Well, today's not the day Logan will come home. His Methotrexate level this morning came back at .34, still well-above the mystical clearance number of .1. I'm sad about it but trying not to let it ruin my day. More than being sad, though -- because honestly, it's a miserable, rainy day out and it's just as well that he stay snug in the hospital -- I'm scared. The last time he took a little longer to clear the Meth was cycle 2, when he wound up with an awful case of mucusitis combined with the gut infection that had him at CHO for 30 days. With both Christmas and baby's arrival just a few weeks away at most, it's very, very scary to think about a repeat of that disaster. The one bright spot is that his ANC was still 3300, so he does have some ability to fight off infection for now.
All of that aside, I'm upset for Logan. I don't want him to have to suffer those side effects again, especially since he's been so cheerful and active over the course of the past week. He's seemed so well that it would break my heart to see him take another dive.
Please pray that tomorrow will be the day that he clears the Methotrexate. He NEEDS to get it out of his system ASAP, or he may not make it home for Christmas or his little brother's birth. And that seems like almost more than I could take. It would be beyond unfair or unfortunate.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Logan Update: 12/7/10
With my superhero ruminations safely tucked away below, I should give an update on The Little Man himself. Today was a good day for Logan, as was yesterday. Together we painted a small wooden Christmas tree that some volunteers brought to the playroom, I convinced him to eat roughly 2/3 of a container of strawberry yogurt with no resulting complaints about his tummy, and there were many, many games of Disney Yahtzee enjoyed. He wanted to be up and about as much as possible, and was his usual polite but funny self with his nurses. His morning nurse, Sharon, was especially taken with all of his little catchphrases, and proclaimed her favorite of the bunch to be his assertion that this or that 'is ridiculous!' People are often taken with his vocabulary and word choice.
In actuality, there's very little to complain about so far this cycle. He's been more active and more interested in playing, talking, driving the Fred Flinstone car up and down the hall in the wing (while beeping the horn and leaning out the window to check out the ladies), flirting with nurses and doing silly but completely lovable dances than ever before. It feels like the most peculiar thing in the world: We were told that as the cycles wore on, he'd wear out; that he'd be more tired, have more trouble with recovery, and be in progressively worse shape overall. Yet here we are having just finished the meds for cycle 4, and he's a rockstar. He seems to wrap someone new around his little finger just about every day. Although his appearance is definitely one of a kid on chemo -- he's thin, has very little hair left and his once-beautiful eyelashes are all but gone -- his spirit is incredible. I'm so grateful to God for helping Logan to BE Logan, even in the midst of such a horrible time for him.
In terms of the nitty-gritty of how he's doing, his 24-hour methotrexate level (from yesterday morning) was 2.0 on the nose, which was good, per Molly. It's a lower number than cycle 2 and cycle 3 (we don't have cycle 1 data on our spreadsheet). This morning's number was a little disappointing to us at .61; we'd hoped for something more along the lines of .1 or .2, but no dice. But again, Molly was pleased with it, and seemed confident that he'd clear the drug by tomorrow (which means a total level of less than .1). As I've noted previously, clearing the methotrexate expediently is important, since extra days in the system can cause all sorts of nasty side effects, primarily mucusitis (which we avoided cycle 3) and resulting fevers. So please pray for a nice, low number in the morning.
His hemoglobin was low at 6.something this morning, so he was being prepped to receive a transfusion as I left for the evening. I'm a broken record, I know, but please: If you can, consider donating blood this holiday season. If you have enough time, you can also donate platelets. We're so grateful for every person who's donated the blood and blood products that Logan has received. It's such a tangible and tremendously meaningful way to literally give OF yourself.
I almost fear typing this, but if he's cleared the Methotrexate by morning, and if his other numbers look okay, he could be released as early as tomorrow afternoon. Philippa and Molly were working on getting his home medications ordered and ready in preparation for getting him out of there as soon as possible. It would be so wonderful to have him home again, especially with #4's impending arrival. My OB thinks I still have at least another week to go, but said that hey, he could always be wrong. Baby is very, very low, so once labor starts, it should go fairly quickly. (For anyone unfamiliar with my history in that department, I tend to have short labors: Abby was 5 hours, Logan 6 hours and Isaac 4 hours.)
