tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76974577041005183872024-02-19T00:11:49.452-05:00A Life In Numbers...Confessions Of A Mathematically Challenged Mother.Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.comBlogger121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-35823273261279574202012-09-09T09:09:00.003-04:002012-09-09T09:12:41.357-04:00Little One....<br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'll tell you why I</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Don't want to know where you are</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />I've got a joke I've been</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dying to tell you</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A silent kid is looking</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Down the barrel</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To make the noise that I've</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Kept so quiet</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I kept it from you, Pitseleh</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm not what's missing</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From your life now</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could never be the</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Puzzle pieces</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They say that God makes problems</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just to see what you can stand</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before you do what the Devil pleases</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Give up the thing you love....</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No one deserves this.....</span></span></i><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first time I saw you</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I knew it would never last</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm not half what I </span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wish I was</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm so angry</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don't think it will ever pass</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I was bad news for you</span></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just because</span></span></i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I never meant to hurt you.....</span></span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">~Elliott Smith</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-46705246750234069842012-07-20T04:07:00.000-04:002012-07-20T04:07:32.916-04:00The Biggest Blog Post In The History Of The World......<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Shhhh! The baby's sleeping! And if you wake her up, <strike>I'll kill you and bury your body underneath the swimming pool</strike> ya'll won't have an update to read! I have a lot to fill you in on. The last two and half weeks were incredibly eventful, to say the least. There is no way I'd ever be able to write about <i>everything</i>, but there is still plenty to share. I'm going to take this rare opportunity of sitting down in front of my computer, uninterrupted, to tell you all about it. So sit back, get comfortable, and enjoy this bit of our highlight reel. It's time for a picture <i>extraaaaaavaaaaagaaaaanzaaaaa</i>! </span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mommy's Little Helper</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sissy Love</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"This thing gets <i>great</i> gas mileage!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Our second day home brought some challenges. MFH awoke before me that morning, and by the time I came downstairs, he and April were hovering around Little Bird's crib. Initially, we all blamed the pulsox machine. Although she was smiling and playful, it was alerting to her heart rate idling around a hundred and eighty beats per minute, which was definitely abnormally high for her. Her oxygen level was also off, and lower than we like it to be. Holding steady at ninety three, it still wasn't enough to panic about. Though MFH and I prefer it to be at least two points higher. And like I said, she was <i>happy</i>. We changed out the wire for a new one, and added a bit of medical tape when we placed it on her other foot. Sometimes changing it's location can also make all the difference. But, it didn't. </span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">AeroCamera!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Priceless Life</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">April took Little Bird's temperature, which was slightly elevated. So we all assumed these changes were due to her teething. She's been popping in new pearly whites, two and three at a time. Perhaps her increased heart rate was coming from discomfort. And so we gave her a dose of Tylenol and waited for it to kick in. A half an hour later, no change in numbers, but a change in regard to her breathing. She coughed, and we could hear what sounded like wheezing. She'd already received her morning dose of Pulmicort, so we went ahead and administered her back up medication, meant for exactly that situation. And this was when we also called Kenny, our respiratory therapist. We asked him to bring up a different pulse oximeter, altogether. Just to be certain that we were getting a proper read. He brought one over immediately, but before he did anything else, he scared the hell out of us. "If she was my daughter, I'd have her under the o2." Which was precisely what we did next. </span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sleepy Birfday Girl!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our 'Thumbs-Up' From Little Bird</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Please tell me I isn't related to dese people!"</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He hooked up the new monitor by the time we traded out her HME for the O-ring, and that quickly, her oxygen level jumped to ninety eight percent. The four of us spent the next twenty minutes watching her heart rate slowly decrease to her norm of one forty five. Apparently, the air in our home is a lot dryer than that of the hospital's, which is climate controlled. Add to that the air conditioning, which is constantly running, and it made for one hella case of dehydrated, cobweb lung. But, we have the means and the knowledge to assist her, and we did. For the next twenty four hours, we kept her oxygenated along with utilizing a humidification chamber, around the clock, and dosed her Albuterol as necessary. And by the next afternoon, she was good as new!</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Oh, Jessie! You shouldn't have!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">What's In The Box?</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Tank you sooo much!!!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Good as new, as in, rolling on the floor, and laughing her ass off. Literally. Every single afternoon, we stretch a blanket across the living room carpet, turn on any given Sirius channel on the television, pull out a metric shit ton of toys, and have at it. And it's not just MFH and I who enjoy these hours of playtime. Her older siblings also get very much into the ritual, and often! It's not possible to walk past the party and not want to partake in it. And, as witnessed in <a href="http://rachaelsanko.blogspot.com/2012/07/how-do-you-make-tracheostomy-dance.html" target="_blank">this</a> post, she goes absolutely buck wild for eighties music. Styx. The Go-Go's. Pat Benatar. Old School Madonna. She loves it <i>all!</i> One afternoon, she was standing on my lap, and at first, I thought she was losing her balance. But, she wasn't. She was<i> dancing</i>! Shaking her hiney, bobbing her head, and shimmying her shoulders to the beat of Mr. Roboto. We laughed so hard, we scared her!</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rise & Shine!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Biiiiiiig Stretch For Such An Itty Bitty Girl!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Smile, Baby! It Looks Good On You!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">He Is So Totally Wrapped Around Her Finger</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She's also now attempting to crawl. I really didn't think she would because of the mic-key button. She can roll from her back to her belly, but oftentimes stops midway because of it. A piece of plastic protruding from your abdomen can't be that pleasant to roll onto. But yesterday, while in her crib, she decided to show off. She used the rails as leverage. After flipping herself onto her belly, and pulling her left arm out from under her, she placed her feet against them and pushed. I was standing beside her, and kind of ruined the moment. I panicked about the G-tube, and snatched her up before it snagged and dislodged. But still, she was the proudest little one year old in the world! Beaming from ear to ear, smiling at me as I freaked my freak. <i>"Oh my GAWD! Did you guys see what she just did?!?! Little Bird crawled!!!"</i></span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">She Never Met A Tubby That She Didn't Like!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bath Time Is Da Bomb Dot Com!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Don't forget behind my ears!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She's definitely got a large enough audience to show off to! We spent the first week under lock and key, refusing to allow anyone without a medical license past the front door, decorated with a sign that warns the world to not disturb us. But we've since allowed the princess to begin receiving guests. This afternoon, she had her very first official play date with her friend, Brynn. She hit it off so well with Crystal's baby girl, and they were like two peas in a pod! She is such a people person that it's almost ridiculous. She loves visitors, and has been having a blast getting to know so many faces that have loved her for so long. She also continues to enjoy meeting new ones. Just before tonight's bedtime, we took her out to relax on the front porch, where she met quite a few of her oldest sister's friends. We've been trying to schedule a few outings with her, but the weather hasn't been cooperating with us. We're not in any rush, though, and when we are able to do it, it'll be that much more exciting. I continue to marvel at the social aspect of her personality. For as much as she's been thru, I wouldn't have blamed her if she chose to shut the world out entirely. Yet, she is the most cheerful, easy-going, and all around pleasant one year old I've ever known. She loves to cuddle (and OMG <i>yes</i>, you <i>should</i> be jealous, because she is a hugger!), and very rarely ever cries. And the reason behind why she is the way she is, is simple: Our PICU family. Hugs and kisses are all Little Bird has ever known. </span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lather. Rinse. Repeat!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">That's the way it ought to be. And if her siblings have any say in the matter, it's the way life <i>will</i> be for her. Number Five does have her moments of rivalry and jealousy, in which she asks me, "Why does my bay-bee need so much care?" But for the most part, she adores being a big sister. We've been including her in Little Bird's daily regiment as much as possible, in order to help her understand that she is just as loved and important to all of us as the baby is. She helps us mix formula, pick out the next day's clothing, and even takes photos of Little Bird for us (some that you're viewing were captured by her!). She's my supply organizer, and she assists us at bath time. We're also in the process of teaching her how to reconnect the HME, which Little Bird loves to pull off of her trach about a hundred times a day. I've actually started calling her Shadow, as in she's always right behind me. But she's learning everything we know, and absorbing info like a sponge. It's kind of cool to hear your four year old say things like, "The pulsox machine was beeping because the baby pulled the probe off of her foot". She can now identify certain items by their actual name, like hyrdrosorbs, posey wraps, and Farrel bags. It's like an episode of Doogie Howser around here!</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dreaming Of Angels</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm starting to see a pattern here...."</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Number Four has been <i>ah-mazing</i>. Honestly, I'd be lost without my oldest daughter. For someone who says she doesn't like babies, and doesn't ever want any of her own, she's slept on the sofa every night since Little Bird was discharged. She claims it's because it's too hot in her bedroom, and she can't get comfortable. But actually, she's been guarding the baby, making certain that a lamp remains lit, and that no one messes with the emergency bedside bag. The twins can't walk past her without stopping to give her kisses. They also pity her when big, bad Mommy and Daddy poke at her trach and change the ties, and both have asked us to teach them her care routine. But Number One is a bit stand-off'ish. After Little Bird underwent the enterectomy, he couldn't stand to see her. Looking at her scar made him physically sick, near the point of fainting. It hurts him to see his baby sister attached to anything. Even though we consistently reassure him that she's fine, and not in any pain, he doesn't fully believe us. And according to society, sixteen year old boys are tough. They're not supposed to cry, and they're not supposed to feel anxious about having cases of medical supplies strewn around the house. They're not supposed to worry about getting attached and something terrible happening. But he does. We've decided that we aren't going to push him. If all he can handle right now is peeking into her crib while she's asleep, then so be it. He'll know when he's ready, and when he is, he'll be her biggest protector-just as he's been to his two other sisters.</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Chillin' Wit Da Sistor</span>...</td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">...And Da Brudder!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Daddy does my hairs..."</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Blocking The Paparazzi</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few days ago, we accomplished our first outpatient appointment. Had it not been for the grace and expertise of Crystal, we wouldn't have made it thru the day in one piece. She accompanied us back to the hospital to see Little Bird's gastroenterologist. Twenty five minutes. That's how long it takes to situate everything properly in the van, make sure we forgot nothing, and finally stick the keys in the ignition. The stroller. An oxygen cylinder. The pulsox. The Joey pump. The portable suction machine. The emergency go-bag. The diaper bag. And any necessary paperwork. She is such a diva! We pulled out, and made it about five feet down the street when Crystal noticed that the baby's GT line wasn't flowing. We pulled over and began to take things apart. After five minutes of this, and in the sweltering heat, we decided to disconnect Little Bird's mic-key extension for the time being, and deal with it all when we reached the doctor's office. After all, this was a visit with her GI specialist. Yes, I recognize the irony, and yes, I'm ignoring it.We still have a pulmonology visit to get thru.</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Following In Number Five's Footsteps</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My Day Is A-OK!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We arrived at the medical center ten minutes early, or so I thought. But there is no such thing as early when you forget that if it took twenty five minutes to pack up, it's going to take another twenty five to unload. And so we ended up hauling ass to the doc's office like three and a half crazy people with too much baggage, with me texting the PICU along the way. <i>"Little Bird is in the building!!" </i></span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's All Fun & Games Until Somebody Passes Out In The Bumbo</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'll help you..."</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Love Is All Around You</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Even Her Curls Have Curls!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Crystal deserves a raise for her ability to get us bumped into a private room in ten words or less. Apparently, all you need to do is whip out a suction canister and threaten to use it in full view of a packed pediatric waiting room, and they'll give you the keys to the castle! We went in, got the baby undressed (and suctioned-yes, she really did need it), fixed our feeding pump problem, and had a quick briefing with the nurse before putting Little Bird on the scale. She did lose some weight-half a pound. Though, all things considered, she's still thriving without concern. She's been super active since we brought her home.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJ8LHdYD9jzG8LUn2wzja6RpctlJTo_n0n4LQ4Mg1SqAyCAwWCKtqqDfv-Jz7TZfdzyemvFbs2dC3OozTQL-W2NBiYNSLEiLgNxlZvF1AER22CIrLlTDul6W4Hb3JFba-ZY2XQupv9QY/s1600/DSCN2062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJ8LHdYD9jzG8LUn2wzja6RpctlJTo_n0n4LQ4Mg1SqAyCAwWCKtqqDfv-Jz7TZfdzyemvFbs2dC3OozTQL-W2NBiYNSLEiLgNxlZvF1AER22CIrLlTDul6W4Hb3JFba-ZY2XQupv9QY/s320/DSCN2062.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Why MFH Owns A Gun</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAZ_QD8O4npbn3xfPlr6-1ENoE9kQUbcw5oP7551ul9rDarIiKQ6vuPOa_xTGjOTH9-fY7CZ7_RCuF3nBaZ-bkGhqYDsgXwdWA4cV5730V1yRAijQK0EmGABM42VILa6UIdpXySgbYaU/s1600/DSCN2064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAZ_QD8O4npbn3xfPlr6-1ENoE9kQUbcw5oP7551ul9rDarIiKQ6vuPOa_xTGjOTH9-fY7CZ7_RCuF3nBaZ-bkGhqYDsgXwdWA4cV5730V1yRAijQK0EmGABM42VILa6UIdpXySgbYaU/s320/DSCN2064.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Best Friends Forever</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Aunt Angie (our outpatient social worker) met up with us while we waited for the good doctor to come in, and so we were able to fill her in on the details of the last two weeks. She was elated to see how well the little Lady has been doing, but none moreso than Little Bird's GI. When he walked into the room, he nearly fell over! He said he was shocked to hear of her pending discharge a few weeks ago, especially after he pulled up her chart on the computer. But to see her in person is an entirely different reaction, by everyone. Doc was expecting her to be jaundiced, and have some tummy distention from liver swelling that is typical of patients who've been dependent upon TPN. But instead, he saw a pink midget, smiling at him and flashing her mouthful of teeth! Since coming home, we'd been instructed to increase her feedings by a milliliter an hour. However, when we tried this, Little Bird wasn't able to tolerate it. So we bumped her back down to where she was. But during this check-up, Doc K gave us the green light to go ahead and give it another shot. And so far, it's been a success. Slow and steady, but all progress is good progress.