There Are No Coincidences......

A lot has happened in the last three and a half weeks. I'm going to begin where I left off in my last entry. Little Bird underwent the surgery to resection the forty centimeters of small bowel; what remains of her digestive system. If ever there was a long shot, this was it. Give her time to heal, said the specialists from across the state. Then, they'd attempt to resume her mic-key feeds. Until then, the TPN would be enough to sustain her. Little did we realize that the TPN would be the easy part.

Little Bird had a bumpy go of things, at first. She began showing signals and symptoms that her body wasn't able to tolerate eating. At least not in the way she'd become accustomed to. The half and half mixture of electrolytes and formula that they proved to be unabsorbable by her. And so her gastroenterologist came up with a new plan. Continue trophic amounts and frequencies, but try something different. They changed the brand, and excluded the Pedialyte all together, opting to instead add a tiny bit of pectin to this concoction. You've got to love a medical team who will resort to any measures to help heal your child. The idea of pectin being used therapeutically in this setting is rare, but not completely unheard of. And so far, so good. She is able to withstand five milliliters, every four hours. Progress comes in every shape and size.

Little Bird also had some issues in regards to her ability to breathe. But she's since regained control over her previous CPAP settings on her own ventilator, rather than that of the hospital's. It may not sound like much, but this is huge. Had she not been mechanically dependent, it'd be akin to an eight month old baby, with healthy lungs, having their breathing tube removed. Definitely something to celebrate, and that she did. Her nurses began taking her back out to socialize at the main desk again. And for her, this is equivalent of going to the park.

She stayed true to herself by catching yet another bout of tracheitis, and also healing from it in no time at all. However, it wasn't the only threat to her immune system. As I type this, we're awaiting results of lab cultures. An infection in her central line. Though, we don't yet know whether this is caused by something common, such as day to day handling of it and her. Or something more ominous, like the resection surgery not working. Her team isn't putting anything past her. They already started her on a double cocktail of antibiotics after noticing bloat in her abdomen. They suspect that there is a chance that she's leaking bacteria into her blood stream. As if hearing the word 'sepsis' once wasn't enough. MFH pointed to the elephant in the room, asking how exactly would they go about treating her should the diagnosis be the latter. They don't yet know. And they've wasted not a single second conferring once again with the University of Pittsburgh to that regard.

I'm not afraid. Call me crazy, but I've had the privilege of knowing ahead of time that this will prove to be something minor. I'm going to go out on a limb right now, and explain it to you. Remember that dream log I talked about several months ago? There was one dream in particular that is keeping me from going over the deep end right now. The one I'd written about previously. The preemie baby girl, with the footprint-shaped rash on her belly. My mom, telling me that "It's Scarlet Fever, but she's going to be okay."

Around here, Number Five is also known as The Exception To The Rule. None of our other kids, including Little Bird, have allergies. But somehow, Number Five does. She is allergic to such a plethora of things that I've carried a list with me, on my phone, at all times, for the last four and a half years. The blue Johnson's bath soap. Cats. Certain artificial colors and flavors. When she has a reaction, she has a reaction. Not anaphylaxis. But she blows out in hives so severely that it looks like someone scalded her with boiling water. All. Over. Her. Body. Days ago, she suffered as much, though we've yet to find the exact culprit of the cause.

In that particular dream, the baby girl that I'd carried to my mother's doorstep had a rash that resembled what's taken affect all over Number Five's body. It was localized to the abdomen, and in the exact location of where Little Bird's mic-key button is located. My mother warned me, from beyond. She said she'd be okay. After watching Little Bird survive something that an otherwise healthy adult could not, I am inclined to wholeheartedly place every faith that I have in her message. Little Bird is going to be okay. I believe that. I believe in Little Bird.

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