Thank you again for your continued and hearty prayers for complete healing. Although fear is natural, I'm so thankful for the hopeful days and for the promise that miracles can happen. Thank you for walking this journey with us.
In actuality, there's very little to complain about so far this cycle. He's been more active and more interested in playing, talking, driving the Fred Flinstone car up and down the hall in the wing (while beeping the horn and leaning out the window to check out the ladies), flirting with nurses and doing silly but completely lovable dances than ever before. It feels like the most peculiar thing in the world: We were told that as the cycles wore on, he'd wear out; that he'd be more tired, have more trouble with recovery, and be in progressively worse shape overall. Yet here we are having just finished the meds for cycle 4, and he's a rockstar. He seems to wrap someone new around his little finger just about every day. Although his appearance is definitely one of a kid on chemo -- he's thin, has very little hair left and his once-beautiful eyelashes are all but gone -- his spirit is incredible. I'm so grateful to God for helping Logan to BE Logan, even in the midst of such a horrible time for him.
In terms of the nitty-gritty of how he's doing, his 24-hour methotrexate level (from yesterday morning) was 2.0 on the nose, which was good, per Molly. It's a lower number than cycle 2 and cycle 3 (we don't have cycle 1 data on our spreadsheet). This morning's number was a little disappointing to us at .61; we'd hoped for something more along the lines of .1 or .2, but no dice. But again, Molly was pleased with it, and seemed confident that he'd clear the drug by tomorrow (which means a total level of less than .1). As I've noted previously, clearing the methotrexate expediently is important, since extra days in the system can cause all sorts of nasty side effects, primarily mucusitis (which we avoided cycle 3) and resulting fevers. So please pray for a nice, low number in the morning.
His hemoglobin was low at 6.something this morning, so he was being prepped to receive a transfusion as I left for the evening. I'm a broken record, I know, but please: If you can, consider donating blood this holiday season. If you have enough time, you can also donate platelets. We're so grateful for every person who's donated the blood and blood products that Logan has received. It's such a tangible and tremendously meaningful way to literally give OF yourself.
I almost fear typing this, but if he's cleared the Methotrexate by morning, and if his other numbers look okay, he could be released as early as tomorrow afternoon. Philippa and Molly were working on getting his home medications ordered and ready in preparation for getting him out of there as soon as possible. It would be so wonderful to have him home again, especially with #4's impending arrival. My OB thinks I still have at least another week to go, but said that hey, he could always be wrong. Baby is very, very low, so once labor starts, it should go fairly quickly. (For anyone unfamiliar with my history in that department, I tend to have short labors: Abby was 5 hours, Logan 6 hours and Isaac 4 hours.)
Thank you again for your continued and hearty prayers for complete healing. Although fear is natural, I'm so thankful for the hopeful days and for the promise that miracles can happen. Thank you for walking this journey with us.
Superheroes
I don't believe in superheroes. At least, not in the sense that we've come to worship them in modern-day culture. Because the people who are the real superheroes in this life are the ones who spend most of their days stuck in the special wing of a hospital, hooked up to IV poles while receiving high doses of gut-busting, toxic medications. They can't fly, see through walls or move mountains with a single thought, but they can smile and do little dances just minutes after throwing up their lunches for the third day in a row. They can flirt with their caretakers and make jokes even when everything hurts and all they want is to go home again.
I'm amazed by what I see every day at CHO. Truly amazed. I was once afraid of sick people and especially sick children; after all, they're different somehow, right? Aren't kid gloves required? But of course, nearly four months into Logan's treatment protocol, I've come to realize that these kids aren't kids to be feared. Instead, they're to be admired for their strength, their fortitude, their tremendous courage and their heart.
