Brady on the scene, but I manage.
Adam and I took him back to the hospital yesterday to begin round 5. Logan wasn't thrilled to be checking in again, but took the news with as much of a grain of salt as a 4-year old who's spent the majority of the past 5 months living in a hospital can take it. There was minimal complaining, and much sadness when the time came for me to head home. But I'm getting ahead of myself, as I usually do.
Philippa (who jokingly called herself my personal concierge, after Adam repeated my usual request that she try to start him out in the immunocompromised ward, if possible) successfully secured him a room in 5South and said we should aim to check in at 1. Logan chose Arbys for his final meal before the loss of his freedom, so we obliged. We headed to CHO and checked in more or less on time, though the room wasn't yet ready so we headed to the playroom for a few minutes while we waited.
He was pleased to see Molly again. He'd brought a bag of chocolate chip cookies to share with her and his doctors and nurses (though in reality, I'm pretty sure he intended that they be just for Molly!). It made me smile inside to watch him troll around, bag in hand, looking for her so he could share the treats. His check-in weight was a robust 16.8 kilos, up .8 from his official weight at the start of cycle 4.
All of his bloodwork and his creatnine clearance came back looking good, so Adam said he started the chemo at about 8 last (Tuesday) night. So for now, it's just a matter of finishing the round of drugs, clearing the methotrexate, and praying like the dickens that this last regular cycle will wipe out the rest of the tumor residuals so we can skip another surgery and go straight to transplant.
Tomorrow will bring a meeting with Dr. T, who we gather wants to explain what happened with the botched MRI read. Everyone we talked with yesterday was very concerned and confused over what had happened, including the on-call doc of the week, Dr. W. In reality, I think the hospital staff probably thinks we're more upset over what happened than we actually are; we're just so glad that not-as-great news morphed into good news that we don't really care much about the week of worry in between. Yes, it's always disturbing when there's a mistake made and it's upsetting to feel unnecessary strife, but everyone makes mistakes. So we're trying not to dwell. (And we'll have an explanation from Dr T soon enough anyway.)
Okay, well, I have more to say, but it's late and Brady has apparently decided that right now is a good time to scream his head off. Please continue to pray for Logan's complete healing and for protection against relapse over the course of the next few years. I'm trying to do better with prayer myself; I'm finding that it's true for me that when things are going well, I tend to forget to bring things to the Lord on a regular basis.
So off I go to cope with young Brady and to pray. Good night and my thanks to you all.
Adam and I took him back to the hospital yesterday to begin round 5. Logan wasn't thrilled to be checking in again, but took the news with as much of a grain of salt as a 4-year old who's spent the majority of the past 5 months living in a hospital can take it. There was minimal complaining, and much sadness when the time came for me to head home. But I'm getting ahead of myself, as I usually do.
Philippa (who jokingly called herself my personal concierge, after Adam repeated my usual request that she try to start him out in the immunocompromised ward, if possible) successfully secured him a room in 5South and said we should aim to check in at 1. Logan chose Arbys for his final meal before the loss of his freedom, so we obliged. We headed to CHO and checked in more or less on time, though the room wasn't yet ready so we headed to the playroom for a few minutes while we waited.
He was pleased to see Molly again. He'd brought a bag of chocolate chip cookies to share with her and his doctors and nurses (though in reality, I'm pretty sure he intended that they be just for Molly!). It made me smile inside to watch him troll around, bag in hand, looking for her so he could share the treats. His check-in weight was a robust 16.8 kilos, up .8 from his official weight at the start of cycle 4.
All of his bloodwork and his creatnine clearance came back looking good, so Adam said he started the chemo at about 8 last (Tuesday) night. So for now, it's just a matter of finishing the round of drugs, clearing the methotrexate, and praying like the dickens that this last regular cycle will wipe out the rest of the tumor residuals so we can skip another surgery and go straight to transplant.