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNjPVAYlS2WJpu9hFr7Pe-AKy2InC1jIxaGRGeCBX0aAo5g0sYV1VjnQWGOmCdXxO2vbpGqSPXrYumcsmWo2nEmtbLUiU3L_S9w4glOlEmtbvjpHcVZhyFtr55lSXIDeiW4y0YHg1dNs/s1600/DSCN2065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNjPVAYlS2WJpu9hFr7Pe-AKy2InC1jIxaGRGeCBX0aAo5g0sYV1VjnQWGOmCdXxO2vbpGqSPXrYumcsmWo2nEmtbLUiU3L_S9w4glOlEmtbvjpHcVZhyFtr55lSXIDeiW4y0YHg1dNs/s320/DSCN2065.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Ta-dah!!!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7DEyCY5JZZhZ5QvkUx_UkXkZ1hNVzjMjTmHrpsM9s9WHzq5Q9k9HFtO2D4chRg_6Y7EMR6GMXAk1hyJA4JKCSV8S5VEUHso52eR6t4QicpEVc5APfji9UwbBuCT-ncikwNKBayTUHic/s1600/DSCN2070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7DEyCY5JZZhZ5QvkUx_UkXkZ1hNVzjMjTmHrpsM9s9WHzq5Q9k9HFtO2D4chRg_6Y7EMR6GMXAk1hyJA4JKCSV8S5VEUHso52eR6t4QicpEVc5APfji9UwbBuCT-ncikwNKBayTUHic/s320/DSCN2070.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Hmmm! Now, if I could just get up those steps..."</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimpokHFX_a7f-m0PzMfFFA8OcuL42EkgJWNYQZp_xVJ7NVjnNLaRcfq40VPj6iQ6pAhYAiFLyukMX8yP3r6g-hRzh5edu1Oea5mmH-EETuC5_ts-SctSimEB5i4WmocFazACtBGlIN2nM/s1600/DSCN2072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimpokHFX_a7f-m0PzMfFFA8OcuL42EkgJWNYQZp_xVJ7NVjnNLaRcfq40VPj6iQ6pAhYAiFLyukMX8yP3r6g-hRzh5edu1Oea5mmH-EETuC5_ts-SctSimEB5i4WmocFazACtBGlIN2nM/s320/DSCN2072.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One Puts The Mittens On The Hands...</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As were were finishing up and dressing her, Angie put a call into Marie, who literally appeared in front of us out of thin air! <i>"You'll never get away with being anywhere in this hospital without someone spotting you, and putting the word out that you're here!"</i>, they said. And they were so right. After catching up with our vent program coordinator, we made our way toward the PICU for a visit. Claire spotted us walking down the corridor, and Little Bird gave her the best. Smile. Ever! You'll have to forgive me, because I was so preoccupied with telling her (and subsequently, everyone else) about the events of the last fourteen days that I totally forgot about the camera. So, PICU family, if you're reading this....<i>please send pics!!!</i></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NU3Y3ESiqOnqAq_WxZX20_2KwYWsIpCfQP1wq6vVWjgDEWvC5KVM6kU2hk5VSimkmjvS9cGV3R69sm_DV8PCOG_4RQqh9GV6DHI67KsmdAnQbiaWP4k_05XJMONX3JEYonkUUuv51PY/s1600/DSCN2074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NU3Y3ESiqOnqAq_WxZX20_2KwYWsIpCfQP1wq6vVWjgDEWvC5KVM6kU2hk5VSimkmjvS9cGV3R69sm_DV8PCOG_4RQqh9GV6DHI67KsmdAnQbiaWP4k_05XJMONX3JEYonkUUuv51PY/s320/DSCN2074.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A New Tooth Everyday!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVPOFrt5SCcLHJwRlngEhTX7nGf6rWeB9TFFT75QFu3kE_WDnKd7yhdUPjoXopxPSsjhA3b9r-CwH1X0bkiCP1JpRI-0HkioMqxBc9giUhzw79Oso4Hlh-xb0FqR2ftxiTWsjTrfNgHs/s1600/DSCN2076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVPOFrt5SCcLHJwRlngEhTX7nGf6rWeB9TFFT75QFu3kE_WDnKd7yhdUPjoXopxPSsjhA3b9r-CwH1X0bkiCP1JpRI-0HkioMqxBc9giUhzw79Oso4Hlh-xb0FqR2ftxiTWsjTrfNgHs/s320/DSCN2076.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I need some nite-nites, Momma!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Claire was also in the midst of chasing patients, and so she agreed to meet us back in the unit. Once we got there, Tara stole our baby. But, try as she might to distract us by passing Little Bird around for cuddles and kisses, I still had the feed bag. <i>Ha! Ha!</i> But seriously, it was such a wonderful visit. We missed our people so much that even as everyone's pagers were beeping, alerting them to incoming patients, it was difficult to break away. And it was very surreal, standing outside of one of the rooms our daughter once occupied. The very room in which we almost lost her. For us, it will always be the place where our miracle happened. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMMSu34Xz9VmMwGs0w8_8WFMswMhq_onZ4yhdhx3R1FWPGVsn8q4lAlpbri6vzV9ZvbKAdFFt9W9Uo6_RticdCuhJs5b6R_ps3ga_PC3QrGs9SNbKhoZ3_UXHtC4V0tFN-otFeWPVZPVI/s1600/DSCN1780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMMSu34Xz9VmMwGs0w8_8WFMswMhq_onZ4yhdhx3R1FWPGVsn8q4lAlpbri6vzV9ZvbKAdFFt9W9Uo6_RticdCuhJs5b6R_ps3ga_PC3QrGs9SNbKhoZ3_UXHtC4V0tFN-otFeWPVZPVI/s320/DSCN1780.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">What Does She Think This Is? The Holiday Inn?!?!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAZxS5muHsQpIMvNeOWK_noRXh-Gtq74uTF3wG7q2969VjIpM2ctu9_mTkHtfKjvbsKWrT4uu3iipaTvBFrI2wVoodPwWQlWcO9eaz6ZnjFdr26TJ0lgl-T7HuqNYjnOl5wuU6UVSyRI/s1600/DSCN1818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAZxS5muHsQpIMvNeOWK_noRXh-Gtq74uTF3wG7q2969VjIpM2ctu9_mTkHtfKjvbsKWrT4uu3iipaTvBFrI2wVoodPwWQlWcO9eaz6ZnjFdr26TJ0lgl-T7HuqNYjnOl5wuU6UVSyRI/s320/DSCN1818.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Come get some Birdy luvins, Sissy!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQs6LnQkt2zpF27WxatV8FSg3LSUq9RlDG0Bq-9SUJPMocE_n9hfUvMz_CKIjBghQPDZKLwM4pZi4_Zwl60ChDR9yGev9MAsEhgOV2TRR6fCQXm9Zy-iJesHnHnw4fBqdjTPcCRGRZik/s1600/DSCN1862.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQs6LnQkt2zpF27WxatV8FSg3LSUq9RlDG0Bq-9SUJPMocE_n9hfUvMz_CKIjBghQPDZKLwM4pZi4_Zwl60ChDR9yGev9MAsEhgOV2TRR6fCQXm9Zy-iJesHnHnw4fBqdjTPcCRGRZik/s320/DSCN1862.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Put. The camera. Away!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Finally, it was time to head home. Little Bird was exhausted, as were we, though we were hoping she'd sleep during the drive back. But she snoozed no longer than a catnap, or in other words, seventy percent of the car ride. We debated putting off her scheduled trach change because it had been such a long day for her. But honestly, trach care is worse. It's much easier to secure ties and a sponge ahead of time than it is to do it around the neck of a squirming and pissed off infant who now likes to bolt upright the minute we pull the Velcro. And she's catching on to us. We normally do all trach procedures right after her bath. Up until last night, she thought bath time was the bomb. But she's now wise to our smiles and sweet voices, and won't even shoot us a quick smile when we're washing her up. Poor Number Three got stuck being the odd man out. He was the only big brother available to help us keep Little Bird from standing up. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3h5K0LBWTHG4mmnTk6D3D5zEgToBsXJO6uscZVJpCUdKbQ1nMIePFTt6c3Kv6l7LC4zhPomfYU_m5nkj3JtY19QhEb6jlfxCIEYRuxdhqpUjgBIj0H7wkgZsUCsXBcLy8-x8rWcRUrI/s1600/DSC07019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3h5K0LBWTHG4mmnTk6D3D5zEgToBsXJO6uscZVJpCUdKbQ1nMIePFTt6c3Kv6l7LC4zhPomfYU_m5nkj3JtY19QhEb6jlfxCIEYRuxdhqpUjgBIj0H7wkgZsUCsXBcLy8-x8rWcRUrI/s320/DSC07019.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Little Bird & Her Cousin Heather</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvSaYTZ-VjFV7foTmOv-BPvmizydf3-j7hyvAl1xtMipe5bPhKpX33IO_bQ93q-ocQzz8s5RVFxEL7oGpeV_YO9-rW3JyAtD-SsgSbuxIilJH3I7OY3d3dTXSePHzNHpcv00cbh3kUmg/s1600/DSC07032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvSaYTZ-VjFV7foTmOv-BPvmizydf3-j7hyvAl1xtMipe5bPhKpX33IO_bQ93q-ocQzz8s5RVFxEL7oGpeV_YO9-rW3JyAtD-SsgSbuxIilJH3I7OY3d3dTXSePHzNHpcv00cbh3kUmg/s320/DSC07032.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Motley Crew If I've Ever Seen One!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQFCMUUXaO045aQZoM-_cR83sg5EpqsjH2kkhnH2Qb0mJPcB_3se0AVAXL5L0h_ftRvM3pJFwt0WS93QQiptXlm3NeqAN0o5aCfCufO1OdZzFRFnfAP1a0Nbd7TShKgGflH0m9SN84AA/s1600/DSC07034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQFCMUUXaO045aQZoM-_cR83sg5EpqsjH2kkhnH2Qb0mJPcB_3se0AVAXL5L0h_ftRvM3pJFwt0WS93QQiptXlm3NeqAN0o5aCfCufO1OdZzFRFnfAP1a0Nbd7TShKgGflH0m9SN84AA/s320/DSC07034.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Huggles From Cousin Lilly</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Oh, yes! Her standing up in the midst of any and all trach procedures has quickly become the new protocol around here. It all began last week. We usually wait until after her bath to do this because it wears her out, and so it's bath time, trach care, bedtime. I'd just finished lotioning and diapering her up at our makeshift station, i.e., the kitchen table. Little Bird is <i>extremely</i> sensitive about her trach, and when it comes to this, she tolerates no one. Not even us. MFH is stronger than me, and so it's his job to hold the trach in place while I take off the old ties and sponge, clean all around her neck, dry her off, and replace the dressings.She was sitting upright. The ties were wet. And I couldn't loosen them. I grabbed a pair of blunt-tip scissors, but when I grabbed the tie again, I pulled. Just enough for the trach to pop out. In that instant, MFH said so, in the sternest voice he could possibly use without making the baby cry anymore than she already was. And no sooner did he say it, did she bolt upright, onto her feet. We <i>weren't</i> holding her hands. It was <i>allll</i> her. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzwSblIFqQ7qNM3qWSauaRN22o2Ou-CiSX7Xl_mDd286v6IHbfIczk1m1VROgD_t49NebfjON44j5NrIkVHuPigHEPPJkyyshkITiSEbha2uju-BNTptDYuJ_zakjZKlnvHfed8xHjesw/s1600/DSC07042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzwSblIFqQ7qNM3qWSauaRN22o2Ou-CiSX7Xl_mDd286v6IHbfIczk1m1VROgD_t49NebfjON44j5NrIkVHuPigHEPPJkyyshkITiSEbha2uju-BNTptDYuJ_zakjZKlnvHfed8xHjesw/s320/DSC07042.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her Life-Sized Teddy Bear</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0s3k3XOXeb0FlwmFRxEIVKN2VzZQlnYYjUhp6bqtEELjg-Av4MV0NXdkOtFctqc6JPzNyhzZ7GZ98K1TFVQdqmP2zXz4KUWDmcKEdBmoR-W6vwPB04bd11kFAgreGzDHupRJz4q2JYI8/s1600/DSCI0333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0s3k3XOXeb0FlwmFRxEIVKN2VzZQlnYYjUhp6bqtEELjg-Av4MV0NXdkOtFctqc6JPzNyhzZ7GZ98K1TFVQdqmP2zXz4KUWDmcKEdBmoR-W6vwPB04bd11kFAgreGzDHupRJz4q2JYI8/s320/DSCI0333.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Which camera are we supposed to be looking at again?"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJ9wOyj82HCX0PVXhzUU3UDABaMXOJBePgzWQP8OPo3Jaut4givI3TQV_3H4h74PtjdanyHNZV8V6tyGTrpR92ViCYf1ES12QKAth-MKF94W8T0e8S9r50ZDRUn0uEign9tvUiBJKyRY/s1600/DSCI0348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJ9wOyj82HCX0PVXhzUU3UDABaMXOJBePgzWQP8OPo3Jaut4givI3TQV_3H4h74PtjdanyHNZV8V6tyGTrpR92ViCYf1ES12QKAth-MKF94W8T0e8S9r50ZDRUn0uEign9tvUiBJKyRY/s320/DSCI0348.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Catching Up With Cousin Kryt!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In a situation like that, you really don't have time to question anything. Our first thought was to get that trach back in and secure it. So I grabbed her chin, and pulled her head back toward the ceiling in order for MFH to observe the stoma. And he was able to successfully place it back in without a hitch. I got her dressed as quickly as my shaking hands would let me, and we ran her back in to her crib, where we immediately placed the pulsox probe. Turned out that her sats were fine, and thankfully it was more detrimental to us than it was to her. Chalk up another learning experience for Team Little Bird!</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEnlWdZ_YL7AvsUJCh6IY4XOm9-KtZjxxunQ36B_CRWBpnZm6tB_OydLgqtSrXDDry7c1aIqkt56DBw8ksC2tgfIPE_XYEarwBBGfx2jBYicRUNjX346xweGEq8RxEtJHSanTGSTGx3E/s1600/IMG-20120714-00004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEnlWdZ_YL7AvsUJCh6IY4XOm9-KtZjxxunQ36B_CRWBpnZm6tB_OydLgqtSrXDDry7c1aIqkt56DBw8ksC2tgfIPE_XYEarwBBGfx2jBYicRUNjX346xweGEq8RxEtJHSanTGSTGx3E/s320/IMG-20120714-00004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Shhh! My stories is on!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhY7Wgt5BFZIWMJVMxJiIKuPraIqf6jLfY-LrlBaPEuIyYbGbv6TxRTYyHYlhBq-h_jfmszu5vurzKHuKLoI8z1J90ei_3eiUD9h9OqgrYvndYBnqIEOlTqtZf1XIA3herOvnxUPQwOg/s1600/DSCN2112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhY7Wgt5BFZIWMJVMxJiIKuPraIqf6jLfY-LrlBaPEuIyYbGbv6TxRTYyHYlhBq-h_jfmszu5vurzKHuKLoI8z1J90ei_3eiUD9h9OqgrYvndYBnqIEOlTqtZf1XIA3herOvnxUPQwOg/s320/DSCN2112.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Suctioning On The Run!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEFndKDN-i6As_AdF5iualWOLb9eoHw3CaidcJblzUR4Ol8jdJmy6jivz5TMx-BGaQziEEtoPp9UF1ox9WeztoatXD8Y1d0mObex0DQdPkPLrnOPvm67XViiYymac5WPwCQl9Vyppg8s/s1600/DSCN2101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEFndKDN-i6As_AdF5iualWOLb9eoHw3CaidcJblzUR4Ol8jdJmy6jivz5TMx-BGaQziEEtoPp9UF1ox9WeztoatXD8Y1d0mObex0DQdPkPLrnOPvm67XViiYymac5WPwCQl9Vyppg8s/s320/DSCN2101.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Deep Thoughts (Guess What She Was Doing!)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNYmmwmNeKdkqxNOw-F2-3TqwnbkZ0B5iQl3imUQDmK0lmuuwkbKu0aWgXNSqUmwX2iILbrQ5kowyVAgitZ_Pb033qS4N1fhDe6SLuAGlJd9x-PHB6DtQS_pX7ZT9POzl5f6YOKe3qLU/s1600/DSCN2094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNYmmwmNeKdkqxNOw-F2-3TqwnbkZ0B5iQl3imUQDmK0lmuuwkbKu0aWgXNSqUmwX2iILbrQ5kowyVAgitZ_Pb033qS4N1fhDe6SLuAGlJd9x-PHB6DtQS_pX7ZT9POzl5f6YOKe3qLU/s320/DSCN2094.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Mom, can we keep this bay-bee, too?!?!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGLMSha3eIC6cGOoMGZrlxCCXXxopJv8Oy_coVYac_7Gp5-azM9RJpfSPFBUhVRb0rJ20ywt6Fi3RRYTuQTTtmugt_O_Dg3nVhBqROQgInU0tcvsOc8IzGY9W8Ke8cp6hTMDaRykf-1Q/s1600/IMG-20120716-00010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGLMSha3eIC6cGOoMGZrlxCCXXxopJv8Oy_coVYac_7Gp5-azM9RJpfSPFBUhVRb0rJ20ywt6Fi3RRYTuQTTtmugt_O_Dg3nVhBqROQgInU0tcvsOc8IzGY9W8Ke8cp6hTMDaRykf-1Q/s320/IMG-20120716-00010.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sooooo Big!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And Little Bird isn't only famous at the PICU. She's also kind of a big deal in the neighborhood.<i> People have been giving up their parking spaces for her. </i>The day we brought her home, one of our neighbors gave up his driveway to us on an as needed basis, to ensure that Jessie, our night shift nurse, has a place to park. Had it not been for Jessie, you'd have nothing to read right now, because MFH and I would both be in comas due to sleep deprivation. So, give a shout out to this Lady, and thank her for rescuing us from sheer and utter exhaustion. And, from our four year old and her incessant questions of <i>whhhhhyy? </i>She saved us, countless times, and by way of remembering the little things that make the biggest differences. Like adult-sized wipes during some of the nastiest diaper blow outs you can imagine. Or, those tiny, yet amazing rubber stoppers that fit onto the tops of Little Bird's liquid medication bottles-lest we curse in frustration as we try to dose without them. Or even gloves when we suddenly run short and can't get our supplier to deliver them quickly enough. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_yUlHf8Iy8VLHtfJCrOvRom1Vanqwe08vgiamHRBKi_9nhrXQ2jvd9Jy3nYvqs-QOuFYA3Aa0bGuFZjC2F-joMJvx3r-GQjudHwx11g8yuc7-AfA2fbPmGf4Ez8l1lSIxanpe-752bI/s1600/IMG-20120719-00023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_yUlHf8Iy8VLHtfJCrOvRom1Vanqwe08vgiamHRBKi_9nhrXQ2jvd9Jy3nYvqs-QOuFYA3Aa0bGuFZjC2F-joMJvx3r-GQjudHwx11g8yuc7-AfA2fbPmGf4Ez8l1lSIxanpe-752bI/s320/IMG-20120719-00023.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bonding With Her BFF!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6z9w6Sw39XoxHOVPTTXOabA1HKWaQTdyTehG2l0JUD67vFxmDmf__zrYGqj990E8DgUYSP1CXIWuaYwGgTBKOMDWn4E-ZITFOfBYkBO8DGD1-WyQfZ0thpqhcAx4bfz0gmrSFmfSmL08/s1600/DSCN2109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6z9w6Sw39XoxHOVPTTXOabA1HKWaQTdyTehG2l0JUD67vFxmDmf__zrYGqj990E8DgUYSP1CXIWuaYwGgTBKOMDWn4E-ZITFOfBYkBO8DGD1-WyQfZ0thpqhcAx4bfz0gmrSFmfSmL08/s320/DSCN2109.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">You Had To Be There!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPMx3sKOeOrZKQmebc3JK77u2w13-TU3p4Gqz3ywqV9QQWuUJuzQGZlqLMZ4Iv68BBKMk3v7H0K1CEk62R7KaJptg2mSqs7arvdgu1olZirUlO5dOyKMSvX_3QSY63VDyPURW9BlwRcmA/s1600/DSCN2090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPMx3sKOeOrZKQmebc3JK77u2w13-TU3p4Gqz3ywqV9QQWuUJuzQGZlqLMZ4Iv68BBKMk3v7H0K1CEk62R7KaJptg2mSqs7arvdgu1olZirUlO5dOyKMSvX_3QSY63VDyPURW9BlwRcmA/s320/DSCN2090.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Nice toes, Girl-fran!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWy5hQL0eH4I18zKBuSuadElt5D6CCOF6U1NjloAv5Rhzn5a2yKbN0IIOsRimDjqmEJpyFktlNOuQX7bEk-v56o-E3MCgF0FrU8w2VloJx0RDGzNcTMpfZAYjVk6VYd7wNQ28JM-OBHm0/s1600/DSCN2083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWy5hQL0eH4I18zKBuSuadElt5D6CCOF6U1NjloAv5Rhzn5a2yKbN0IIOsRimDjqmEJpyFktlNOuQX7bEk-v56o-E3MCgF0FrU8w2VloJx0RDGzNcTMpfZAYjVk6VYd7wNQ28JM-OBHm0/s320/DSCN2083.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Larry, Mo, and Curly!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhco1sbig1BtcC07FKEY1t-YgJtWgB47u-A6eeznS0WEuZTJ3p0-vVhvpSnfBFZhdpp76KOBmiaAF56aXN6cbrhfRnFOjSogoBSsi3B2cmF95jkLOR7QWKjI3MtBLRmW_oCThFqhmbxBhg/s1600/DSCN2137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhco1sbig1BtcC07FKEY1t-YgJtWgB47u-A6eeznS0WEuZTJ3p0-vVhvpSnfBFZhdpp76KOBmiaAF56aXN6cbrhfRnFOjSogoBSsi3B2cmF95jkLOR7QWKjI3MtBLRmW_oCThFqhmbxBhg/s320/DSCN2137.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">She Didn't Even Make It To Her Crib!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5-jI2SzpyGTz6jGbgj8M7jIpNVFT7mXl3Ns0CIUH1J_PRtVF-IQfzjuh3lv09d9O57M2WHPCe95fKijNVEqYTlb5cKaeocWqD6MUZ29qcf2-eLuk-WMLsjqCicPTt9Yl44ASwCJJS90/s1600/IMG-20120719-00031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5-jI2SzpyGTz6jGbgj8M7jIpNVFT7mXl3Ns0CIUH1J_PRtVF-IQfzjuh3lv09d9O57M2WHPCe95fKijNVEqYTlb5cKaeocWqD6MUZ29qcf2-eLuk-WMLsjqCicPTt9Yl44ASwCJJS90/s320/IMG-20120719-00031.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've Got The Golden Ticket!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Little Bird was also recently evaluated for Early Intervention. This is a program aimed at catching kids in need up on any aspects in their development that they may be lacking in. Because she was so premature, her risk of being or even falling behind is greatly increased. Two intake counselors met with us here at home, and we discussed the baby's development with them at great length. In order to qualify for these services, she'd have to score around that of a nine month old in any one area, be it cognitive, fine motor skills, speech, etc. Believe it or not, it was the whole speech thing that earned her a spot in the program. Though, she will need help in other areas, too. But nowhere near as much as we assumed she might. She's continuing to catch up in leaps and bounds, and amaze us everyday as she shows off new skills she learns. Tonight, she opened and closed her fist, mimicking us as we showed her "Bye-bye!"I know it doesn't sound like much, but the last two plus weeks have meant everything to our family. I don't remember a time in my life when I was ever this happy before. If we hit the Powerball tomorrow, it would not compare. Because we already won the life lottery. And there is nothing else in this world like it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I don't know when I'll be able to blog regularly again, and I certainly don't think I'll ever create another post as large as this one. Spare time is really hit or miss these days (I've given up hours of sleep tonight in order to finish this). But I will do my best to try and update as much as I can, even if it means smaller entries with a lot more grammatical errors, or simply just pictures. This much joy must be shared. I wish you all could experience what our family is feeling these days. Like driving down the road during a rainstorm, with the windows opened and the radio playing your favorite song. Warm socks, straight from the dryer. Your most favorite food when you're ravenously hungry. Or that absolute comfort when your alarm goes off first thing in the morning. Yeah, no. Not even <i>close</i>. Life is so good....