So why the big reflection now? As I was leaving CHO this evening, I boarded the elevator with a set of parents and a boy, probably about 9 years old, who was perched in a wheelchair. From their conversation, I gleaned that he'd broken his elbow and was awaiting the results of an MRI. He asked for a drink of water, and the woman said no, not until after the doctor had gotten back to them. And he started to cry -- big, wet, round tears that quickly stained his cheeks. But I'm so thirsty! he moaned. His mom placated him and then that was it: I got off the elevator and headed to my car.
I felt for the boy. It's tough to be denied a basic need when you really need it! And then my mind drifted up to the 5th floor, where Logan and his co-horts are denied the basics of eating with comfort, playing with friends and going home every single day. Yet they bear the burden that no one should have to bear with such grace, patience and with so many smiles that they meet the very definition of what a superhero should be, capes and special powers be darned.
Anyway, just a random bit for the evening. Blessings to you.
I'm amazed by what I see every day at CHO. Truly amazed. I was once afraid of sick people and especially sick children; after all, they're different somehow, right? Aren't kid gloves required? But of course, nearly four months into Logan's treatment protocol, I've come to realize that these kids aren't kids to be feared. Instead, they're to be admired for their strength, their fortitude, their tremendous courage and their heart.
So why the big reflection now? As I was leaving CHO this evening, I boarded the elevator with a set of parents and a boy, probably about 9 years old, who was perched in a wheelchair. From their conversation, I gleaned that he'd broken his elbow and was awaiting the results of an MRI. He asked for a drink of water, and the woman said no, not until after the doctor had gotten back to them. And he started to cry -- big, wet, round tears that quickly stained his cheeks. But I'm so thirsty! he moaned. His mom placated him and then that was it: I got off the elevator and headed to my car.
I felt for the boy. It's tough to be denied a basic need when you really need it! And then my mind drifted up to the 5th floor, where Logan and his co-horts are denied the basics of eating with comfort, playing with friends and going home every single day. Yet they bear the burden that no one should have to bear with such grace, patience and with so many smiles that they meet the very definition of what a superhero should be, capes and special powers be darned.
Anyway, just a random bit for the evening. Blessings to you.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Prayers, Music and Inspiration, Oh My
It's not often that I find myself so filled with things to say that I can't even begin, but that's where I am right now. Do I start with the morning ruminations I skipped because of the proximity of Isaac's peaceful slumber? The afternoon tears followed by yet more in the evening and then those ever-so-carefully placed bits of unexpected encouragement that popped up out of nowhere? Or maybe with Abby's surprising and mature-for-6-years-old comments that grabbed me by the heart and sucked the breath right out of my chest?
I'll go with door number three, if only because they may well be the most salient soundbytes I have to share this evening. I took the afternoon off from CHO today. Not because I wanted to, but because my body, to put it simply, just can't take the roaming around anymore. Adam came home at 1 after being relieved by his mom, and I got a chance to take a nap while he entertained Abby and Isaac. This evening we headed en masse to Oakland, where we had dinner and then stopped by the hospital for a quick visit. As I guided the van onto highway 24 post-visit and I breathed in a quick moment of quiet silence, Abby spoke. And her words took me by such forceful surprise that I almost had to pull the car over.
I know you wish Jesus walked on the Earth so he could touch Logan and heal him. I do.
Out of the mouth of my 6-year old. I was absolutely stunned for a moment, but then agreed with her statement. We went on to talk about God and Jesus and trials and faith and prayer, and then she faded into silence for most of the ride home. I figured that was the end of the discussion, but I was wrong.
As we headed upstairs for bedtime, Abby lagged behind me on the staircase. It was late, and I felt my patience waning. I told her to hurry, and what did she do instead? She stopped in her tracks. Just as I was getting ready to give her a verbal smack, she quietly said
I was crying in the car a little on the way home.
And I stopped.
Why?
Because I miss Logan and I wish he was here and I wish that he didn't have to go back to the Children's Hospital ever.
I agreed with her, and then she added something that struck me even more:
I don't ever want to have to have one of those 'in memory of' thingys.