Tomorrow will bring a meeting with Dr. T, who we gather wants to explain what happened with the botched MRI read. Everyone we talked with yesterday was very concerned and confused over what had happened, including the on-call doc of the week, Dr. W. In reality, I think the hospital staff probably thinks we're more upset over what happened than we actually are; we're just so glad that not-as-great news morphed into good news that we don't really care much about the week of worry in between. Yes, it's always disturbing when there's a mistake made and it's upsetting to feel unnecessary strife, but everyone makes mistakes. So we're trying not to dwell. (And we'll have an explanation from Dr T soon enough anyway.)
Okay, well, I have more to say, but it's late and Brady has apparently decided that right now is a good time to scream his head off. Please continue to pray for Logan's complete healing and for protection against relapse over the course of the next few years. I'm trying to do better with prayer myself; I'm finding that it's true for me that when things are going well, I tend to forget to bring things to the Lord on a regular basis.
So off I go to cope with young Brady and to pray. Good night and my thanks to you all.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Gratitude
I don't think I've thought about the concept of gratitude as often as I have over the course of the past several months. I also don't think, in hindsight, that I knew what it was to be grateful -- truly -- until we learned that Logan had cancer. Sounds kind of backward, huh? But really: I don't think you can really grasp the concept until you've been forced to your knees and compelled to admit that no, you don't have control over the truly important things in this life.
Ironically, I verbalized that thought to Adam last night for the first time. Sure, I'd thought it plenty of times in recent history. But it's a big leap (for me, anyway) to go from proclaiming something mentally -- or even writing it out -- and actually saying it. There's something about the spoken word that makes a thought spring to life in a new and bold way. We were watching a DVR'd episode of SNL and I felt the feeling of uncomfortable uncertainty creep in, the one that had plagued me for the past week, ever since the initial MRI reading. And I turned to him and said what I'd been silently thinking for a week:
It's such a scary feeling to know that I have no control over all of this. I know it should be a comfort that God is ultimately in control, but it's very, very frightening to know that I have no choice but to offer Logan up to Him and just pray that He gives him back to us.
It was a relief to share my heart. And of course, today's corrected MRI reading was something beyond what I would've imagined; prior to that call, the best we'd hoped for was Dr. S. saying he thought he could operate next week and get the remainder of the mass. I never dreamed that Philippa would get back to us and say that the initial reading was wrong. I really never dreamed that she'd say that the chemo is still working so well that we may be able to avoid another resection period. Pretty amazing stuff.
Anyway, it's just another lesson in gratitude. Pure, unfiltered, unadulterated gratitude, made sweeter by the truly unexpected nature of its root. In one way, it's a blessing to be able to feel this kind of thankfulness, even as I'm frustrated to be dealing with this sort of situation in the first place. But I guess it's all just the essence of gratitude.
Ironically, I verbalized that thought to Adam last night for the first time. Sure, I'd thought it plenty of times in recent history. But it's a big leap (for me, anyway) to go from proclaiming something mentally -- or even writing it out -- and actually saying it. There's something about the spoken word that makes a thought spring to life in a new and bold way. We were watching a DVR'd episode of SNL and I felt the feeling of uncomfortable uncertainty creep in, the one that had plagued me for the past week, ever since the initial MRI reading. And I turned to him and said what I'd been silently thinking for a week:
It's such a scary feeling to know that I have no control over all of this. I know it should be a comfort that God is ultimately in control, but it's very, very frightening to know that I have no choice but to offer Logan up to Him and just pray that He gives him back to us.
It was a relief to share my heart. And of course, today's corrected MRI reading was something beyond what I would've imagined; prior to that call, the best we'd hoped for was Dr. S. saying he thought he could operate next week and get the remainder of the mass. I never dreamed that Philippa would get back to us and say that the initial reading was wrong. I really never dreamed that she'd say that the chemo is still working so well that we may be able to avoid another resection period. Pretty amazing stuff.