</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i> </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i> </i></span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-15312972580542051452012-07-18T15:33:00.000-04:002012-07-18T15:33:02.265-04:00Where The Heart Is.....<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She was born on a Saturday, and we brought Little Bird home three hundred and fifty nine days later, on a Monday. For so long, I've been promising Number Five that when the moment arrived, she would be the very first person to hold her. After the events that transpired in March, not only did she not longer believe me, but we also no longer spoke of it again. Not until days beforehand. When I felt it was safe to say so out loud without making another empty promise to my other kids. As we put her to bed, the night before, I assured her. By the time she awoke the next morning, we'd be carrying her baby sister over the threshold. For <i>real</i>, real!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We drove the route that we now know by heart. MFH remained approximately three miles per hour above getting pulled over for going too slowly and not using the hazard signal. I'm fairly certain that I could have been the perfect test dummy for the pulsox, because I didn't exhale until we reached our street. Speaking of monitors, Little Bird's didn't alert at all during the hour and twenty minute ride. In fact, she slept as if she'd been in the car a thousand times before. Seriously. She didn't even need suctioning. We pulled up out front and popped the four ways on, and that's when the mother of all panic attacks struck.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I need to take a moment here, and express my gratitude for three very specific people on our in-home nursing team. No, really. For weeks, I was walking around on the ultimate my-kid-just-came-off-of-ventilator-and-TPN-pump-and-I-don't-need-no-stinkin'-home-nurses high. At one point, I seriously contemplated getting thru the door with the baby, and sending them all packing. I had absolutely no appreciation for exactly how humbling and terrifying it would be to carry Little Bird inside, look around, and realize that our PICU team is no longer with us. I can't even tell you how much these Ladies have helped throughout this first week. Had it not been for April, Jessie, and Crystal, I'd have gotten back into the van right quick, and made a beeline back to the hospital. Or, the local psych ward. </span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Minutes After We Arrived </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMLf__fS0A89bhyphenhyphenHOXOVnLOZND_K16gHY1VPNmR3jTasdlmBdusSqlRI-BZM4Vzce6VoZ39a1H8zPz1bFYwdXWG0Pgum3ueihBMXdp6IZT8iJv1bPqxsOXXNwVVbyyw-vpnS3qQmJEcI/s1600/DSC06994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMLf__fS0A89bhyphenhyphenHOXOVnLOZND_K16gHY1VPNmR3jTasdlmBdusSqlRI-BZM4Vzce6VoZ39a1H8zPz1bFYwdXWG0Pgum3ueihBMXdp6IZT8iJv1bPqxsOXXNwVVbyyw-vpnS3qQmJEcI/s320/DSC06994.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I tink I like it here!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">No sooner did we step into the foyer did we hear Number Five squeal with delight as she bum rushed us. <i>"My bay-bee is home! Oh! I is sooo happy!!!" </i>I held up my end of the pinky swear pact we made long ago, and unbuckled Little Bird from her car seat before handing her over to her sister's perfectly sterilized hands. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzn1I7Dx17LPZ0mhwf6NcKIBYhojk9KOgjFcgtMCGVu82nscVkr4BL_P8ngBbsKpQ4aoSCH4zESdusTVTtQ_SJWIVEjyVVjhdYM9-8KDSmqAkWRON0Macw8hs1SSBxk9O2qhex26KUbbg/s1600/DSCN1752.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzn1I7Dx17LPZ0mhwf6NcKIBYhojk9KOgjFcgtMCGVu82nscVkr4BL_P8ngBbsKpQ4aoSCH4zESdusTVTtQ_SJWIVEjyVVjhdYM9-8KDSmqAkWRON0Macw8hs1SSBxk9O2qhex26KUbbg/s320/DSCN1752.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"She's <i>my</i> baby! You go get your own baby now, Mommy!" </span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Three Divas! </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinr_qeEAWIo0JCTAt7ui3qoII6ZWaRjTy0-7z3OfHgVTu0XFx_STe-bQMrA6tNODRl4kEwCcxCbdLeFgSaS4FymJj4FBK6gSCwRZSm3nFHgwEEO63GrzJMiNBJ1KrqqWg7pEUmT7j37Ds/s1600/DSCN1759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinr_qeEAWIo0JCTAt7ui3qoII6ZWaRjTy0-7z3OfHgVTu0XFx_STe-bQMrA6tNODRl4kEwCcxCbdLeFgSaS4FymJj4FBK6gSCwRZSm3nFHgwEEO63GrzJMiNBJ1KrqqWg7pEUmT7j37Ds/s320/DSCN1759.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Raising The Roof Already!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Eventually, the girls allowed Grammy some cuddles while MFH and I ran around the house like two rabid squirrels. <i>Put these HME's back in to go-bag to replace what we used for the ride home. Don't forget to plug the portable suction in to charge. Why isn't this thermometer working? Where's the hand sanitizer? She's due for a med in ten minutes, get it ready! </i>By the time Kenny arrived with the majority of our equipment and supplies, even he was ordering us to sit down, shut up, and just enjoy the moment. But it wasn't until April literally grabbed my hand, got my attention, and said, "Take a deep breath and relax. She's fine! We got this!", until I finally relented and allowed everyone else to do their jobs.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It took another hour and a half until we felt situated and organized enough, knowing that everything of utmost importance was at least somewhat conquered. The Joey pump, set up and in the process of dispensing formula into Little Bird's belly. An accurately working thermometer. The oxygen condenser, plugged in and ready to go. The go-bag, replenished. The emergency, bedside bag in place. The regulator placed on a full cylinder. A fresh pitcher of formula, mixed. Her medication schedule and dosage sheet, reviewed and revised. <i>I </i>needed to be ready. For <i>anything</i>. And yet, throughout all of this organized chaos and moment of temporary insanity, Little Bird laughed! When she wasn't preoccupied with the ceiling fan above her crib, she was busy watching Mommy have an epic nervous breakdown, and finding it completely hysterical. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia61iXgxX-L5H_yNTpf1ryFpOSF5Vle19Oe4IKf6j8D_WMQhl50uzLpx3WITQoadMp_el9a7w-Nx2hJQW5Yf-3ls3PHWceXyoXhZfcJX8lVBaYWzaAsyRHuflVsPa6fmSUNGrpUdajbUs/s1600/DSCN1761.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia61iXgxX-L5H_yNTpf1ryFpOSF5Vle19Oe4IKf6j8D_WMQhl50uzLpx3WITQoadMp_el9a7w-Nx2hJQW5Yf-3ls3PHWceXyoXhZfcJX8lVBaYWzaAsyRHuflVsPa6fmSUNGrpUdajbUs/s320/DSCN1761.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Don't be nervous, Daddy. I will help you!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDzeus3PH9RHynbQhIbTvMQ46mtVPi6HsE50OWU0ILVClWXtMQnWZqnb8GpCHxEWi5V5RV02OSxTOCATLnnFDnFf9HYsZHvl3peBLgRdL3dMbmp-oKOY8a5kRRLObZZuFUj-OeQAwXP4/s1600/DSCN1769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDzeus3PH9RHynbQhIbTvMQ46mtVPi6HsE50OWU0ILVClWXtMQnWZqnb8GpCHxEWi5V5RV02OSxTOCATLnnFDnFf9HYsZHvl3peBLgRdL3dMbmp-oKOY8a5kRRLObZZuFUj-OeQAwXP4/s320/DSCN1769.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"If you put the camera down, I promise I is full of smiles!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">April stayed with us until seven o'clock that evening, when Jessie took over the night shift. And as per her typical routine, Little Bird slept, well...like a baby! Actually, so did MFH and I. I'd be hard pressed to recollect a memory of any rest as equally as peaceful in my entire life. The weight of the world made way for an abundance of relief and tranquility. And I took advantage of every minute of that, awaking twelve hours later, and revving to go. Nothing sets the mood for a fantastic day like coming downstairs and seeing your baby, right there. Smiling away at you, without a care in the world! Life is gooood....</span></span><br />
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<br />Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-47189732909858245422012-07-18T14:43:00.000-04:002012-07-18T14:43:31.454-04:00I'll Fly Away.....<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We didn't sleep a wink that Sunday night. Any of us. How could we? We all felt like a bunch of eight year old's on Christmas Eve. Aside from a minor stroke we took when Number Four's friend called that evening, you could've heard a pin drop in here. The seven of us, taking turns at the kitchen table, staring at each other. The sound of the clock ticking in the background. <i>She's coming home. Twelve more hours. Eight more hours. Four more hours.</i> I just about peed my pants by the time our nurse arrived the next morning.</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Last Minute Details</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXuIFIo8qpA5b7yqmzKN3CJS968XsZ6gylBP8LgUEgz6xLLyfnrD91y7VysAPDBcyHkStiRuWuvLho_92-iOoTzNZDXWHysrFnylJ1-iOrP-MnEzL5F5QSOM0GQ1IE966XSHraYR9bV0/s1600/DSCN1738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXuIFIo8qpA5b7yqmzKN3CJS968XsZ6gylBP8LgUEgz6xLLyfnrD91y7VysAPDBcyHkStiRuWuvLho_92-iOoTzNZDXWHysrFnylJ1-iOrP-MnEzL5F5QSOM0GQ1IE966XSHraYR9bV0/s320/DSCN1738.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her Last Nap In The PICU</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">April met us here, and we gave her the low down on our master plan for the day. We'd drive to the hospital, go directly to the PICU first, make a pit stop at the outpatient pharmacy, load up the van, dress the baby, sign some paperwork, say farewell, and <i>come home</i>. With Little Bird! But we never expected this 'so long' to sting as much as it did. </span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"See you soon, Claire!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She Took It Better Than We Did!</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ready To Fly!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We knew it would be difficult. We <i>knew</i> it would be. You don't spend seven months intertwined with people on a deeply personal level and simply walk away without a dry eye. That is an impossibility. We just wanted to make sure that our team knew that this was <i>not</i> goodbye. Not by any means. So we all whipped out our calenders, and compared outpatient appointments to shifts. And we promised that even on those lazy days in between, we will be back. Not because Doc S told us that if we didn't, he'd send the cops. Just <i>because</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It wasn't until Claire came in, only moments before we walked out of room number ten, did the emotion of the day begin to choke me. You see, Claire was the very first face we met when we arrived at the PICU on December 9th, 2011. It was she who said, <i>"I can't make you any promises, but we will certainly try our best to get your daughter off of the ventilator."</i> Everything ends where it begins. Little Bird is now breathing on her own, <i>unassisted</i>. Claire made good on her word. </span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Don't be nervous, Momma!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We made our way to those double doors with haste. Not because we necessarily wanted to rush the moment. But because if I didn't leave then, I'd still be there now, hugging everyone, and crying like a baby. We stepped off of that elevator, and walked the corridor for the final time. As we approached the hospital's exit, I could barely see clearly enough to grab the camera and record it. Little Bird. Leaving the hospital. After three hundred and fifty nine days inpatient. And just like that, she spread her wings, and she flew away...</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-19322278622330697522012-07-18T13:39:00.000-04:002012-07-18T13:39:22.053-04:00How Do You Make A Tracheostomy Dance?......<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">You put a little boogie in it!!! Before you press play, I have to warn you of a few things. First and foremost, while recording this, I failed to realize how <i>obnoxiously loud</i> I was speaking. I blame the giddiness that overcame me in the moment. What started out as a ho-hum, <i>hey-let's-stick-the-baby-in-her-walker-for-a-while</i> kind of afternoon turned into hilarity. MFH turned Sirius 80's on, on the television, and lo and behold, we discovered that Little Bird adores a good throwback. Mr. Roboto is one of her favorite songs. I should thank her for it being stuck in my head for the next several days, because now I can't even look at her without hearing it (and when you find yourself singing it later on this evening, y<i>ou're welcome!</i>). But it was so worth the awesomeness that is her when she dances. This has quickly become one of our favorite, daily activities. Enjoy!</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto....."</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-68050260050872517342012-07-17T20:38:00.000-04:002012-07-17T20:38:18.664-04:00Technical Difficulties....<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Bear with me, folks. I'm trying. I really, really am. But everytime I sit down in front of the computer, something beeps. Or somebody poops. Or the phone rings. Or somebody else decides to cover her favorite teddy bear in medical tape. I don't want to slap together generic updates for ya'll, and good things come to those who wait. So, thank you for being so patient with me these days. I promise, it'll be worth it!!!</span></span><br />
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<br />Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-45488494057328503822012-07-09T14:55:00.003-04:002012-07-09T14:55:58.223-04:00Love's Labor, Lost.........<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">These are, by far, the most difficult words I have ever written. One year later, I find that it still feels like it happened yesterday. I suppose that will never change. And so as per tradition, I am voluntarily choosing to describe what had happened on that day. That day, and those memories that I will now lock away, deep in my heart, where they belong. July 9th, 2011. The day when Little Bird was born.....</span></i><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I couldn't sleep. And even though the living room sofa allowed for me to remain available to the other five kids for several weeks, it didn't give many options for comfort. At three o'clock in the morning, I decided to relent to total bed confinement, and went there in search of rest. Achy. Tired. Nothing really out of the realm of pregnancy normal. Nothing to write home about. And certainly nothing to get my oh-so-sexy maternity briefs in a twist over. I eventually fell asleep to reruns of Breaking Bad, and with the idea of this is where I was about to spend the next fourteen weeks. Though, I was hopeful that the inevitable, hormonally driven narcoleptic stage would be kicking in any day, and I'd dream my way thru it. When I awoke hours later, I figured I was shit out of luck. I had no idea that we were out of time. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Yes, I understand that every life must end....</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Upon opening my eyes, my first thought was of the sensation of pain in my hips. I consider myself to be the biggest weenie in the world, but this wasn't enough to warrant anything more than whining. It felt like I'd been on my feet for hours and hours the day before. I flip-flopped from side to side a few times, thinking a change in position and the theft of MFH's pillows would make all the difference in the world. When it didn't, I opted to seek the forgiveness of the couch. Reasoning that at the very least, I'd have the distraction of the rest of the family. Bed rest sucks. But laying around on your ass all day is one thing. Being totally isolated from the rest of the world is something else entirely. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">....</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">As we sit alone, I know someday, we must go....</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">An hour later, I started to think that maybe I pulled a muscle. Or, perhaps she was laying on a nerve. She wasn't moving much, but then again, the placenta was anterior. Which meant even her strongest kicks still felt like flutters in the midst of what was then thought to be my twenty sixth week. I'd begun relying on a fetal doppler several times a day for reassurance. It was great piece of mind to have, considering that I was still bleeding, and everyday, from the subchorionic hemorrhage my doctor concluded the chaos to be caused by. But, everything was under control. At least this is what he said nine days earlier. He said that the change in color and consistency was nothing more than a lack of iron, and prescribed supplements to replenish what I was lacking. I was relieved. I'd started to think I was leaking amniotic fluid. But he was the one with the medical degree, and years and years of experience. He'd been my obstetrician for sixteen years, and had never steered me wrong before. I had no reason not to trust his word. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....Oh, I'm a lucky man, to count on both hands, the one's I love....</span></span></i></b> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I decided to change locations, once again. This time, reverting back to the living room sofa, as I'd left the doppler on the coffee table the night before. I needed to hear her heartbeat, and know that she was okay. The indentation left by my ass upon the couch cushions was still there. So I got comfortable, and spent a good while enveloped in the relief that was the sound of my daughter. Steadily <i>ca-thunk, ca-thunking</i> away in there. Though, I did notice that she wasn't very active. Still, not necessarily abnormal. After all, it was morning, and she was known to get giddy after sunset. Besides, I hadn't eaten anything as of yet, either. I was pretty sure that the sugar from a cup or two of decaf would make all the difference.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....Some folks just have one, yeah others, they've got none.....</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Pretty soon, I heard footsteps, and my youngest son entered the room. Neither of us are known to be awake anytime before noon on a mid-summer Saturday, and we kind of gave each other the <i>what-the-hell-are-you-doing-up-this-early </i>eyebrow. And even though I assumed as much, I asked him if he couldn't sleep either, and he concurred. I contemplated making him take pity on me by means of him brewing my pot of coffee, but decided to do it myself. The kitchen was only twenty feet or so away, anyway. Besides, Doc said I could return to light duty if I felt at ease enough. Actually, he'd given me permission to swim and bathe so long as the bleeding was controlled. In hindsight, I suppose I didn't fully trust his advice, because I came home from that prenatal appointment and slid back into the comfortable divot of the living room couch that it took my ass two months to create. It was summer break. I had plenty of help around the house and with our then three year old daughter for me to be able to stay put. We'd made it that far already. Why mess with a good thing? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....Stay with me....Let's just breathe.....