I was puzzled for a moment, and then realized she referred to the dedication stones that line the front entrance to CHO. And it broke my heart. I've seen those stones, too, and silently prayed that we'd never, ever need one. But Abby is six, not 32. My daughter thinks a lot. She sees everything, internalizes everything, and rarely shares her heart, but when she does, I realize how very much all of this effects her, too. And it's essential that I remember how hard it is for her to cope with what's happening to her best friend and playmate. As the mom, it's so easy to forget, but I know I can't do that. I should've known it was plaguing her as it does me; after all, her own prayers have become more urgent and more pressed over time. Her 'please heal Logan' has morphed into 'please, please, please heal Logan'. While still simplistic, of course, the meaning runs from a place of emotional depth and feeling that I can't really fathom.
So that's door number three. Let's look behind door number two next.
I've struggled this cycle with believing and with having faith. I don't really know why; could be, as I've mentioned previously, that the baby is coming SOON and I have no idea how it'll work out. It could be the new methotrexate routine. It could just be my usual doubts creeping back in and trying to destroy my hope and my joy. Or it could be a combination of all of those things working together to attempt to create havoc.
In the midst of all of my doubts and fears, I've heard this message several times -- and distinctly -- over the course of the past few days:
Do you trust Me?
And I had to really think on it. Do I? DO I? It's a hard question to answer. On one hand, yes, because there's really nowhere else to turn. And because we've seen amazing and wonderful things so far along the course of this journey.
On the other, I still harbor fears and worries and concerns. I'm still living a nightmare. I still hear about others' 'nightmares' and have to bite my tongue as I struggle not to say 'well, at least you're not the 9-months-pregnant mom of 3 whose 4-year old is battling aggressive brain cancer; who sees her husband maybe 2 hours a day; who has no idea how she'll cope when said unplanned baby arrives and who has no idea how her life wound up so horribly upside down over the course of just a few months'. It's hard to have faith when you feel like you're being screwed over. But then again, that's really the essence of having faith in the first place: Continuing to believe despite your circumstances, despite hard times, despite hopeless-looking situations presenting themselves at awful, inconvenient times.
So I guess I'd say that my response to the question posed has been 'yes, but I fear what You're doing'.
And of course, it wasn't left alone. This evening was jam-packed with a string of reassurances that not even half-glass-empty ole me can ignore or write off. First, on the drive home, after my conversation with my astute daughter concluded, I heard no fewer than three different songs that contained some variation of the words 'it'll be okay again' or 'it's okay', that despite the fact that I wasn't really even listening; I was more sitting in the silence, watching my fellow travelers navigate their own journeys, and mulling over my own feelings over sadness over my fractured family. The last song was completely new to me, and it was playing as I turned into the driveway. Just before I cut the engine, I heard the singer, a Blake Wise, croon the following:
Cause the sun is out
And it feels like heaven's shining down
It's clearer now and everything's going to be all right
Although it was indeed pitch black out, the sprinkling of irony -- or perhaps just truth -- comes from the fact that what had previously been a rainy evening had turned clear for our trip home.
But that wasn't all. Abby chose to read Bible stories at bedtime, and opted to go with our customary random route. And surprise, surprise: The theme of the evening became healing, faith and prayer, across both the Old and New Testaments. We read about the healing of Naaman, the healing of the 10 lepers, the healing of Jairus' daughter and the woman of faith, the raising of Lazarus, God hearing the prayers of the people of Ninevah and deciding to save them. It was truly a parade of God's amazing handiwork with the earthly health of humankind, all laid out for me to soak up like a sponge. I think just one of those stories alone would've been enough to bring tears to my eyes and reassurance to my pained heart, so it was utterly overwhelming to read them one after another after another in such 'random' fashion.