Anyway, it's just another lesson in gratitude. Pure, unfiltered, unadulterated gratitude, made sweeter by the truly unexpected nature of its root. In one way, it's a blessing to be able to feel this kind of thankfulness, even as I'm frustrated to be dealing with this sort of situation in the first place. But I guess it's all just the essence of gratitude.
In the blink of an eye or a New York minute...
... everything can change. And everything DID change just a little while ago.
In an odd twist of something or other, it turns out that the radiologist misread Logan's MRI from last week. Philippa called Adam a little while ago and said that Dr. T. and Dr. S, the neurosurgeon, who were both away from CHO last week and unable to view the scans, finally had a chance to look at the images today from their onc clinic in Reno.
And they both agreed: For lack of more delicate terms, the radiologist who did the read was on crack. The tumors apparently had a great response to cycles 3 and 4. He's set to return to CHO tomorrow for round 5, which could very likely eliminate the mass(es) in their entirety and negate the need for any additional resection (surgery) at all. Praise God! (Although I admit that I'm a bit bitter that I had such a miserable week, ha. It's never fun to be forced to think about mortality, especially when it's your child in question.)
I just knew something was wrong with the read. I knew he was doing better than that, wonky-eyedness aside. I have no idea how it was misread so badly, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that the treatment worked, he's actually doing better like I thought he was, and we're moving forward with cycle 5.
But why did God have us go through that terrible week? Maybe so I'd be more aggressive with prayer warrior recruitment. I can't really think of any other reason. I sincerely thank everyone who has taken the time to share Logan's story with friends and family. You're amazing people.
Please say some thanksgiving prayers for this news, and then pray for a great cycle 5. He's upset that he has to go back to CHO, but he's had three rockstar cycles, and the last two have involved only 7 or 8 days an in-patient, so we'll hope for more of the same with #5. Pray that this final regular cycle will wipe out the residual tumor and that it'll stay wiped out for good. He'll still have to go through a transplant cycle, which is scary, but wow, just to have hope again, real, justifiable, tangible hope, is an incredible relief. I could dance in the street right now, if I didn't think I'd be run down by a mom picking up her kid from the school. :)
In an odd twist of something or other, it turns out that the radiologist misread Logan's MRI from last week. Philippa called Adam a little while ago and said that Dr. T. and Dr. S, the neurosurgeon, who were both away from CHO last week and unable to view the scans, finally had a chance to look at the images today from their onc clinic in Reno.
And they both agreed: For lack of more delicate terms, the radiologist who did the read was on crack. The tumors apparently had a great response to cycles 3 and 4. He's set to return to CHO tomorrow for round 5, which could very likely eliminate the mass(es) in their entirety and negate the need for any additional resection (surgery) at all. Praise God! (Although I admit that I'm a bit bitter that I had such a miserable week, ha. It's never fun to be forced to think about mortality, especially when it's your child in question.)
I just knew something was wrong with the read. I knew he was doing better than that, wonky-eyedness aside. I have no idea how it was misread so badly, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that the treatment worked, he's actually doing better like I thought he was, and we're moving forward with cycle 5.
But why did God have us go through that terrible week? Maybe so I'd be more aggressive with prayer warrior recruitment. I can't really think of any other reason. I sincerely thank everyone who has taken the time to share Logan's story with friends and family. You're amazing people.
Please say some thanksgiving prayers for this news, and then pray for a great cycle 5. He's upset that he has to go back to CHO, but he's had three rockstar cycles, and the last two have involved only 7 or 8 days an in-patient, so we'll hope for more of the same with #5. Pray that this final regular cycle will wipe out the residual tumor and that it'll stay wiped out for good. He'll still have to go through a transplant cycle, which is scary, but wow, just to have hope again, real, justifiable, tangible hope, is an incredible relief. I could dance in the street right now, if I didn't think I'd be run down by a mom picking up her kid from the school. :)
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