</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Two minutes to make a pot of decaf wasn't going to stop the world, and so I did. When I sat up, I noticed that the charlie horses in my hips began to feel more like tugging. As if someone was pulling down on my joints from the inside. Still, it wasn't painful. Just uncomfortable. Sore. As if I'd slept in a funky position. I leaned from left to right for a few seconds on each side, hoping it would wake the baby up and get her to wiggle off of whatever nerve she was sleeping on. I set up the coffee pot and made my way back to the couch. I must have pissed her off, because she Chuck Norris'd me in the va-jay-jay like a champ, and I had to stop and grab the back of the recliner for support.<i> Not even here yet, and already kicking my ass</i>, I thought. Just as I was about to take another step, oooops! She did it again!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">.....Practiced are my sins, never gonna let me win.....</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Like I said, I'm a weenie. And I was feeling pretty whiny. So I sent Number Three to summon MFH. Not that I was anywhere near worried. But if I can't sleep, then neither could he. Misery loves company, and I figured it might be worth a shot to connive a little massage out of him. If I played my cards right, it was still early enough to guilt him into fetching breakfast from McDonald's. But I knew that wasn't happening after he bolted down the stairs like a bat out of hell and half asleep ten seconds later. I assured him that yes, I was fine, just feeling icky, and no, I didn't need to call the doctor and become the laughing stock of the local maternity ward. I'd been pregnant enough times to know better, and it simply did not feel enough to cause any unnecessary drama. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....Under everything, just another human being......</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So, while MFH logged onto the interwebs to kill the time that he would have much preferred to have spent sleeping, and admonished me for not telling him that the coffee was decaf instead of high octane, I played with the doppler again, and picked up her heart beat right away. One sixty five. Perfect, and always lovely to hear. I still wasn't feeling much in the way of movement from her, but hearing her set my mind at ease. MFH asked me if there was any changes regarding the bleeding, and actually there was. It seemed lighter. As in, not as dark. Nor was it as heavy. We both hoped that this was a sign that it was starting to subside. I remember telling him that if I could have gone a solid seven days without any, I would consider taking Doc up on his offer of no lifting, no stairs, but possibly sitting on the deck with my feet in the pool. As I said so, Number Five overheard me on her way downstairs, and immediately rejoiced at this prospect of splashing each other in the hot, July sun.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....I don't want to hurt, there's so much in this world to make me bleed.....</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Just as I was about to explain to her a concept of one week in terms that her three year old mind could relate to, another twinge. No big deal. I was sitting upright, and took it as a sign to stretch out. Again, MFH asked me if I thought we should take a ride and at least confirm my paranoia. But again, I declined. I've had back labor before. And front labor. I've had girl labor. And boy labor. I've even experienced standing-on-my-head, pregnant-with-twins labor. This wasn't it. Though, I did agree to timing when these pangs occurred. I knew what contractions felt like, and they felt nothing like that. If they proved to have a pattern, I'd call the Doc and interrupt his golf game. A little while later, I felt it again. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....Stay with me....You're all I see......</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I asked MFH for my laptop. Surely I could find at least a thousand websites that might explain it. And I did. According to, ironically enough, The March of Dimes, dehydration could wreak havoc on a pregnant woman's body. I read instructions that said to try drinking some water, and rest on my left side. Better blood flow to the baby, less ligament strain that way, and if it went away? Voila! They weren't lasting any longer than ten or fifteen seconds, and weren't coming in any type of regular intervals. Nineteen minutes, twelve minutes, twenty five minutes. Motion seemed to make it stop. Three tall glasses later, I fell asleep to the intro music of Ni Hao Kai-Lan. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....Did I say that I need you? Did I say that I want you?......</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I awoke a half hour later, to the show ending, and more crappy, crampy aches and pains. But they became suddenly and noticeably stronger. On a scale from one to ten, they were an <i>okay-let's-go-see-what's-going-on</i>. I asked for the phone so I could put out the bat signal to my niece. As MFH handed it to me, I tried to sit up but could not. Very unmistakeable <i>pressure</i>. Kryt lives two blocks away, which so happened to be a blessing in that moment. With one eye opened and barely conscious, she answered the phone call from me telling her that I needed her immediately. <i>"Something's wrong. I think I might be going into labor."</i> She walked thru our front door literally two minutes and seventeen seconds later. In the instant that I made eye contact with her, everything went from driving to the hospital ourselves to me begging, in bated breaths, for someone to call 911. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool, you see. No one knows this more than me...As I come clean....</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The kids were all awake, and downstairs by then. MFH relayed info from the dispatcher as Kryt began shuffling our other five out of the room. She directed the boys to take the girls out of eye and ear shot right away. The operator wanted to know how far the contractions were, but even in that moment, I wasn't feeling labor pains. It wasn't contractions. Pressure, and lots of it. Unlike anything I'd ever felt before. They directed me to do nothing to try to stop it. By the time the paramedics walked thru the door a few short minutes later, I felt what was later confirmed to be the remainder of my amniotic fluid rupture. And suddenly, the world began to fall away around me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....I wonder everyday, as I look upon your face......</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> The medics asked me if I could stand, but I refused. To do so would have meant her surely coming out. I don't remember very much from that moment on. Bits and pieces. MFH moved the coffee table away from the couch, but when he attempted to help me with my slippers, I remember thinking, "<i>Please don't touch me! Don't make me move!</i>" But they had to assess me, and immediately discovered that her legs were already present. As the four men who answered our call were carrying me by hand, out the door, and to the awaiting rig at the curb, I could do nothing more than apologize. Over and over again. <i>I'm so sorry</i>. How could I have been so naive? How did I not <i>know</i>? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....Everything you gave, and nothing you would take......</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They placed me on the litter and wasted no time. Clothing was cut, leads were placed, and someone told me to go ahead and push. My brain heard this, and understood it, but it refused to comply with my body. Even as they were telling me that her arm and head were lodged, I just couldn't do it. I knew in my heart that it was too soon. Moments later, I needn't have to. My body essentially took over. And suddenly, silence. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....Stay with me.....You're all I see........</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">There was no sound. It was as if somebody pressed a world-wide mute button. Nobody said a word. She did not cry, yet I couldn't stop. As the medics fervently worked on her, willing her to live, I refused to look. I kept my head turned away from her direction. For the six weeks prior to her birth, and from the day we learned that we were expecting our third daughter, I'd held onto a mental image of her in my head. Blue eyes, brown hair. The brightest smile that could light up the darkest room. I thought she was gone. And I did not want to remember her in any other way. Not broken. Not bruised.<i> Not</i> struggling. <i>Not</i> hurting. <i>Not</i> like that. I couldn't bring myself to look at what I'd done to her. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">...Did I say that I need you? Did I say that I want you? Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool, you see....</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Someone asked if we were going to the closest helipad. Somebody else replied that we were not, and gave instructions to drive directly to the hospital. We knew what that meant, yet we were powerless to say or do anything about it. It was out of our hands, and far beyond our control. And then, all of a sudden. The most <i>precious</i> sound, coming from the tiniest force of life to my right. All of a sudden, one of our Guardian Angels very directly commanded the driver to get to the chopper. All of a sudden, there she was. A miracle, in the flesh, and right in front of me. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">....No one knows this more than me, as I come clean.....</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Everything beyond that point was and always will be too emotional to speak of with anyone else besides those of us who've lived it. I honestly can't go any further into it. But I can tell you that the nine minutes that it took to get her to a Level IV NICU felt like an eternity. So many prayers were begged of God in such a short amount of time. And so many more were said every single hour since. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">......Everything you gave.......</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It took a very long time for me to write this entry. Everytime I tried to, I would get to a certain point, and press delete. Little Bird's birth is something I've only ever been able to speak to MFH about, and even then it took several days afterward for us to come anywhere near the topic without breaking down. For all intents and purposes, it was, quite frankly, the single worst day of either one of our lives. Even now. Today. As she officially becomes a year old. So much of it hurts so badly to even relive in words. And there are still so many unanswered questions. Questions, beyond what her actual time of birth truly was. Because we will never know. In the midst of the struggle for her life, certain things became lost in translation, and that was one of them. None of us were concerned with marking the minute in that particular moment. Questions, like how far along into that pregnancy was she <i>actually</i>? One of the first to be asked, and repeatedly during her first ten days of life, was in regards to how my due date date was determined. Because a twenty six weeker's right eye isn't typically still fused shut. Questions like why? Why Little Bird? I'd just seen my obstetrician nine days earlier. <i>Why</i>? Why did I not see the signs sooner? Why didn't I fight harder for my daughter? The psychotherapist that treated me the next morning told me that hindsight is twenty-twenty. He said to stop searching for answers, because what's done is done, and we can only move forward. But I will spend the rest of my life carrying this weight in my heart. I know I will. Even if one day, she could ever find it within herself to forgive me, I <i>never</i> will. It was my job. My duty. My <i>responsibility</i> to protect her, and to carry her safely into this world. My failure to do that will always be my biggest regret. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">........Nothing you would take.......</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The last twelve months have been wrought with so much raw emotion. They call it a roller coaster, but it felt more like bungee jumping. Even so, they were spent with her, and there is no denying that even the darkest days were blessed because of her presence. The last four months have also had their up's and down's, but again, she is here, and she is so loved. Much of our lives now revolve around her continued recovery, but it is no longer doom and gloom. Days like her accomplishing coming off of the ventilator make the emotional wounds of her birth fade to almost nonexistence. Her specialists tell us that her turning six years old will be the milestone of all milestone. The point in which she will truly be declared out of the woods in terms of simply the severity of her prematurity. We know full well that her being home grants us no guarantees. But what we don't know, just as we didn't one year ago, is what the future holds. And in it's own way, that is a blessing, too. I'd rather not know. Because it makes me appreciate her, in each moment, that much more. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">.....Hold me 'til I die......</span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">There are days when I wake up and think, <i>wow</i>. I can't believe that this is my life. I must have done something right somewhere along the way to be a witness to this miracle. Late last night, I stood next to her crib, and watched her sleep. And for a split second, I thought, <i>"It was all a bad dream. It didn't really happen. She's right here, and she's safe and sound."</i> And then, the pulse oximeter beeped. The reality that what happened to us on July 9th, 2011, is painfully true. But today, one year later? We <i>celebrate</i>. Not a year's passing. Not a year older. Today, we will honor Little Bird's life. Her spirit. Her courage. Her strength. Her lessons. Her <i>everything</i>. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. The bees are buzzing. And my daughter is smiling so brilliantly that it literally makes me cry. A smile even more beautiful than I'd imagined it to be so long ago.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">......Meet you on the other side. </span></span></b></i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> ~Eddie Vedder </span></span></b></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span></b></i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-28956006958758473612012-07-08T16:38:00.000-04:002012-07-08T16:38:23.981-04:00What Comes Before Part B?.....<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Part-<i>ay!</i></span></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And last Sunday night was the perfect opportunity to celebrate! Although, our family was still in the midst of <i>Operation: I'll Fly Away</i> and unable to attend, the festivities were more for our extended family. Giving them those hours to love and cuddle Little Bird, uninterrupted by feelings of any parental obligation, was the best way we knew how to thank the PICU. And so they spent the evening, reveling in the presence of one another, and in the momentous occasion that Little Bird would be going home in time for her first birthday...</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="st" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><em>Chauffeured In Style!</em> </span></span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Somebody Waaaay Outdid Themselves!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The VIP List Arriving</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Guest Of Honor!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Let's Get This Part Started!!!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Gift Wrap Is Where It's At</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Quick! Someone get a sharpie and some butt paste!!!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I call the piece with the candle!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nom! Nom! Nom!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Happy Birthday Baby!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Because how d<i>o</i> you say thank you to someone who not only saved your daughter's life, and brought her back from the brink, but also rescued your entire family? Plenty of times in which we were drowning in something so profound that we were at a loss to communicate it with the rest of the world. Yet, <i>they knew</i>. As if they'd known us our entire lives. We needn't ever have to explain. They were just there, like they'd been from day one. So much of those two hundred and six days spent among the most incredible souls on this Earth, I will never forget.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">MFH and I have both had a lot of people approach us with words of how strong they assume we are, and how lucky Little Bird is to have us. But that is not true. We are not the reason why she is here today. We can not take credit for how <i>happy </i>she is today. Our strength was borrowed from the reserves of the friends we've made along the way. They say that hope lives in Philadelphia, but I know where love lives. Miracles happen in Danville, Pennsylvania. I've witnessed it myself. And if you've been keeping up with this blog, then so have you. Our family has been in and out of three different major medical facilities within the last year. Only one of them have ever gotten to the heart of the matter. Only one of them have ever gotten it <i>right</i>. Modern medicine is a wonderful thing. But it can only take a person so far. Love heals everything. The staff of the PICU of the Janet Weis Children's Hospital at Geisinger Medical Center loved our daughter thru her darkest hours. And we wouldn't be able to celebrate her life had it not been for them.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I know plenty of parents out there will think I'm crazy for saying this. I used to be one of them. One of the over-protectors. The<i> I-Don't-Want-My-Baby-Getting-Attached-To-Some-Stranger</i> type moms and dads, who fear this happening, especially when their child is hospitalized. But there is something in the eyes of the people in this PICU that sets my heart at ease. One of my greatest fears, now that we are home, is that Little Bird might forget these beautiful faces who've adored her for so long. In my best effort to make absolutely sure that she never does, I pull out their photographs and remind her. Because the best way I can ever thank them-the <i>only</i> way-is to keep every connection that we've made throughout the last two hundred and six days. There is no such thing as being too loved. If your baby is lucky enough to have so much of this, count your blessings. I know we do. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-4776449131538007932012-07-08T14:49:00.000-04:002012-07-08T14:49:51.169-04:00Our Finest Hour.....<br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">MFH and I roomed in at the PICU for the last time on our fifteenth wedding anniversary. It surely topped going to see a cheesy movie, or eating at some random restaurant that likely wouldn't even be in business ten years from now. But we will <i>always </i>remember spending that night with our daughter, and preparing to bring her home. When we arrived, we were both already clearly, visibly exhausted. The days before that one were filled with all-nighters as we disassembled our house, room by room, sterilized every crevice to within an inch of disintegration, and reorganized absolutely everything with Little Bird in mind. Marie warned us months ago. We were essentially bringing the PICU home with us. Turning our house into a hospital. And that's exactly what we did. Losing a few nights of sleep? <i>Pffft!</i> It would be sooooo worth it in the end. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We were also two big balls of nervous energy. We had to make certain that every little aspect of this transition was perfect for her. If we pulled this off, it would be our proudest accomplishment. Ever. Nothing we will ever do will top it. The best way to describe it would be to say that it was very much akin to planning a wedding, and taking care of last minute details. Or, awaiting the birth of a baby. In essence, our entire family was about to be reborn. This was our labor. Our biggest push. <i>Our family's finest hour.</i></span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">When The Road Gets Dark</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">And You Can No Longer See</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Just Let My Love Throw A Spark</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And Have A Little Faith In Me</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">When The Tears You Cry Are All You Can Believe</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9OegdQ8GD5cPFxyqmLDSAmqhenHv3G4tGqaIOqVnJb3dtSAVO27cFP3BIn_fDo2iTVyFpdd9OgAaUkdL7g55LaYeN7z8nU-2Q5RRLlvvv1P7xPzOrV8OEbLcwLGOWS-reI9koSec7b1o/s1600/DSCN1693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9OegdQ8GD5cPFxyqmLDSAmqhenHv3G4tGqaIOqVnJb3dtSAVO27cFP3BIn_fDo2iTVyFpdd9OgAaUkdL7g55LaYeN7z8nU-2Q5RRLlvvv1P7xPzOrV8OEbLcwLGOWS-reI9koSec7b1o/s320/DSCN1693.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Just Give These Lovin' Arms A Try, Baby</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy2t47PMYskqqHJlX6jPQq1inTgLa6uDV6ucEbU5UUEoRQadvTYE9CT-soacXpeBH1mPozkYPPQwbA08YTTiH-q2ckesLBsH0DwZ_nkthGsNDUbgkXJqGFNjeqA-aBQPs-gD4ztMZ23WM/s1600/DSCN1708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy2t47PMYskqqHJlX6jPQq1inTgLa6uDV6ucEbU5UUEoRQadvTYE9CT-soacXpeBH1mPozkYPPQwbA08YTTiH-q2ckesLBsH0DwZ_nkthGsNDUbgkXJqGFNjeqA-aBQPs-gD4ztMZ23WM/s320/DSCN1708.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">And Have A Little Faith In Me</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">That Friday night was so bittersweet. Little Bird sleeps like a tiny champion, and as she did, MFH and I took turns pacing. Listening to her breathing pattern. Suctioning her whenever she needed. Watching the monitors. Making coffee runs. And every so often, staring out the windows, at the view of the midnight mist across the parking lot below. A feeling like the change of seasons. That first warm day before Spring officially arrives. That moment when you can feel it coming, in your bones. Something so amazing was about to happen. We were only hours away....</span></span><br />