So that's door number two. Door number one takes me back to this morning. I've again entered a phase where I feel like I'm wandering in the wilderness. I'm on a path, yes, but I have no idea where it's going. And not only that, but I can see the freeway from where I am. It's frustrating to be meandering down a badly rutted little dirt road while everyone else I know is on an expressway to holiday fun; enjoying those celebrations and their families. It's hard to not feel forgotten when you've your entire body pressed up against a grindstone. Just please keep remembering Logan. Sometimes I just feel like 'It's okay if you forget about me, but please remember my little boy and pray for him to be completely healed. If you do nothing else for me this holiday season, please do that'. I hope that doesn't come across as a gripe or a complaint; it's more of a reminder that we're still here, still coping, still dealing, still praying, still... everything we've been doing since August 15 when everything changed so very much.
Now for the actual update on my little sunshine. He started his methotrexate right on schedule this morning at 6:30 AM, so he's now finished receiving the medications for cycle 4. Please continue to pray for good and quick clearance. And of course, for extremely good response to the medications in general. He was very tired when we were there visiting this evening, but he enjoyed seeing Abby and Isaac, and really enjoyed it when Adam brought the book 'Everyone Poops' from the playroom for an encore reading. Apparently the pair read it this morning and Logan was thoroughly amused.
He threw up several times today and is generally uninterested in food, but to me, he looked better today than he had on any other previous day 4, so I'm thankful for that and pray for more of the same entering this coming week. As for other prayer requests, I have a few. Please pray for Abby as she copes with the upheaval and her emotions. She's so young to be dealing with a challenge of this magnitude and I'm just so mad that she's been robbed of so much simplicity in her childhood. Please pray that it won't harden her heart or hurt her spirit. And of course, I pray the same things for Logan as well. It would be very easy for him to emerge from this as a bitter person, but I've been encouraged by the heartiness and resilience he's shown throughout treatment thus far. He's truly an inspiration.
In addition, please pray for wisdom for the doctors and nurses at CHO. It's easy for me to get angry when things go wrong, but it's so much easier to ask for prayers for them to try to head off errors. :) So that's what I'll do.
Have a wonderful week. Blessings to all of you and yours.
I'll go with door number three, if only because they may well be the most salient soundbytes I have to share this evening. I took the afternoon off from CHO today. Not because I wanted to, but because my body, to put it simply, just can't take the roaming around anymore. Adam came home at 1 after being relieved by his mom, and I got a chance to take a nap while he entertained Abby and Isaac. This evening we headed en masse to Oakland, where we had dinner and then stopped by the hospital for a quick visit. As I guided the van onto highway 24 post-visit and I breathed in a quick moment of quiet silence, Abby spoke. And her words took me by such forceful surprise that I almost had to pull the car over.
I know you wish Jesus walked on the Earth so he could touch Logan and heal him. I do.
Out of the mouth of my 6-year old. I was absolutely stunned for a moment, but then agreed with her statement. We went on to talk about God and Jesus and trials and faith and prayer, and then she faded into silence for most of the ride home. I figured that was the end of the discussion, but I was wrong.
As we headed upstairs for bedtime, Abby lagged behind me on the staircase. It was late, and I felt my patience waning. I told her to hurry, and what did she do instead? She stopped in her tracks. Just as I was getting ready to give her a verbal smack, she quietly said
I was crying in the car a little on the way home.
And I stopped.
Why?
Because I miss Logan and I wish he was here and I wish that he didn't have to go back to the Children's Hospital ever.
I agreed with her, and then she added something that struck me even more:
I don't ever want to have to have one of those 'in memory of' thingys.
I was puzzled for a moment, and then realized she referred to the dedication stones that line the front entrance to CHO. And it broke my heart. I've seen those stones, too, and silently prayed that we'd never, ever need one. But Abby is six, not 32. My daughter thinks a lot. She sees everything, internalizes everything, and rarely shares her heart, but when she does, I realize how very much all of this effects her, too. And it's essential that I remember how hard it is for her to cope with what's happening to her best friend and playmate. As the mom, it's so easy to forget, but I know I can't do that. I should've known it was plaguing her as it does me; after all, her own prayers have become more urgent and more pressed over time. Her 'please heal Logan' has morphed into 'please, please, please heal Logan'. While still simplistic, of course, the meaning runs from a place of emotional depth and feeling that I can't really fathom.