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<br />Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-90227756858385911332012-06-27T22:58:00.000-04:002012-06-27T22:58:13.681-04:00"I've Just Got To Put These Wings To Test...."<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbR_bRo-KVZ7f3OrbOmzhFZUXhKvmi0V3RHqH181y3i2gMhFAeM5Oa4rW5wCyX9bfwlz1yhb5bDUoWcGFg6OhsLl_-xdpIG0K6XlTTtl13cal6joMPexI_NBX1sC0HzbTu8qt6_AIHpvg/s1600/DSCN1576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbR_bRo-KVZ7f3OrbOmzhFZUXhKvmi0V3RHqH181y3i2gMhFAeM5Oa4rW5wCyX9bfwlz1yhb5bDUoWcGFg6OhsLl_-xdpIG0K6XlTTtl13cal6joMPexI_NBX1sC0HzbTu8qt6_AIHpvg/s320/DSCN1576.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Mmm! <i>Purple</i>! Purple looks <i>tasty</i>!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UHJB4_Wb_-QMkAvXkxFoZbSMnkCHE08_EEsdH6A-aeDxGAM1yjEdJQFyeB-DB-OKa87DDNM9tAXcQHw8vvAQ3k86gDOTBdcz-eDLa1wpz3Y9-nWBv3gypQcNXLiIOLFNstHoitTZ4rc/s1600/DSCN1581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UHJB4_Wb_-QMkAvXkxFoZbSMnkCHE08_EEsdH6A-aeDxGAM1yjEdJQFyeB-DB-OKa87DDNM9tAXcQHw8vvAQ3k86gDOTBdcz-eDLa1wpz3Y9-nWBv3gypQcNXLiIOLFNstHoitTZ4rc/s320/DSCN1581.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"What do you mean...<i>'childproof'</i>? </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbvBc7qIVS04TpwLzFMudkA9J5Iukfkh9HAr1RvRrckU3FoSNk1MyS4MLC6lJa9Y6NS3e6l1Ck7rlYQuBFZe7FyFdWTgckXy7Fst6UxKxR2EoNXatwJGbITwJMD8AiS-YddPBPOHgBgc/s1600/DSCN1583.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbvBc7qIVS04TpwLzFMudkA9J5Iukfkh9HAr1RvRrckU3FoSNk1MyS4MLC6lJa9Y6NS3e6l1Ck7rlYQuBFZe7FyFdWTgckXy7Fst6UxKxR2EoNXatwJGbITwJMD8AiS-YddPBPOHgBgc/s320/DSCN1583.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I is too coool for childproof!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiym2j7gxikrElS-iRMapaUto5i0tAtMZ2M4mh2m2vra00HA842wCWW5vV7T3auOYqWr1AmkIq-zBT4HnS67OYnGmQvv2tjKaNr_Hnax3fOEHM0oh4569yjnX7a7ESLNiGWMXtV1b3ic9s/s1600/DSCN1585.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiym2j7gxikrElS-iRMapaUto5i0tAtMZ2M4mh2m2vra00HA842wCWW5vV7T3auOYqWr1AmkIq-zBT4HnS67OYnGmQvv2tjKaNr_Hnax3fOEHM0oh4569yjnX7a7ESLNiGWMXtV1b3ic9s/s320/DSCN1585.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Shhhh! This is the best part!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8_ga42iNGAuJ2gdDglMOgT83mX181wergVda0XTQzJyJG19syM00uQa5ZzsSZSkc9stVNHclIvqlwdPONT5tMjdMKJkze4onWeyM9aLX7xELjH_ldPnm62BcL0celxD0Ud2VcSyMR0bE/s1600/DSCN1588.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8_ga42iNGAuJ2gdDglMOgT83mX181wergVda0XTQzJyJG19syM00uQa5ZzsSZSkc9stVNHclIvqlwdPONT5tMjdMKJkze4onWeyM9aLX7xELjH_ldPnm62BcL0celxD0Ud2VcSyMR0bE/s320/DSCN1588.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"You can't see me!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3dOmOuE4akZ8gnUNOD8lAx2u1AJMRCkR3Fo64YFdi5iHoO2bGU6euCnJ5uMegatpowe9kEIbgJv3VeniuWAeCEWcV9dN1zKT5-u_YRN0DXv74RSBV6Qw7flQXAuoVOV0Wyu1l08lmUf4/s1600/DSCN1592.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3dOmOuE4akZ8gnUNOD8lAx2u1AJMRCkR3Fo64YFdi5iHoO2bGU6euCnJ5uMegatpowe9kEIbgJv3VeniuWAeCEWcV9dN1zKT5-u_YRN0DXv74RSBV6Qw7flQXAuoVOV0Wyu1l08lmUf4/s320/DSCN1592.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I is practicing my invisibility cloak!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOW7D0zXXiU1s8T9nkkLiNxY8_rngSEYZKXbmpf2px7LZZuVlyXlcTfNwFDM7nUo2MO_YwsFs5GLRjtnALuO8HC4dCnETxZFv9YR6rq73s_rsS2GKzc34AfdmkQz2XZ58QoHwgXrgDpag/s1600/DSCN1594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOW7D0zXXiU1s8T9nkkLiNxY8_rngSEYZKXbmpf2px7LZZuVlyXlcTfNwFDM7nUo2MO_YwsFs5GLRjtnALuO8HC4dCnETxZFv9YR6rq73s_rsS2GKzc34AfdmkQz2XZ58QoHwgXrgDpag/s320/DSCN1594.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I tink it's broken!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ62SgGhJH-64C4AizH8_DnjKCVj6BNtGn2v7YtgkzK4In2Vh9hC6Cf0gv5Imxc3SvL6ZzOjbE9JHwjXSKWRsJo7BuJv5v5df8U0eM8o5NF6VXExdcwLKqdwq9k-FyWA8QePGYyWA9Sp0/s1600/DSCN1599.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ62SgGhJH-64C4AizH8_DnjKCVj6BNtGn2v7YtgkzK4In2Vh9hC6Cf0gv5Imxc3SvL6ZzOjbE9JHwjXSKWRsJo7BuJv5v5df8U0eM8o5NF6VXExdcwLKqdwq9k-FyWA8QePGYyWA9Sp0/s320/DSCN1599.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Da five-oh will <i>never</i> catch <i>meee</i>!!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Dey see me rollin'....dey hatin'..."</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"...but dey won't catch me ridin' dirty!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I wish I had more time to write a bigger update. Unfortunately (and fortunately!), we are now less than five days away from springing this little Lady from the PICU, and the clock is definitely ticking! The bad news is, I probably won't have a chance to sit down until she's over this threshold and settled in. But that's also the good news! In the meantime, I will say that she is continuing to thrive. Not only is the vent gone (like, <i>gone</i>-gone, as in it's no longer even in her room!), but so is the oxygen (that's still by her bedside, of course, as it will be for emergencies once we're home-though she no longer utilizes it). She sprouted four teeth, so I don't recommend putting a finger anywhere near her mouth anymore. Her feeds are also chugging along quite nicely, though she hasn't gained any weight in the past few days. But it's something her team is already all over like white on rice, and they've bumped her formula up to a higher calorie variety. As you can see by the pictures, she is quite the active girl, so I'm not going to get too concerned just yet. Well, not unless I was one of her siblings. Little Bird is going to run them into the ground in no time! </span></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>"They always said that you knew best but this Little Bird's fallen out of that nest now. I've got a feeling that I might have been blessed so I've just got to put these wings to test..."~Annie Lennox</b></span></span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b> </b></span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-87334631874928754052012-06-19T22:06:00.000-04:002012-06-19T22:06:14.319-04:00Covering All The Bases (Tentatvive Date Of Discharge: Round Two!)........<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This afternoon, we had a meeting with our discharge team. And this time 'round, we made sure to cover every base. The plan that we came up with it's kind of confusing, but that's a good thing. Because Little Bird has decided to take charge of everything, and once again, we follow her lead. </span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"</span><span style="font-size: small;">Mom! I <i>told</i> you! I <i>not </i>finished growing dem yet!"</span> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Since she's been making such tremendous and unexpected progress regarding the vent, her pulmonologist feels that she is ready for something more. As I type this, she is in the midst of a <i>twenty four</i> hour trial of breathing on her own. She's been sailing right thru her nap times, of up to three hours, unassisted while she sleeps, with no monitor violations. So they've decided to go ahead now, while she's still inpatient, and see how she does with this throughout the night. It doesn't necessarily mean that it will happen. But, it might. And since we're already waiting on our in-home nursing team to coordinate a schedule, why not give it a shot? </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-Tdzr4nsnNYtx2Q_deAmjWU2yTyAHpyRZwchOizoWVrU-ZvNMmriuNHC0_xnLd2eUnZxWVlILC420xByO_uFBpgENiQ7bRc4ovjNV-Afk1yV5hlv9MF7YUGNvdGskX78CO_ArdisfZs/s1600/DSCN1267.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-Tdzr4nsnNYtx2Q_deAmjWU2yTyAHpyRZwchOizoWVrU-ZvNMmriuNHC0_xnLd2eUnZxWVlILC420xByO_uFBpgENiQ7bRc4ovjNV-Afk1yV5hlv9MF7YUGNvdGskX78CO_ArdisfZs/s320/DSCN1267.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I isn't gunna smile for you!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ynzGisL-rz4MUdHJ3XTlkWdqmjMbxy8TKGnqnKjdSvDRorRf1lBNhnYVvP3fSgV8D-n_V4Jm0WE0t45Yy9wY_twrkgcEUw0L4xFWPz3NWU9fZyri0BF1zgHmakrJJB85segFnoqhtlg/s1600/DSCN1273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ynzGisL-rz4MUdHJ3XTlkWdqmjMbxy8TKGnqnKjdSvDRorRf1lBNhnYVvP3fSgV8D-n_V4Jm0WE0t45Yy9wY_twrkgcEUw0L4xFWPz3NWU9fZyri0BF1zgHmakrJJB85segFnoqhtlg/s320/DSCN1273.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"But I <i>will</i> strike a pose!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">If she does happen to successfully accomplish this tonight, she'll do the same tomorrow night. And the night after. And the night after that. So long as she doesn't have a problem with it. She'll also undergo another chest x-ray tomorrow morning, to check for any signs of wear and tear on her lungs and airway that this can cause. If there isn't any, and if she manages to pull off seven consecutive nights, then we will be released to come <i>without the ventilator</i>. I know, right? Since she was trach'd back in October, I never <i>once</i> thought this would be a possibility. Hell, I never thought we'd be released with her breathing <i>twelve</i> hours by herself. Even if that's all she can manage right now, then so be it. She doesn't owe me anything. Not even an explanation. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeCmE5jT1C0PLvgpiHiUk69kLQO3OYqjrqTav5VGwNEDIyQZVEr960DD_hLJKYV9bHW3We9UkfM-BuPmztS-fG5sufi-BjU_G6e1JyuQ81OBBOTllqU5v1ZTyYvubqEROc5C325RGQUEY/s1600/DSCN1274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeCmE5jT1C0PLvgpiHiUk69kLQO3OYqjrqTav5VGwNEDIyQZVEr960DD_hLJKYV9bHW3We9UkfM-BuPmztS-fG5sufi-BjU_G6e1JyuQ81OBBOTllqU5v1ZTyYvubqEROc5C325RGQUEY/s320/DSCN1274.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ooooh! <i>Sooooo</i> close!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChAkBKvWgnElYzTzOrMw_qwEwdacwyyDkfA175I-kg5-4fepSvTMwIF1aXeaaIdkDueO_Tk9RM1wxyljLKF6WdZLIrHNTbqhpbawyHhge-dUmtpzBcdafaivL8dYIgRDDwFy1OJ4WA4Q/s1600/DSCN1275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChAkBKvWgnElYzTzOrMw_qwEwdacwyyDkfA175I-kg5-4fepSvTMwIF1aXeaaIdkDueO_Tk9RM1wxyljLKF6WdZLIrHNTbqhpbawyHhge-dUmtpzBcdafaivL8dYIgRDDwFy1OJ4WA4Q/s320/DSCN1275.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">And she shut me <i>down</i>!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This also plays a factor in her date of discharge. Because if she's to come home without the vent, it means she can essentially come home a week sooner than scheduled. It takes a while for the home supply company to receive approval from the insurance carrier, order the equipment, and have it delivered. And not many of them keep this machinery on hand due to the cost. But if we won't be needing it, that will clear up a lot of free time on the calender. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">However, if she does need the vent during bedtime? Then she'll be released from the hospital, for the very first time, on her first birthday. Funny how things come full circle, isn't it? If you would have told me, upon the moment of her birth, that we'd be bringing her home in exactly one year? I'd have never believed it. And what better a gift can we give her than freedom? So, upon hearing the details, her nursing team has declared that her birthday party will be Sunday, July 8th, at the PICU. For how excited they, and we, are for this, it is already so bittersweet. And we've been warned. Not a lot of staff is going to make themselves available on the day she does come home. Because not very many of them can handle having to say goodbye to her. But we promised them that this is not goodbye. It is very much "see you later!"</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0mKojK41sdzqxtsfzNorNw9woZvXFdiXNvr6G-mCqZa8MzeMMvdaM2t4nJtjwCU4G36sq4J5TD5VIHz9SC2w97m_h8VHi6WLl2uAtYQfMlQddZk-q_SijzhXrtopGO5c8hLp06fYyjo/s1600/DSCN1278.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0mKojK41sdzqxtsfzNorNw9woZvXFdiXNvr6G-mCqZa8MzeMMvdaM2t4nJtjwCU4G36sq4J5TD5VIHz9SC2w97m_h8VHi6WLl2uAtYQfMlQddZk-q_SijzhXrtopGO5c8hLp06fYyjo/s320/DSCN1278.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Make mine a double triple cappuccino mocha latte decaf, with a shot of espresso! No whipped cream, please!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMU5zvoZ1t-vikvFsnmbE9vtuc6ONH1H0UsX_5scjVxRsR_JWZw01nxbIGjQw1Gxr0iWO9Yk1jQj7BfYUYI3eTOZt71S_xDKeSDERQvNLP4FHumc5BCOPnQH-NYtLUldjGJYER44NJoiw/s1600/DSCN1280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMU5zvoZ1t-vikvFsnmbE9vtuc6ONH1H0UsX_5scjVxRsR_JWZw01nxbIGjQw1Gxr0iWO9Yk1jQj7BfYUYI3eTOZt71S_xDKeSDERQvNLP4FHumc5BCOPnQH-NYtLUldjGJYER44NJoiw/s320/DSCN1280.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I tink I'll keep you, Daddy! You're my <i>favorite</i>!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCeJ6j_YHJF9U8fUToDm9kiTxsqb-pt5_lqnwNeV4h2g3vPuF73e8CgSVpOHhwUC1evY4GQt_uZt1mGqgkpalCyxhmS7HlSWyOVfBIMxDaGdsHu4LIaeaikn6de-pPWK5rDH12KfXdRWA/s1600/DSCN1294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCeJ6j_YHJF9U8fUToDm9kiTxsqb-pt5_lqnwNeV4h2g3vPuF73e8CgSVpOHhwUC1evY4GQt_uZt1mGqgkpalCyxhmS7HlSWyOVfBIMxDaGdsHu4LIaeaikn6de-pPWK5rDH12KfXdRWA/s320/DSCN1294.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Told You She's The Princess Of The PICU!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We also met with the proprietors of the respite care facility that we'd chosen, but subsequently opted out of. Part of MFH and my plan was to make certain that we have a safety net in place for the future. We are not expecting any of this to be a piece of cake, by any means, vent or no vent. TPN or not. On the off chance that we find ourselves in over our heads, it's just something that we felt we needed and was the right thing to do by her. And if we do end up needing them, they'll be but a phone call away. If not? Then so be it. But it never hurts to have backup for your backup. </span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">That Thing's Gotten Her Thru Many A Rough Night</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hElQvlMot0U63dvKIeMAvZ-gTXVGJIbYaxLSux3iiqxU9uNTMzeIBrSxJKABLL116dcf8QxJrCf1Degui5es9rjx6ML1zRij-3VIFJ6dlnkt9NGIjpFEzHmsg2n9DVA6eDm87wXRs2s/s1600/DSCN1302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hElQvlMot0U63dvKIeMAvZ-gTXVGJIbYaxLSux3iiqxU9uNTMzeIBrSxJKABLL116dcf8QxJrCf1Degui5es9rjx6ML1zRij-3VIFJ6dlnkt9NGIjpFEzHmsg2n9DVA6eDm87wXRs2s/s320/DSCN1302.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">MFH Is A Binky Stealer!!!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBhnD21fOQQM_QhNqHAufV4_1J97AtuLpqEjwFyZVkrRrev1Zr9i7xMzNisaiFtlIrXcp4s-bLBA7yRzaAs8PXnlxMJtnaRIPEF-KeTvLyHHYG-rZm-GVStOC-qDEx2fgVsTji99TnzPc/s1600/DSCN1314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBhnD21fOQQM_QhNqHAufV4_1J97AtuLpqEjwFyZVkrRrev1Zr9i7xMzNisaiFtlIrXcp4s-bLBA7yRzaAs8PXnlxMJtnaRIPEF-KeTvLyHHYG-rZm-GVStOC-qDEx2fgVsTji99TnzPc/s320/DSCN1314.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">How Little These Feet Once Were...</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The rest depends on Little Bird, and what she does next. We were extra cautious not to tire her out before the trial, even though I so badly wanted to put her in her walker and take her for a stroll. Instead, we hung out at her crib, watched Monsters, Inc. for the umpteenth time, and let her chew on us. At one point, she even leaned in to me and slimed my cheek with the <i>best</i> baby kisses <i>ever</i>. Oh! I almost forgot! Her top two front teeth are on the verge of breaking thru any day now! Though, I failed miserably at getting any pics of these. It's been difficult to work a smile out of her when she knows the camera is there. But I will win this little war, one day! In the meantime, I'll continue to impatiently watch the clock before calling the unit and checking on her status in regards to the test. If you're not already on my Facebook page, I suggest you add me, because you'll likely here it there first!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-49188673856112610252012-06-17T03:14:00.000-04:002012-06-17T03:14:33.392-04:00What Makes A Man A Dad.....<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Upon the request of his four year old daughter, he runs down to the corner store at the end of the street at eight o'clock in the morning, and in the pouring rain, and buys her M&M's for breakfast. <br /><br />When his wife declares that she's given up during labor, and refuses to push, he promises her a banana split in order to get her to do so. <br /><br />When the pet cat delivers her kittens in the middle of the night, he stays by her side, tying off tiny umbilical cords with dental floss and talking her thru it. <br /><br />When one of those kittens is stillborn, he spends half an hour attempting CPR. <br /><br />When his eleven month old son is undergoing an emergency lumbar puncture, he refuses to hold him down, and instead opts to hold his hand and distract him from the pain. <br /><br />When his oldest son gets sent to the principal's office during his Kindergarten year for pulling the fire alarm, he goes in with him, and takes the verbal tongue lashing himself. <br /><br />After witnessing his wife give birth to their daughter four months early, he doesn't care who sees him crying, on his hands and knees, in the lobby of his own mother's employer. <br /><br />When his colicky five week old spends another night screaming her head off, he gives his wife a break, allowing her to sleep while he paces the floor with the baby on his shoulder. All. Night. Long. <br /><br />While driving his newborn home from the hospital, he refuses to exceed ten miles per hour, no matter how many truck drivers he angers.<br /><br />He doesn't hesitate to run down a hospital corridor, arms flailing while yelling for help, when the vent alarm for another parent's child-in the room next to his own daughter's-alerts. <br /><br />When his daughter awakes in the middle of the night with a bad dream, he gives up his spot in the warm and comfy bed for her, and sleeps on the floor without complaining. <br /><br />He spends obscene amounts of time and money until he successfully lands that all-important stuffed animal for his toddler in the skill crane at the grocery store. <br /><br />He patiently waits in the freezing rain for four hours until his son catches a fish. <br /><br />He answers the toy phone that his three year old son hands him, while he's in the midst of cooking him dinner. <br /><br />He even changes the poopy diapers!<br /><br />They may not always match, but he coordinates his daughters outfits for them.<br /><br />He chases Chilly Willy down the street, knowing full well that there is a freezer full of ice cream back at the house. <br /><br />When his three year old daughter catches a frog in the backyard, he lets her keep it. <br /><br />When his eight year old catches the flu, he let's him give it to him, too. <br /><br />When people comment on how beautiful, well behaved, or intelligent his children are, he lets his wife take all of the credit. <br /><br />He is willing to not only buy his kids Play Dough and Moon Sand, but to also spend hours picking it out of the carpeting. <br /><br />He folds baby socks. <br /><br />He obsesses over a single drop of water in his daughter's vent circuit, unable to feel that she's safe until it's dealt with. <br /><br />When the next door neighbor comes knocking, and complaining that his son almost hit her with a snowball, he spends the rest of the afternoon with him outback, teaching him how to improve his aim. <br /><br />He runs to the grocery store at two o'clock in the morning when he realizes that they're out of milk, and his daughter will refuse to drink anything else when she awakens bright and early the next day. <br /><br />When he accompanies his kids to appointments at the pediatrician's office, <i>he</i> comes out upset after <i>they</i> received a shot. <br /><br />He's willing to sit in a movie theater for hours, surrounded by a bunch of little kids, watching cartoons. <br /><br />After spending months awaiting the opportunity to finally hold his preemie daughter, he lets his wife have it all to herself because he knows how badly she's been yearning for that moment. <br /><br />He lets his son take a bogus sick day off from school. Not because he doesn't know he's faking it, but because he wants to spend it with him. <br /><br />Even though she doesn't mean it, when his preteen daughter says "I hate you!", it devastates him.<br /><br />He's never missed a single cheerleading practice, or game. Even on Sunday's, when his favorite national team is playing televised. <br /><br />When his twelve year old daughter is in love with a boy, he hates him. When she ends up hating that boy, he hates him even more. <br /><br />He's willing to risk his marriage in order to be the good guy, and allow a later curfew, or candy before dinner. <br /><br />He doesn't care what his buddies think when they discover him buying Seventeen magazine in the grocery store. <br /><br />His kids are never too old for him to hug them, kiss them, or hear him tell them that he loves them. </span></div>
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<br />Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-6965023949501776072012-06-16T23:44:00.000-04:002012-06-16T23:44:54.926-04:00Oh, Bird!!..........<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We all know how Little Bird loves to keep us on our toes. She can be quite the spontaneous little lady, and today was no exception. We decided to split visits down to groups of two, rather than walk into the PICU with all five of her siblings and expect the staff to put up with us all at once. So this afternoon, it was MFH, Grammy, Number One, and Number Three's turn. And they were definitely perplexed to discover that the baby has been placed back on her ventilator. Her team didn't understand it, and only knew that she wanted no part of breathing on her own this morning when they tried to attempt to disconnect her. It wasn't until MFH told me how she refused to allow anyone to dress her that we both realized what the issue was. She's getting sick again. With tracheitis. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdOjAWM2zs_MAUXZqNM8iQSHn6V86M9PsZdsYNZBpHfFAjYOXByC7jaMKHkjlnrpvBJzFMpc_jToRny3XMlGWU0a9botjmwBnj5E6OThqFDQei68-zdUlzboNSdPZmRyJmdiDbyskzNM/s1600/DSC06961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdOjAWM2zs_MAUXZqNM8iQSHn6V86M9PsZdsYNZBpHfFAjYOXByC7jaMKHkjlnrpvBJzFMpc_jToRny3XMlGWU0a9botjmwBnj5E6OThqFDQei68-zdUlzboNSdPZmRyJmdiDbyskzNM/s320/DSC06961.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Clothing is overrated anyway!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzYnd_sgOmH4cstQYuTKyVKTqm8iOz8pqQ6APag-VWYnulyWFq-S2v163ZWNOUW6IwgOwJFdcaidCLCeki9QxqfHQC8usU8m0ekzGz6tmPgdfa3fkxDB9Dt_j8D2q1J7jj-JUvGPJQpc/s1600/DSC06964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzYnd_sgOmH4cstQYuTKyVKTqm8iOz8pqQ6APag-VWYnulyWFq-S2v163ZWNOUW6IwgOwJFdcaidCLCeki9QxqfHQC8usU8m0ekzGz6tmPgdfa3fkxDB9Dt_j8D2q1J7jj-JUvGPJQpc/s320/DSC06964.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Mmmm! Binky guuuud! Nom! Nom! Nom!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">By this time tomorrow, she will likely be on antibiotics to treat it. During their visit, she had a very brief monitor violation in which her sats suddenly dipped to eighty two. MFH immediately suctioned her, though it took him several swipes with the catheter to completely clear her airway enough for her number to jump back up into the nineties. These are all typical symptoms that she displays even before any labs are taken. But I'm proud to say that the confidence that we thought we lost is still there, and apparently as strong as it ever was. He didn't miss a beat when it came to the machine and monitor alerting. Actually, he shooed the nurses away and took care of it himself without ever giving this a second thought. Not something either one of us would have done a month ago, but still something that we need to be able to do. And we are. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Little Bird rather enjoyed hanging out with everyone. She cracked up smiling at Grammy every single time she looked at her, chilled with her bros, and even gave Daddy a big ole belly laugh-minus the sound-when he kissed her and his beard tickled her cheek! Even when she's getting sick, her silliness does not elude her. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpZYvGCAPtRKyrY6feh59AdRp2dIqaHY7HXmy8XK6iLU26b_GCMldSrJtU2IYSazJ-KqmLrcLrQcDL94rKUxqX9YXjHuUn8IDeBMp6b27WZ7xsUCobJD5Lkfm9hBwiZghLNWV4LG8Es8/s1600/DSC06973.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpZYvGCAPtRKyrY6feh59AdRp2dIqaHY7HXmy8XK6iLU26b_GCMldSrJtU2IYSazJ-KqmLrcLrQcDL94rKUxqX9YXjHuUn8IDeBMp6b27WZ7xsUCobJD5Lkfm9hBwiZghLNWV4LG8Es8/s320/DSC06973.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her Bodyguard</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPi5EnADdvKN423_nAhH-kE6Jf4tw3O9nDJcJIs2Gh9XULpaYmrJAeH3HMvKm3FKP70GMCDqnP8CgO3yO4xzLKLiqwfT6sLgkEkWEnX3mdZWKt5nvq-bYxh_bsYXWKKPvB9uAnKmJnW9g/s1600/DSC06977.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPi5EnADdvKN423_nAhH-kE6Jf4tw3O9nDJcJIs2Gh9XULpaYmrJAeH3HMvKm3FKP70GMCDqnP8CgO3yO4xzLKLiqwfT6sLgkEkWEnX3mdZWKt5nvq-bYxh_bsYXWKKPvB9uAnKmJnW9g/s320/DSC06977.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Corrupting Her Big Brother!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But her antics didn't stop there. She had one more very big surprise up her sleeve. Our nurse practitioner came in to give MFH an update on Little Bird's medical status, and informed him that as of this morning, she met her required GT feed goal amount. Something she wasn't expected to reach until this coming Wednesday. So her TPN has been hereby discontinued. It will still be another five days before the PICC line is taken out (if she doesn't get to that herself, first), as they need to keep it in place a while longer to ensure that she won't need it again. From now until Thursday, we'll watch and wait for any signs that she might need the TPN again, but pray that she won't. </span></span><br />
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<br />Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-2796874888866511542012-06-15T19:33:00.000-04:002012-06-15T19:33:33.444-04:00This Changes Everything.....<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnCOSJEOYOFuYgw9sQ3wO1eHeq5XLboAO7w0juTpMRgdoF275enYAoeO6scHSX6-3LsfFqHED2YDS-IJOWnW2QZnNmfLf3uWLEUx0Dz0P9b8q-5VzA-bpG70p_Nvvr884IrthWn6p9FUY/s1600/DSC06875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnCOSJEOYOFuYgw9sQ3wO1eHeq5XLboAO7w0juTpMRgdoF275enYAoeO6scHSX6-3LsfFqHED2YDS-IJOWnW2QZnNmfLf3uWLEUx0Dz0P9b8q-5VzA-bpG70p_Nvvr884IrthWn6p9FUY/s320/DSC06875.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Don't worry, Momma. I got this!"</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When I was a teenager, my mom used to say, "You just <i>wait</i>! One day, you're going to have a daughter who will be ten times more rebellious than yourself!". Suffice it to say, I have a strong instinctual impression that she's looking down on me, and right about now, laughing her ass off. In Little Bird's world, so much can happen in such a short amount of time. March 12th is proof positive of that. For as quickly as she has been known to crash, she's also had periods of insane recovery. When she managed to rebound from the bowel perforation and septic shock, we were pretty impressed. But what I'm about to explain to you is almost ridiculous.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As of two weeks ago, the plan was to transfer her to a respite care facility and give her the opportunity to reach her TPN/GT feed goal ratio while MFH and I regained our emotional bearings. Little Bird never plays by the rules. She never has. She's made her own more times than I can count, and broken every one of them, too. Once again, she's made up her own mind. And once again, she's completely defied all laws of western medicine.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">By all calculations, she was expected to meet her specialist's expectations sometime around the end of July at the very earliest. Realistically, we were suspecting that it might even be longer. You can't exactly rush a kid who has less than a quarter of her intestinal tract to work with. A milliliter at a time, every few days. Watch and wait for signs of rejection. Signs of liver or kidney failure. Pray to God that she could handle it. Handle it, she did. After a few minor adjustments and tweaks to the University of Pittsburgh's recommended protocol, Little Bird took the ball and ran with it. </span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuVErD1gA9V6n1tJHqrR-tJxOUJ2754YDHWH8dka4BJYfJ07h6Q_mJOo6CyYccFhp_crEConBlr_vsevqoIiHcJoU-ZSCEvFHNyITMYFfqbwCMlLNY-hzLnBqC_Pju2IW8baGezBqu7A/s1600/DSC06891.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuVErD1gA9V6n1tJHqrR-tJxOUJ2754YDHWH8dka4BJYfJ07h6Q_mJOo6CyYccFhp_crEConBlr_vsevqoIiHcJoU-ZSCEvFHNyITMYFfqbwCMlLNY-hzLnBqC_Pju2IW8baGezBqu7A/s320/DSC06891.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I grewed a tooth!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Throughout the past two weeks, she decided to be a show-off, and prove every scientific study wrong. It's taken her literally fourteen days to nearly accomplish something that could have very easily taken that many months. In six days from today, she will meet this goal like a boss, and her TPN is scheduled to be not weened down, but discontinued. Spectacular progress in terms of her growth and weight gain, and beyond that of what any of us could have ever hoped for. And as if that weren't enough, she put the icing on the cake by what she's accomplished on the vent. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When I wrote the last update, I actually forgot to mention something. Something that was certainly not overlooked by us. When Little Bird was transferred to the PICU last December, her PEEP setting was pretty high. Single digits weren't something we thought we'd see for quite some time. But her team felt otherwise, and immediately began making every effort to get her to do the same. Remember when you were small, and couldn't yet blow up a balloon by yourself? Remember how difficult getting one started was? That is exactly how breathing is for Little Bird. Once that initial inspiration is made, she can do it. The vent just gets her started, and keeps her lungs from deflating completely. We all breathe at a PEEP of five to six. This is the measure of the amount of pressure needed to keep our lungs from collapsing in between each breath. In January, she succeeded in being lowered from eighteen to seven. A few weeks ago, she was lowered, once again, to six. And four days ago, she astounded us all by smashing her own record.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSd5XYGokC6mqfGRWkPxULXq11Zh6f40OYwUuLZNdlQFKQm3f1_xASAfC6lxw7UTBRLh4-b_rvG5qYZ5T1_DlHhBoPig7ITymR82SobxIH1LA7-p5DMl4HbaLC_tLfMHW-B8-PUZOfsE/s1600/DSC06927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSd5XYGokC6mqfGRWkPxULXq11Zh6f40OYwUuLZNdlQFKQm3f1_xASAfC6lxw7UTBRLh4-b_rvG5qYZ5T1_DlHhBoPig7ITymR82SobxIH1LA7-p5DMl4HbaLC_tLfMHW-B8-PUZOfsE/s320/DSC06927.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I can has my puppy now?"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Her team began to notice some nuances in regards to her efforts. Things like her not panicking when her trach was being changed, or her sats not plummeting during circuit changes. These, combined with the massive growth spurt she's most recently experienced. On March 12th, we finally understood why she was meant to endure a tracheostomy months before that. It all began to make sense. Because she certainly wouldn't have been able to withstand another emergency procedure that night, and the ventilator being so readily available to her turned out to be a blessing in disguise. For the last three months, we questioned the universe once again, trying to understand why Little Bird had to crash that night. We were so close to coming home. It didn't make any sense, and it angered me beyond extent to have to look at the gaping scar across her abdomen. The constant reminder of how close we came to having it all, and almost losing everything. Why her? Why the damn TPN pump, on top of everything else? What more could she take? How much longer until her labs would start to come back indicative of liver failure?</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgai7nhutZzKMalmOluSVKChtHOVHBW5ctPc2KZKpRtfO7HFjpbMhKMO25SOBqL3wMj6x58MYIQshyW1HS0dpTG6Qnwk6-K5jV3tdQQYdtQCRmi9ZM-U0y-qYw9YX6L4bXbK3IITR-FtuM/s1600/DSC06936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgai7nhutZzKMalmOluSVKChtHOVHBW5ctPc2KZKpRtfO7HFjpbMhKMO25SOBqL3wMj6x58MYIQshyW1HS0dpTG6Qnwk6-K5jV3tdQQYdtQCRmi9ZM-U0y-qYw9YX6L4bXbK3IITR-FtuM/s320/DSC06936.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Not A Scar, But Proof Of Life</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Our fears about intravenous nutrition are not unwarranted. It may seem simple enough, but I can honestly tell you that her dependence upon a machine in order to breathe is a lot less complicated. If the vent should ever fail, for any reason, MFH and I can still assist her via an ambu-bag. If we misdose a single TPN feed, her liver will shut down faster than we could catch the symptoms. What a lot of people may not realize is that even though TPN does save lives by providing a means of sustenance, the odds of a short-gut patient requiring a liver transplant because of this are frighteningly high. Especially for a child. But when there is no other way to feed your baby, what other choice does a parent have than to take that leap of faith, and pray to God that things work out in the end? </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And when does it all become too much? She was already trach'd and vent dependent. She already had a G-Tube. And both of these, we were used to. We had several months to prepare. The added technology of intravenous feedings was for us, the straw that broke our backs. We started to come to terms with that truth. That we couldn't handle the responsibility and the weight of one more medical intervention. And the events that occurred on March 12th were suddenly infuriating. If it weren't for that damned pump, she'd have been home by now. If it weren't for that damned pump, we'd be able to do this. As we came to this honest conclusion with ourselves, we admitted as much to our team. And no sooner did we say the words did Little Bird work her magic, once again. </span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_DcfX3t3RlvTtOiaZnhv43e0wN_MzDSM55TtH8cXugWUgFjdI5WpFclD4RbSzimV39e4q37TLDNQrFur1jdXdFUbhwUFiUSoTTy0XVYMd3vUdZxmH-tly656MqHnw8UW-kI6cu08xFc0/s1600/DSC06932.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_DcfX3t3RlvTtOiaZnhv43e0wN_MzDSM55TtH8cXugWUgFjdI5WpFclD4RbSzimV39e4q37TLDNQrFur1jdXdFUbhwUFiUSoTTy0XVYMd3vUdZxmH-tly656MqHnw8UW-kI6cu08xFc0/s320/DSC06932.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Victory!</i> (she caught the camera strap!)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A phone call on Monday morning, from one of our nurse practitioners. They decided to give her a shot at breathing. On her <i>own</i>. For the last three months, she'd been receiving double the amounts of nutrition that she would have been, had she not needed TPN. Double her caloric needs meant double the weight gain. She managed to pack on more pounds during this time than any other. Something that had been a goal since October when she became what was said to be very possibly permanently, mechanically dependent. If she could overgrow the vast scarring in her lungs, there was a chance that she'd be able to one day breathe without assistance. In all honesty, this wasn't something that was discussed in terms of months, but of years. Perhaps by the time she'd be entering Kindergarten, at best. It was the most realistic time frame that we were ever given. But her recent and sudden influx of growth made her respiratory team wonder. What were the chances that she might be able to <i>now</i> handle ten or fifteen minutes without the vent? </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And so, they gave it a shot. They disconnected her circuit, and stood watch next to her, waiting for any signal of distress. And ten minutes turned into six hours. Not willing to push her beyond that, they decided to wait until the next morning to try it again. MFH and I were cautiously optimistic. But even if it was a fluke of nature and she couldn't accomplish this again, it was hope. On Tuesday morning, they again disconnected the machine. This time, she achieved eight hours with nothing more than the assistance of a tiny bit of oxygen, a heated moisture exchange piece, and a Passy-Muir speaking valve. The latter, providing her with a little bit of resistance, but enough to mimic that of the pressure of the vent and keep her from panicking. Clearly, this wasn't a fluke. <i>Little Bird is able to breathe</i>. On. Her. Own. </span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnCJKUP1_7vi7nMiPaI_7djuZ8OC90h7HZehYKp9bZi-tfphUGI49n_RmCWStmlumymXJMeki3GRCrDwWAYnwvMo66ev98BrKd6Zmt4VKLKYaGHZlO6WqJO39cMgVa5Mp_E0AS0tqrQI/s1600/DSC06901.