So that's door number three. Let's look behind door number two next.
I've struggled this cycle with believing and with having faith. I don't really know why; could be, as I've mentioned previously, that the baby is coming SOON and I have no idea how it'll work out. It could be the new methotrexate routine. It could just be my usual doubts creeping back in and trying to destroy my hope and my joy. Or it could be a combination of all of those things working together to attempt to create havoc.
In the midst of all of my doubts and fears, I've heard this message several times -- and distinctly -- over the course of the past few days:
Do you trust Me?
And I had to really think on it. Do I? DO I? It's a hard question to answer. On one hand, yes, because there's really nowhere else to turn. And because we've seen amazing and wonderful things so far along the course of this journey.
On the other, I still harbor fears and worries and concerns. I'm still living a nightmare. I still hear about others' 'nightmares' and have to bite my tongue as I struggle not to say 'well, at least you're not the 9-months-pregnant mom of 3 whose 4-year old is battling aggressive brain cancer; who sees her husband maybe 2 hours a day; who has no idea how she'll cope when said unplanned baby arrives and who has no idea how her life wound up so horribly upside down over the course of just a few months'. It's hard to have faith when you feel like you're being screwed over. But then again, that's really the essence of having faith in the first place: Continuing to believe despite your circumstances, despite hard times, despite hopeless-looking situations presenting themselves at awful, inconvenient times.
So I guess I'd say that my response to the question posed has been 'yes, but I fear what You're doing'.
And of course, it wasn't left alone. This evening was jam-packed with a string of reassurances that not even half-glass-empty ole me can ignore or write off. First, on the drive home, after my conversation with my astute daughter concluded, I heard no fewer than three different songs that contained some variation of the words 'it'll be okay again' or 'it's okay', that despite the fact that I wasn't really even listening; I was more sitting in the silence, watching my fellow travelers navigate their own journeys, and mulling over my own feelings over sadness over my fractured family. The last song was completely new to me, and it was playing as I turned into the driveway. Just before I cut the engine, I heard the singer, a Blake Wise, croon the following:
Cause the sun is out
And it feels like heaven's shining down
It's clearer now and everything's going to be all right
Although it was indeed pitch black out, the sprinkling of irony -- or perhaps just truth -- comes from the fact that what had previously been a rainy evening had turned clear for our trip home.
But that wasn't all. Abby chose to read Bible stories at bedtime, and opted to go with our customary random route. And surprise, surprise: The theme of the evening became healing, faith and prayer, across both the Old and New Testaments. We read about the healing of Naaman, the healing of the 10 lepers, the healing of Jairus' daughter and the woman of faith, the raising of Lazarus, God hearing the prayers of the people of Ninevah and deciding to save them. It was truly a parade of God's amazing handiwork with the earthly health of humankind, all laid out for me to soak up like a sponge. I think just one of those stories alone would've been enough to bring tears to my eyes and reassurance to my pained heart, so it was utterly overwhelming to read them one after another after another in such 'random' fashion.
So that's door number two. Door number one takes me back to this morning. I've again entered a phase where I feel like I'm wandering in the wilderness. I'm on a path, yes, but I have no idea where it's going. And not only that, but I can see the freeway from where I am. It's frustrating to be meandering down a badly rutted little dirt road while everyone else I know is on an expressway to holiday fun; enjoying those celebrations and their families. It's hard to not feel forgotten when you've your entire body pressed up against a grindstone. Just please keep remembering Logan. Sometimes I just feel like 'It's okay if you forget about me, but please remember my little boy and pray for him to be completely healed. If you do nothing else for me this holiday season, please do that'. I hope that doesn't come across as a gripe or a complaint; it's more of a reminder that we're still here, still coping, still dealing, still praying, still... everything we've been doing since August 15 when everything changed so very much.