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnCJKUP1_7vi7nMiPaI_7djuZ8OC90h7HZehYKp9bZi-tfphUGI49n_RmCWStmlumymXJMeki3GRCrDwWAYnwvMo66ev98BrKd6Zmt4VKLKYaGHZlO6WqJO39cMgVa5Mp_E0AS0tqrQI/s320/DSC06901.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"This way to da finish line!!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On Thursday afternoon, MFH and I arrived at the PICU in the midst of her ninth hour of freedom. Her respiratory technician was on the floor and watching her the entire time. She asked us how we thought she looked. Little Bird was sitting up in her crib, playing with some toys, and patiently waiting as her nurses prepped her trach change. She looked <i>fantastic</i>. So we all agreed to keep the trial going. We changed her trach and her outfit. We watched her show off her ability to also now stand upright, supporting her own weight with just a little bit of help balancing. We watched her nap. And we dodged her splashes during bath time. All without her being attached to the machine. <i>This</i> is a very big deal. This changes <i>everything</i>. </span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEDo44_tOYKLFnIX0WMrbFmCv-Xd9UreCwMKAPRYwSCl-GuCKSd7pi_RvcPMvnByFvX4Bvf0xVH_qgtv7LOiSOuIWBOo7QqVEWYxUdKXmQGosk3_j6ppPYNBLT4IAgN45_0F9D2NCEaY/s1600/DSC06866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEDo44_tOYKLFnIX0WMrbFmCv-Xd9UreCwMKAPRYwSCl-GuCKSd7pi_RvcPMvnByFvX4Bvf0xVH_qgtv7LOiSOuIWBOo7QqVEWYxUdKXmQGosk3_j6ppPYNBLT4IAgN45_0F9D2NCEaY/s320/DSC06866.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The vent, collecting dust in the background!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Even though she can't vocalize it, there is no denying that Little Bird is making her voice heard, loud and clear. She knows what she wants. She wants to come home. For whatever reason, she feels that the timing is perfect. And let's face it, this kid is nothing if not always ahead of her time. I can so totally envision her sleeping on some random sidewalk, twenty years from now, waiting days in advance for concert tickets. It's been almost a year since we were instructed to follow her lead, and that advice still rings true. When she is ready, she will let us know. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Her team isn't willing to allow her to go beyond twelve hours unassisted yet. But from here on out, as long as she isn't sick or showing signs of distress, she will be disconnected from the ventilator from eight o'clock in the morning, until eight o'clock each evening. Half of each day. I can't even begin to describe how liberating it feels to be able to pick her up without the weight of the circuit-the constant reminder that eight feet of tubing is a lot shorter than it seems. It's going to take us some time to get used to the silence in her room, as the white noise of oxygen and humidity hissing in the background is no longer present. It's ironic, isn't it? The addition of the TPN pump, and the havoc that that wreaked on our family turned out to be an unforeseen blessing. Had it not been for the extra nutrition this provided her, she wouldn't be breathing on her own. </span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmglRxFq0filMsV8MfbWuZPOVLz8fI9_hPzQ3ZStjxiUWBMHJvJb7O16TSp4DWXqkeeFsjyVGbrPd9sgGzD3sc5WuE1IyWjoctOSOAd7MPYdBpOKxctf0VMw1WYwW3ygSCDTYSLZSQ1x4/s1600/DSC06943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmglRxFq0filMsV8MfbWuZPOVLz8fI9_hPzQ3ZStjxiUWBMHJvJb7O16TSp4DWXqkeeFsjyVGbrPd9sgGzD3sc5WuE1IyWjoctOSOAd7MPYdBpOKxctf0VMw1WYwW3ygSCDTYSLZSQ1x4/s320/DSC06943.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Wait'll they get a load of my <i>next</i> trick..."</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">MFH and I walked out of that hospital last night in utter silence. Shock. Dismay. It's almost as if the entire last twelve months had been a bad dream. As if someone woke us up, and here she is. Little Bird. No ventilator. And in a few short days, no PICC line. How is it that you get pushed to the brink of your breaking point, fall to your knees and cry 'uncle', and then suddenly? Suddenly, an invisible hand reaches out and grabs you by the back of your collar. Pulls you back up on your feet and pushes you in the direction you were meant to go. <i>How does that happen?</i> Little Bird is coming home. On Tuesday afternoon, our team called off the scheduled meet and greet with the representatives of the respite care facility that we'd chosen for her. <i>We will no longer be requiring your services</i>. I don't know how she managed to pull all of this off. And I don't know why she chose us to be her parents. All I know is what I've witnessed. That she knows what she's doing, even if we don't. And that sometimes, everything happens for a reason.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-23838369770574588462012-06-14T23:26:00.000-04:002012-06-14T23:26:09.734-04:00Look Mom, NO VENT!!!!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKDTiwwJcPRlL-fYo6SNerXDAOG8ONxYpqCRw9os39dRrmONjh_t754ybNrUc_O0OPXim0U-SkOgg99hS5r88ziczm9iyrZG5M0EzcA49eIQ7nNn40RcD86aZhG-t5Gzb3b659kih7ug/s1600/DSC06902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKDTiwwJcPRlL-fYo6SNerXDAOG8ONxYpqCRw9os39dRrmONjh_t754ybNrUc_O0OPXim0U-SkOgg99hS5r88ziczm9iyrZG5M0EzcA49eIQ7nNn40RcD86aZhG-t5Gzb3b659kih7ug/s320/DSC06902.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Three days ago, Little Bird's team decided....</span></span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNba3KxIpG-co2I09dJQpLmHfyLekbAVy9lhnuL02-EJPAaNjE42OID8JZ2IU6uBTiZz-9ZweD35AD9lBRYQ3v21Gx-0Lr1PePQVNLN8nJfV7kM3UMBD2m0yzxy7vVxV3PVGl-PJnhc4/s1600/DSC06909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNba3KxIpG-co2I09dJQpLmHfyLekbAVy9lhnuL02-EJPAaNjE42OID8JZ2IU6uBTiZz-9ZweD35AD9lBRYQ3v21Gx-0Lr1PePQVNLN8nJfV7kM3UMBD2m0yzxy7vVxV3PVGl-PJnhc4/s320/DSC06909.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">....To see how she'd hold up....</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCgvhKyC-wvAbmU6rIo1JUbWAFe0KSqfY483vMr76IihMpHNOIz5EN2ExbJI2ZMsbHc5844TVCIHYo19oFSfBNEHgz6O9ZpX8SkAvu94Oe8srAyEoANOEHmgwukfTrZZZoT5ew6dIpRw/s1600/DSC06911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCgvhKyC-wvAbmU6rIo1JUbWAFe0KSqfY483vMr76IihMpHNOIz5EN2ExbJI2ZMsbHc5844TVCIHYo19oFSfBNEHgz6O9ZpX8SkAvu94Oe8srAyEoANOEHmgwukfTrZZZoT5ew6dIpRw/s320/DSC06911.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">....If she was disconnected from the ventilator....</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWJjpzqk8rbbML36i8uyqfraIri4taUfKfwveI-F9l6f0rj9xe8Vyqi6OUDGQp7cvi5RcnjufHDZ1SghYwioqWv_w0YkB7u2QvtuGYEyakgyIIaIl2c4X9OwR8ymIp1LzND2cAqzDCJk/s1600/DSC06927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWJjpzqk8rbbML36i8uyqfraIri4taUfKfwveI-F9l6f0rj9xe8Vyqi6OUDGQp7cvi5RcnjufHDZ1SghYwioqWv_w0YkB7u2QvtuGYEyakgyIIaIl2c4X9OwR8ymIp1LzND2cAqzDCJk/s320/DSC06927.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">....What none of us ever predicted....</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicyXmrjbH2m3TPDcS4VlpR7zmr6PcXlb7Vq2oc7MkepF6SNSmUa-4l1pQfXo_OjyB2NFCL74ebpq3bOcAsaNsfK64qjudJs_Gfu9PbCFfQ7jExKI0iaWFAqdiZ0AiO4yeADz_jkxV0GgQ/s1600/DSC06939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicyXmrjbH2m3TPDcS4VlpR7zmr6PcXlb7Vq2oc7MkepF6SNSmUa-4l1pQfXo_OjyB2NFCL74ebpq3bOcAsaNsfK64qjudJs_Gfu9PbCFfQ7jExKI0iaWFAqdiZ0AiO4yeADz_jkxV0GgQ/s320/DSC06939.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">....Was to witness <b><i>another miracle</i></b>....</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxNTD54eumjDilK2b7wChXue_3FwM4eo8RJXYTxH_tN1qgrHFZxqf1Yg2vAiKJCot4Tp8jwuraE1OgFkmF01lydF3fHT-IIDmCGnLRdaO7gHuSABMTjY7ekFeflGwWybNnoCqhqlspLyM/s1600/DSC06863.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxNTD54eumjDilK2b7wChXue_3FwM4eo8RJXYTxH_tN1qgrHFZxqf1Yg2vAiKJCot4Tp8jwuraE1OgFkmF01lydF3fHT-IIDmCGnLRdaO7gHuSABMTjY7ekFeflGwWybNnoCqhqlspLyM/s320/DSC06863.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">....."Look, Momma!".....</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFP6TpzXt8gK2lEBYRTOD28eZNOBYCngD_Y-LrtGsLAPUVgUYGrMqx3U2bsVmshRsAkd6gls-MxARvnBQugKOqeRLsQ4JIJxXom58rn2KsgVTR6Nl8fqVRIkWPKocsmjVKtKeEtLDtMRM/s1600/DSC06887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFP6TpzXt8gK2lEBYRTOD28eZNOBYCngD_Y-LrtGsLAPUVgUYGrMqx3U2bsVmshRsAkd6gls-MxARvnBQugKOqeRLsQ4JIJxXom58rn2KsgVTR6Nl8fqVRIkWPKocsmjVKtKeEtLDtMRM/s320/DSC06887.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">...."<b><i>NO VENTILATOR!!!</i></b>".....</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaylK5zEUVy62fktvvlNPJ-25vjWLUZxQCTjy4MxzgfP5sGkP77Qogug1V-LRXFGyTj-9Ftma_uJ1UxdrCdIRZZEETi2n6WFsJas01Z_bPAyj9iuQ9TACey_KgKWsWCGNfTV4ZuUxIwUU/s1600/DSC06888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaylK5zEUVy62fktvvlNPJ-25vjWLUZxQCTjy4MxzgfP5sGkP77Qogug1V-LRXFGyTj-9Ftma_uJ1UxdrCdIRZZEETi2n6WFsJas01Z_bPAyj9iuQ9TACey_KgKWsWCGNfTV4ZuUxIwUU/s320/DSC06888.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">....For <b>TWELVE HOURS</b> <i>at a time</i>!!!!......</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-25122525201463858722012-06-02T01:15:00.000-04:002012-06-02T01:15:33.901-04:00The Graduate....<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Congratulations Vinny!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On Thursday evening, my oldest daughter graduated. From sixth grade. Pomp and circumstance, and chock full of hormones. Number Four met this milestone with much trepidation, but then again she's never been very big on change. Alas, it was meant to be, and she will soon head off into the great unknown that is the seventh grade. Our district doesn't have a separate middle school, so technically, she's now a high-schooler. The little fish in the big pond. It's strange to witness all of this happening thru her perspective. When I was her age, I couldn't <i>wait</i> to get my ass mixed up with the upperclassmen. There were shenanigans to be had, and I knew it. My daughter is much different. <i>Don't look at me!</i> Wait. Maybe it <i>is</i> my fault. She's heard a lot of stories . Maybe there really <i>is</i> something to be said about reverse psychology after all. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Her elementary years went by so quickly. <i>Too</i> quickly. It seems like only yesterday that we were plotting our great escape from the building on that fateful day. Did I ever tell you guys about her very first day of school? I didn't? Well, I suppose it'll be much less embarrassing than me posting those naked bath time pics....</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I didn't ship Number Five off to preschool. She was the baby, and <i>supposed</i> to be the last one. I wanted as much time with her as I could possible have in order to get a jump start on countering some of the mood swings that I now find myself facing with her. One extra year to influence and connect with her before having to relinquish her to the pressures of her peers. She'd have the rest of her life to learn how to push my buttons and proclaim how miserable I make her. One extra year to remain the apple of her eye, rather than some cootie infested, stinky boy that neither MFH or I will ever approve of. In hindsight, I should have sent her sooner. This is why. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Number Four can be pretty shy. Throughout that last summer together, we talked a lot about making new friends, and how much <i>fun</i> riding on the school bus with her big brothers was going to be. By the time the night before the big to-do rolled around, she was pretty pumped. She was going to march right onto that yellow behemoth, smile really wide, and say hello to the first of many friends she would make. We woke up early, and spent a lot of time picking the perfect outfit (as these were the pre-dress code, uniformed days), and dolling her up for the occasion. Once all four were buttoned, zipped, combed, and brushed, we headed across the street to the bus stop. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We saw the bus making the turn onto the street, and I hurried to make sure my camera was ready. That all-important, first step aboard, as well as a few more of her waving from her window seat. Yeah. It didn't happen. What did was a massive meltdown so dramatic that we ended up having to beg the driver to go ahead and pull away. <i>I don't want to go to school! Please don't do this to me! You're my favorite parents! </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">After ten more minutes of this, and an epic struggle to get her into the car, we arrived, quite disheveled at the school's entrance. Where MFH and I had to take turns prying her out of the backseat like a cat trying to desperately escape a running faucet. Several teachers and parents stared at us. I'd like to think this was with sympathy. But, truthfully? They probably thought we were simply insane. Couldn't have blamed them if they did. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Eventually, we managed to manipulate her into the gymnasium, where the rest of the little <strike>heathens</strike> children were being <strike>corralled</strike> seated. There, we found so many of our own peers <strike>desperately running from the building</strike> cooing and oooohing and ahhhing over such <strike>ridiculousness</strike> <i>precious</i> little faces. We quickly found our daughter's class's spot on the bleachers, as well as a pretty stabile looking, blonde haired girl. And we wasted no time parking our kid next to her. She looked pretty normal to us. Turns out, she ended up becoming one of Number Four's closest friends. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">MFH and I shook the teacher's hand, <strike>wished him the best of luck</strike> thanked him, and hauled ass out of there as fast as our legs would carry us. By the time we got home, I really needed a beer. But the guilt would have killed me. So I decided instead to go pick up an ice cream cake. My Little Pony. Nothing says '<i>I'm sorry for the dump and run</i>' like rainbow colored frosting, and a few years of therapy. I came home from the grocery store, shoved the cake in the freezer, and sat at my desk, crying. For the rest. <i>Of. The. Day.</i> Number Four, if you are reading this, go <i>right</i> ahead and feel bad. You made your mother <i>cry</i>. <i>Are you happy now?</i> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When it was time to go back across the street and play Will She Or Won't She Boycott The Ride Home, my stomach was in knots. Seriously, I was thinking the worst. What if she refused? What if she got on the <i>wrong </i>bus? Oh my God! What of the ice cream cake which was then awaiting her on the dining room table <i>melted</i>? I was <i>not</i> in the mood for a milkshake. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Suddenly, the bus rounded the corner at the top of the hill. And I waited. And waited. And <i>waited</i>. Because there was two other stops before ours, and somehow, it never occurred to me how slow these little Kindergarteners can be. Or how many of them forget their book bags. Or lunch boxes. Or that one last high five or hug with their friends. Finally, it was our turn. Number One was the first kid off, damn near tucking and rolling before it even came to a complete stop. Followed by Number Two and Number Three. And then, there was Number Four. Not hysterical like she'd been six hours earlier. Like I totally expected her to be. But <i>smiling</i>. Skipping, and waving to her friends, and politely thanking the bus driver before exclaiming to me what a <i>wonderful</i> experience she'd just had. Go. <i>Figure</i>. I wasted twenty bucks on a guilt-laden, sugar coated surprise for nothing.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The moral of that story is to never waste your money on the ice cream cake. The beer would have made for a more interesting and happier afternoon. Oh, and that kids are pretty resilient little people. And, that our time with them is so fleeting. Before you know it, they turn into young women (and men), and you will wish for nothing more than the plans they've made with their friends on the weekends to fall thru, so that you could spend just a little bit more time with them. If you've got 'em, enjoy 'em. Because sooner or later, we have to let them grow...</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">...Wait 'Till They Get A Load Of The Next One!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-63665424019141179332012-06-01T19:35:00.000-04:002012-06-01T20:00:34.612-04:00First, Do No Harm.....<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When we started the vent program, MFH and I made a promise. To each other. To Little Bird. To our medical team. If at any time, or any reason, we didn't feel absolutely comfortable in our ability to give Little Bird the standard of care that she deserves, we would be the first to admit it. From that day forth, whenever we accomplished any aspect of medical training or instruction, we were always asked. <i>How confident do you feel?</i> In the early days, we hovered somewhere around twenty percent. Then, slowly but steadily, our self-assurance began to grow. Fifty percent. Seventy five percent. Ninety percent. It wasn't until the day we completed the car trial were we able to say, beyond the shadow of any doubt, that we were both ninety nine percent certain that we could bring our daughter home, able to completely handle her posse of mechanical interventions and devices. We will never say a hundred, because we will never be that sure. We know Little Bird well enough than to ever let ourselves be so cocky. <br /><br />The aftermath of March 11th took away so much from this family. We've been reeling ever since. Spinning uncontrollably, and desperately trying to regain our equilibrium. Frustration, confusion, and devastation deduced eight months of progress into nothing more than a measure of days on a calendar. We weren't pushed back to day one. We were so far beyond even that, to the point where Little Bird's first few hours on this Earth would have been a stronger foothold on the situation. Every single aspect of the eight of our lives had been affected, and in ways we never imagined were possible. Little Bird lost her intestinal tract, and we lost our minds. By the time reality set it, we became so crippled with fear that we didn't even trust ourselves. She needs her diaper changed, <i>let's buzz for a nurse.</i> She needs to be suctioned, <i>where's the call bell?</i> She's due for a trach change tomorrow. <i>Do we have to do this ourselves?