Now for the actual update on my little sunshine. He started his methotrexate right on schedule this morning at 6:30 AM, so he's now finished receiving the medications for cycle 4. Please continue to pray for good and quick clearance. And of course, for extremely good response to the medications in general. He was very tired when we were there visiting this evening, but he enjoyed seeing Abby and Isaac, and really enjoyed it when Adam brought the book 'Everyone Poops' from the playroom for an encore reading. Apparently the pair read it this morning and Logan was thoroughly amused.
He threw up several times today and is generally uninterested in food, but to me, he looked better today than he had on any other previous day 4, so I'm thankful for that and pray for more of the same entering this coming week. As for other prayer requests, I have a few. Please pray for Abby as she copes with the upheaval and her emotions. She's so young to be dealing with a challenge of this magnitude and I'm just so mad that she's been robbed of so much simplicity in her childhood. Please pray that it won't harden her heart or hurt her spirit. And of course, I pray the same things for Logan as well. It would be very easy for him to emerge from this as a bitter person, but I've been encouraged by the heartiness and resilience he's shown throughout treatment thus far. He's truly an inspiration.
In addition, please pray for wisdom for the doctors and nurses at CHO. It's easy for me to get angry when things go wrong, but it's so much easier to ask for prayers for them to try to head off errors. :) So that's what I'll do.
Have a wonderful week. Blessings to all of you and yours.
Round 4, Day 4
This cycle has seen Logan receiving his meds at 6:30 AM each day, so is it a coincidence that I woke up at 6:30 and felt compelled to post this morning? Today is Methotrexate day, the final drug of his series and as you know, the most brutal. Since I'm not there, I don't know if he's on schedule or behind (as his pH level has to reach a specific point before they'll administer the med), but please pray for easy handling and no side effects.
His response to this drug is really key when it comes to determining whether he comes home again next week or weeks from now; we need no mucusitis (and it's possible, since he never developed it last cycle), no serious pain and early clearance. The earlier it clears his system, the better. I'm on edge because CHO oncology changed their protocol for Methotrexate administration after cycle 3, so this is our first time with the new system in play. Please pray for amazing results so we can get him back home again asap and keep him here with us until cycle 5 begins.
Thank you for your prayers. I feel like there are many other things I'd like to type, but honestly, I'm exhausted. Isaac is sleeping in my bed for the second night in a row, and I don't want to wake him with my frenetic click clacking.
Blessings a'plenty.
His response to this drug is really key when it comes to determining whether he comes home again next week or weeks from now; we need no mucusitis (and it's possible, since he never developed it last cycle), no serious pain and early clearance. The earlier it clears his system, the better. I'm on edge because CHO oncology changed their protocol for Methotrexate administration after cycle 3, so this is our first time with the new system in play. Please pray for amazing results so we can get him back home again asap and keep him here with us until cycle 5 begins.
Thank you for your prayers. I feel like there are many other things I'd like to type, but honestly, I'm exhausted. Isaac is sleeping in my bed for the second night in a row, and I don't want to wake him with my frenetic click clacking.
Blessings a'plenty.
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Logan Update: 12/3/10
Nothing quite says 'the holidays' to me like a cheesy Hallmark Christmas movie on TV, so that's precisely how I'm ending my Friday.
Today marked day 2 of cycle 4. Logan was active once again this morning, riding in the little red and black car, beeping at the nurses' station, and seeking out Molly for a good slathering of his own special brand of charm. Some folks from the Exploratorium, a local kids' museum, came by the playroom and we made a kaleidoscope and a little bottled atmosphere. (At least, I think that's what it is! I can't remember exactly.) He wasn't at all interested in food, though, and threw up shortly after Adam left at about 11:45. He tried to resist going to sleep, but finally wound up conking out at roughly 2... and he was still sleeping when Adam got back to CHO at 8 this evening. Apparently Haleema, his nurse, told Adam to let Logan know that she's his nurse for the afternoon / night because she'd yet to see him awake! It's good for him to sleep; he needs the rest since the drugs are so tough. And it gives me a little jolt of hope, too: I remember Dr. T telling us several months ago that lots of sleep can point to rapid tumor death. And that's my big bold prayer for cycle 4.
I still feel on edge about this month. But I'm also praying with just about every breath, and am so thankful for each and every member of what I've come to refer to as Logan's Army. Many blessings to you all.
Today marked day 2 of cycle 4. Logan was active once again this morning, riding in the little red and black car, beeping at the nurses' station, and seeking out Molly for a good slathering of his own special brand of charm. Some folks from the Exploratorium, a local kids' museum, came by the playroom and we made a kaleidoscope and a little bottled atmosphere. (At least, I think that's what it is! I can't remember exactly.) He wasn't at all interested in food, though, and threw up shortly after Adam left at about 11:45. He tried to resist going to sleep, but finally wound up conking out at roughly 2... and he was still sleeping when Adam got back to CHO at 8 this evening. Apparently Haleema, his nurse, told Adam to let Logan know that she's his nurse for the afternoon / night because she'd yet to see him awake! It's good for him to sleep; he needs the rest since the drugs are so tough. And it gives me a little jolt of hope, too: I remember Dr. T telling us several months ago that lots of sleep can point to rapid tumor death. And that's my big bold prayer for cycle 4.
I still feel on edge about this month. But I'm also praying with just about every breath, and am so thankful for each and every member of what I've come to refer to as Logan's Army. Many blessings to you all.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Logan Update: 12/2/10
Cycle 4 is now underway, though it got started about 12 hours later than initially intended because Logan's pee wasn't clear enough to proceed until 6:30 AM today. (Sorry, sometimes laymans terms are gross!)
Delay aside, he had a nice day. When I arrived he was cheerfully practicing his step-climbing and bowling skills with the physical therapist. Once their session wrapped, he was eager to get into my bag and deliver the gingerbread cookie he'd requested to Molly. She's become a chosen one of sorts, and he's currently well on his way toward wrapping her around his little finger with a patented combination of charming smiles, laughs, funny conversations about garden burgers and gifts. One of his favorite activities of the day involved driving one of those egg-shaped self-propelled Fred Flintstone cars around the ward, beeping and grinning like mad every time he passed by the nurses' station. I'm biased, but it really was totally adorable.
Other activities of the day included the creation of two paper Christmas trees, complete with plenty of glitter glue, a few rounds of Connect Four, lots of car-related games, and in general, lots of moving around. He didn't eat much but still maintained a good energy level (well, until he conked out for a few hours in the afternoon, that is) and said he didn't want to just stay in his room. It was the first day in quite a while that he didn't seem interested in TV, which was great.
So anyway, that's the update for the day. It was a good day for him, a slightly tougher day for me. My ankles wound up pretty badly swollen, but I dealt.
Thank you for your continued prayers for complete healing and for another great cycle. I appreciate and thank God for every single one of you.
Delay aside, he had a nice day. When I arrived he was cheerfully practicing his step-climbing and bowling skills with the physical therapist. Once their session wrapped, he was eager to get into my bag and deliver the gingerbread cookie he'd requested to Molly. She's become a chosen one of sorts, and he's currently well on his way toward wrapping her around his little finger with a patented combination of charming smiles, laughs, funny conversations about garden burgers and gifts. One of his favorite activities of the day involved driving one of those egg-shaped self-propelled Fred Flintstone cars around the ward, beeping and grinning like mad every time he passed by the nurses' station. I'm biased, but it really was totally adorable.
Other activities of the day included the creation of two paper Christmas trees, complete with plenty of glitter glue, a few rounds of Connect Four, lots of car-related games, and in general, lots of moving around. He didn't eat much but still maintained a good energy level (well, until he conked out for a few hours in the afternoon, that is) and said he didn't want to just stay in his room. It was the first day in quite a while that he didn't seem interested in TV, which was great.
So anyway, that's the update for the day. It was a good day for him, a slightly tougher day for me. My ankles wound up pretty badly swollen, but I dealt.
Thank you for your continued prayers for complete healing and for another great cycle. I appreciate and thank God for every single one of you.
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