</i> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I don't expect very many people to understand all of this. Not very many at all. And if you don't, you are very, very fortunate. Because it means you've never had to witness human suffering on a level so profound that there aren't even adjectives to properly describe it. You've never had to stand back and watch a team of people conduct chest compressions on your baby. You've never had to feel your daughter squeeze your finger with such ferocity as a nurse was packing her belongings into clear, plastic bags. You've never witnessed that look on her surgeon's face. That apologetic look of defeat. Be grateful for that. Count your blessings. And read the rest of this post with an open mind. But remember. We aren't putting this out there because we want opinions. Frankly, only one person's matters to us anyway. <br /><br />Little Bird is pretty amazing. This, we've known. Even at her very weakest, she is the strongest person I will ever know. She's got a wicked sense of humor. She is fearless. And she is also incredibly determined. She's spent the last several weeks proving western medicine wrong, once again. The little girl who, for all intents and purposes, isn't supposed to even be here right now but gave the specialists in Pittsburgh the big eff you, and has made her stance concerning a once-upcoming Bianchi procedure crystal clear. No more boo-boos. In what can only be described as quite possibly the most remarkable recovery known to mankind, as it turns out, she does not need any foreseeable lengthening. This is something that MFH and I are still dumbfounded by, as is her surgical team and gastroenterologist. She's managed to somehow pull another rabbit out of her diaper, and already accomplish healing to such an extent that all predicted surgical interventions have been hereby postponed indefinitely.<br /><br />Of course, she's also only human, therefore still requiring total parenteral nutrition for the time being. However, she is now half way to her goal amount in which we can begin to hopefully ween her down and completely off of the pump. Quite an incredible feat in such a short amount of time. Truly amazing when you consider how heavy the odds were stacked against her. Imagine, if you will, how speechless we were to find out a few days ago that she can be released to come home within the next three weeks. <br /><br />Sounds pretty spectacular, doesn't it? It should. Maybe it would, if it weren't for the fact that MFH and I are idling at roughly nineteen percent confidence in caring for her ourselves. And so, when Cathy (our social worker) asked us how prepared we felt, we kept our promise. We told her the truth. That we are scared shitless. That we are no longer comfortable with so much as picking Little Bird up without the assistance of our nurses. That we love her too much to ever dare compromise her life. <br /><br />I've repeated this ad nauseum on this blog. But, one more time for the cheap seats. As long as she is ventilator dependent, it doesn't matter where she is, Little Bird will remain classified as a critical patient. And that is just the vent. Add to it the trach, and the G-tube. And now? A PICC line and a TPN pump. I am not Super Mom. Not even close. Having six children to raise is difficult. Knowing that the only thing that stands between my youngest and the hereafter is a few well-placed tubes, a bit of education, and someone inadvertently forgetting to wash their hands? Makes for one, big, unexpected, grown-up moment. <br /><br />Theoretically, MFH and I can get in the car right now, drive to the hospital, and bring Little Bird home. Today. In this very moment. But, we can also walk out of those doors with her, and directly into a disaster. We can bring her home tonight, only to be readmitted by morning because of something lost to haste. To be brutally honest, we didn't make it this far to lose everything. We are not ready. We are not where we were on March 10th. Not even close. <br /><br />Because more is lost to indecision than to wrong decision, we had a choice to make. A few days ago, and after a very long, very personal conversation with Cathy. Suddenly, we weren't just a couple who had spent the last eleven months in a hospital with our kid. We were Little Bird's parents. Two adults, who needed to opt for not our own personal wants or needs, but for what is best for our child. With every ounce of reluctance in this world, we did. <br /><br />As I write this, the ball is in motion. We've decided to make a bit of a pit-stop in our journey. A brief respite, if you will. The opportunity to re- familiarize ourselves with what we learned. The chance to get our groove back, and to do what is absolutely essential for Little Bird's well being. A rehabilitation facility (oh, yes), until we can once again declare ninety nine percent certainty. For however long we may need. Could be a couple of weeks. Could be months. It all depends on our ability to learn how to trust ourselves again. To no longer feel the fear that we've been trying to overcome. To bring Little Bird home to anything less than a family that is not fully prepared would be the biggest mistake of our lives. She deserves the best that we could give her, and we will be not only on top of our game. We will make damn certain that we are ahead of it. <br /><br />And so medically, the game plan is to begin weening Little Bird off of the TPN pump while she's there, as well as to re-acclimate her to the bottle feedings she's already begun. It also gives her a running start against some neurological and physical issues. An environment that mimics home. No restrictions on visitations for her siblings. And there's also that gigantic decrease of risk of infection as compared to the PICU. Little Bird's immune system is still healing. It will be several more months before she is capable of fighting off everyday germs that we are all commonly exposed to. These aren't required goals. In fact, there is no requirements. As soon as we say the word "go", she will be discharged from this facility. So, in the meantime? We're going to continue to work on getting back to where we were. Back to where Little Bird needs us to be. Back to good. <br /><br />This is it. The final leg of our voyage to hell and back. Her transfer hasn't yet happened, and likely won't for at least another two weeks. Until it does, we'll use this time to say farewell to the world's best pediatric intensive care team. Personally, the hardest part about this is having to leave behind such an outstanding group of medical professionals. But I know we will meet again on, at the very least, an outpatient basis. They've held us up thru some of our darkest days. This family would not exist today without them.</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Thank You</span></i>...</td></tr>
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<br />Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-22881077323720205902012-05-14T22:55:00.000-04:002012-05-14T22:56:43.500-04:00It's All Fun & Games Until Somebody Loses A Broviac.....<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Bless me readers, for I have sinned. it has been at least a month since my last entry. I'm sorry for causing some of you to worry unnecessarily. A lot has happened between then and now. But, with any luck, ya'll are bored silly and willing to read thru all of this. I'm not going to lie and say the last five weeks have been all sunshine and roses. They certainly weren't. I've been avoiding this blog out of fear of it becoming a woe-is-me soap opera. I didn't feel it fair to Little Bird for me to come on here and complain about the driving urge to stick my head in the oven. Besides, this is something I've come to expect. Aftershocks from March. I just never expected them to hit so damn hard. But I'll talk about that later. First, the good news. <br /><br />Aside from the occasional panic attacks she's been causing us all to experience, Little Bird has been doing remarkably well. I'll start when I previously left off, which was Easter. That Sunday, our little prankster decided to celebrate by decannulating herself. She's not yet able to undo the trach ties themselves, but she has since demonstrated that she can certainly pop her piece out, leaving it to lay just under the cloth straps, and giving the appearance that it's in place when in fact, it isn't. Thank God for monitors, and a quick-thinking team of staff who has become so accustomed to her antics that they can now perform chest compressions at the drop of a hat. But alas, they didn't give her the nickname of Princess of the PICU for no reason.</span></span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Who dat?!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Chillin' With Her BFF Kristen!</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">And Her BFF Megan!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As if a full-on, unwarranted, cardiopulmonary event didn't garner her enough attention, the following week, she decided to do her surgeon a solid. This little girl is a hell of a lot smarter than anyone gives her credit for. She may sit at the nurse's station, and ever so innocently smile at those doctors, but truth be told, she understands every single word they say. This, she proved after partaking in a discussion with them concerning the infection that had been brewing in her central line. Her inability to fully shake the tracheitis that had been plaguing her for more than a month by that point led them to debate whether or not the Broviac should be removed. They hadn't quite decided yet, either way, when she did. In the forty seconds that it took her nurse to walk from Little Bird's bedside to the refrigerator in the hallway, and retrieve the few milliliters of formula for her scheduled GT feed, our little Houdini yanked this catheter right out. Of. Her. Own. Heart. She didn't flinch. She didn't cry. She didn't even bleed. She just kinda of sat there, so proud of her own self, and beaming from ear to ear. Completely. Fearless. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JOfMwLO7fEglc2NzObmoH7HMq7lRjv07JYizAQQE0jOkUgeB7rBr4VeDDJqlk5SiGdWdDBoLU7DpvRay9eMmJLJGvfR_QyvZlxYTx0yA8ajajLOwBNZqHabocGM_rd-AbcI91KzOqck/s1600/DSC06787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JOfMwLO7fEglc2NzObmoH7HMq7lRjv07JYizAQQE0jOkUgeB7rBr4VeDDJqlk5SiGdWdDBoLU7DpvRay9eMmJLJGvfR_QyvZlxYTx0yA8ajajLOwBNZqHabocGM_rd-AbcI91KzOqck/s320/DSC06787.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Cute Bunny!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg07yrhVFByJg35eNvvpXABJDuLAiBD-5SAHGIuyYhAKWyRiKSIJInMe-VpSxEONoc2Ibdrer55ZnsmkylEmeB6seR-dImbevWG6pf3IHrtOgknZDQB8U_E-VQiDgLbShu6ZhBDF6k093Y/s1600/DSC06795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg07yrhVFByJg35eNvvpXABJDuLAiBD-5SAHGIuyYhAKWyRiKSIJInMe-VpSxEONoc2Ibdrer55ZnsmkylEmeB6seR-dImbevWG6pf3IHrtOgknZDQB8U_E-VQiDgLbShu6ZhBDF6k093Y/s320/DSC06795.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"<i>Creeeeepy</i> Bunny!"</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So, out with the old, and in with the new. PICC line, that is. The next morning, she had another one inserted in her right arm. Because she still requires TPN, and because her veins are also now shit, they needed a main port in order to deliver the bulk of her nutrition. MFH and I took notice to her predominantly using her left arm ever since. We're not quite sure if this is nurture over nature and because of a sensitivity to this new catheter, or simply just her own preference. Either way, we wouldn't be surprised if she ends up ambidextrous. One of her brothers is, and it's so interesting to witness a little bit of each of her siblings show thru her personality. <br /><br />And what's a piece of tubing compared to ninety percent of one's digestive system? She's been thru enough to know that by heart. Speaking of digestive systems, hers is healing rather nicely. Wait. Let me rephrase that. Little Bird is an effing medical phenomenon. Albeit slowly, her GT feeds have since increased to twelve milliliters every four hours. Not quite a half an ounce, but you'd be surprised. Because Little Bird isn't exactly so little any more. Weighing in at a wonderful seventeen pounds, she is a chunky dunk! Her rolls now have rolls, and I am in awe of every single one of them. Back in March, when she got sick, she'd lost so much. Her belly. Her second chin. Her chipmunk cheeks. I was worried sick that simply gaining that back would be too much on her. But once again, she proved me wrong, and exceeded my wildest expectations. But that's not even the half of our cause for celebration. Not long after she was born, I kindly told the NICU staff that they could shove their percentile charts up their asses. She'd grow at her own pace, not at what some stranger expected from her. For the first time since then, curiosity got the best of me, and I decided to inquire about where she stands. In terms of being a micro-preemie, she's in the eighty fifth percentile for her adjusted age. But that's nothing. Because according to the <i>full-term</i> chart, she's holding steady at <i>ten percent</i>. </span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNVYtsR5SqRbGdNLT22xhlZ8ccP3S2CBBetFAXp3g0LO2ncXiiiiKoygl82yHGgbzKhYS1YohtjUSuzRHsmk5_mvL4kXHfJ6g1wLev1AIFq0IaUEHROPxIB3m7mET9TmMCkU8i8njgPg/s1600/DSC06805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNVYtsR5SqRbGdNLT22xhlZ8ccP3S2CBBetFAXp3g0LO2ncXiiiiKoygl82yHGgbzKhYS1YohtjUSuzRHsmk5_mvL4kXHfJ6g1wLev1AIFq0IaUEHROPxIB3m7mET9TmMCkU8i8njgPg/s320/DSC06805.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Everybody's a comedian 'round here..."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewsOGuLITYTBQqca1bElK7esOIA6EeG3dVIbjeNDXp8nQaOwknFrTP4kB7hTJQw5ET460rimYGnUThC81MfmsGEUOxb7FtGGH_HFV-AftJ6XOknebz-3O3JIPh_sD1-TRlCl2ndbfvcQ/s1600/DSC06808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewsOGuLITYTBQqca1bElK7esOIA6EeG3dVIbjeNDXp8nQaOwknFrTP4kB7hTJQw5ET460rimYGnUThC81MfmsGEUOxb7FtGGH_HFV-AftJ6XOknebz-3O3JIPh_sD1-TRlCl2ndbfvcQ/s320/DSC06808.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">PICU Swagga</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEq8JxI6rdJ-fCCiId3xtSF4JHij3zWH3_dn8Ses40ZYfPwppiFQNVcKbhCfGUGNnVi1uePkrx7KPbp1Cf2mLirL-_LN7qB9ZdRqzrcjuM7x_SPAqd7Ndw8dI6fV7PLhhCjkRWZWbWTUA/s1600/DSC06809.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEq8JxI6rdJ-fCCiId3xtSF4JHij3zWH3_dn8Ses40ZYfPwppiFQNVcKbhCfGUGNnVi1uePkrx7KPbp1Cf2mLirL-_LN7qB9ZdRqzrcjuM7x_SPAqd7Ndw8dI6fV7PLhhCjkRWZWbWTUA/s320/DSC06809.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I said the <i>black</i> Corvette! And make it snappy!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Little Bird is exactly where she should be. When you think not just of the circumstances she was born under, but also the severity of her setbacks, this is ah-mazing. And this doesn't only pertain to her growth. She can now sit upright, unsupported. At an adjusted age of seven months, she's completely on target physically, too. She reacts to strangers, and easily recognizes familiar faces. She can roll from her back to her belly, although she shouldn't because of the trach. But she still attempts it, especially when she's wrastlin' the sleepy monster. She's also been workin' on her leg fitness, and regaining some of the muscle tone that was lost two months ago, as well. This is where being mechanically dependent becomes the biggest burden. Because I'm seeing for myself that if it weren't for the machine, she'd be mowing people down in a walker right about now. However, we decided not to inflict the kind of torture that is chasing after a vent'd kid on wheels upon the staff. We're settling for shopping for a new jumper seat, instead.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSCkyrDnmLNk34Vc-_GHYnwUqi4Akc728jL_cD6RMZ89jE1-DPA5gwGzL1h97myrJM5_-L5AyCtVTax7Gx_lGjpaRSQeCpGU2s3NqNSNO3gBOkw5fs1ZeE9EODUrvBTewUpFTD6q6rBs/s1600/DSC06816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSCkyrDnmLNk34Vc-_GHYnwUqi4Akc728jL_cD6RMZ89jE1-DPA5gwGzL1h97myrJM5_-L5AyCtVTax7Gx_lGjpaRSQeCpGU2s3NqNSNO3gBOkw5fs1ZeE9EODUrvBTewUpFTD6q6rBs/s320/DSC06816.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> "I look gooooooood!"</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKij9QVUCFLja-OxHLk3ySDv1BndYEh78dEkIkoE_6nQu0I6S4RWUpiVc-A4etjvu-4pmw5y9xpwdUHRWpQ1CVftXwPBHqIU34a2a_67M44M5JLGgIMcvB8zDk7YwKkO0YGW279noL5Rc/s1600/DSC06819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKij9QVUCFLja-OxHLk3ySDv1BndYEh78dEkIkoE_6nQu0I6S4RWUpiVc-A4etjvu-4pmw5y9xpwdUHRWpQ1CVftXwPBHqIU34a2a_67M44M5JLGgIMcvB8zDk7YwKkO0YGW279noL5Rc/s320/DSC06819.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Mmmmm! Bubble bath!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNYQZ03vqtUVJOQl3h5eacY7I2aOTLLobCDzV67ekIRBcNcrzZXm2qTj-bM4IlYyFzkKeFlVY5ccR428CDg125HOlGMgMOIZWYiZxoLdLJGRpDkkFvf3FX45TrcDPTlhcrIcTYocUVa-o/s1600/DSC06827.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNYQZ03vqtUVJOQl3h5eacY7I2aOTLLobCDzV67ekIRBcNcrzZXm2qTj-bM4IlYyFzkKeFlVY5ccR428CDg125HOlGMgMOIZWYiZxoLdLJGRpDkkFvf3FX45TrcDPTlhcrIcTYocUVa-o/s320/DSC06827.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Facepalm!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3GzuTFFj_DdXbT-GJoXzap0kZB3IHMb7bM6e16-WGcWtpYsufY8JJT8uTt7a8TYvV35PpcrVBAH6p-esltXYRJ8mgkAtBuQv_ZvKzNQ6GsPRegZ6nA03CcW1pi6vHH6IkiuEW4lLzio/s1600/DSC06830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3GzuTFFj_DdXbT-GJoXzap0kZB3IHMb7bM6e16-WGcWtpYsufY8JJT8uTt7a8TYvV35PpcrVBAH6p-esltXYRJ8mgkAtBuQv_ZvKzNQ6GsPRegZ6nA03CcW1pi6vHH6IkiuEW4lLzio/s320/DSC06830.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">And A Manicure!</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLL6PDEVBoOVYLrcJjOtPQ6uWNIChOc1rY_6GNt2burazRRudJ1AeQB7WWqzENzsucXEBf_VelKg0DVAwHEDwMAJSCvN-9UWVxJDLc6QjykF_52pFanaPiFbQUuEAECLC9oq3dozXapQ/s1600/DSC06833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLL6PDEVBoOVYLrcJjOtPQ6uWNIChOc1rY_6GNt2burazRRudJ1AeQB7WWqzENzsucXEBf_VelKg0DVAwHEDwMAJSCvN-9UWVxJDLc6QjykF_52pFanaPiFbQUuEAECLC9oq3dozXapQ/s320/DSC06833.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Patiently Waiting For Her Nails To Dry</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUMfUyZN0SnkDopPD3qZf-x2iIJpMxMGRYIwkTvSjsPDGKwfJvHnzR4NuREpUIuzlfKBkZJYicH3k31BOrsdrBxtPrtyP44jDujRz8gNQe6SZk2Cz5kwV1h6yqIaGCIayXKnLcrZ5Sc8/s1600/DSC06835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUMfUyZN0SnkDopPD3qZf-x2iIJpMxMGRYIwkTvSjsPDGKwfJvHnzR4NuREpUIuzlfKBkZJYicH3k31BOrsdrBxtPrtyP44jDujRz8gNQe6SZk2Cz5kwV1h6yqIaGCIayXKnLcrZ5Sc8/s320/DSC06835.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Clearly, She's Gaining On Us!</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj64bEUFlbgE7jK7n-TC4op3HmplOsSyBhv-ovkima4ylgN4Vjpr9hDHxSulaRV8a2PTKZZd6Iqu1Czq6n_kp_1OuLVXxT4U3bkZrMFPcddpEIEVvm29gQHFc6AJGtYw3_4MV0OOXvpm7k/s1600/DSC06839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj64bEUFlbgE7jK7n-TC4op3HmplOsSyBhv-ovkima4ylgN4Vjpr9hDHxSulaRV8a2PTKZZd6Iqu1Czq6n_kp_1OuLVXxT4U3bkZrMFPcddpEIEVvm29gQHFc6AJGtYw3_4MV0OOXvpm7k/s320/DSC06839.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A Remote Control Away From Being 85 Years Old</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She hasn't yet sprouted any teeth, but we are watchfully waiting. I think it might be at least a few more weeks before she does, but it certainly is about to happen. She's been drooling like a Saint Bernard, and continues to chew on everything and everyone within her reach. And her hair! Holy hell! Her hair! They had to shave so much of it to make way for scalp IV's. I feared she'd be forced to sport hats all summer in order to cover up the Mohawk she was left with. But it grew back completely, and curly! Just like her kid sister's, and also now just as dark. It totally suites her, dont'cha think? </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqUdif4TsXvChmpCKmmsHUHf3STpaQ01w6PtDPdO3DI-QEUMYhJkLJUKTOZr5BP8oDAomXHklrgmW0LFRbNdULFUtg2pekZU6Eec7bebz-nLxgOP5kd0Nz93tsKCL5nuSRtzxVAXH0Pc/s1600/DSC06841.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqUdif4TsXvChmpCKmmsHUHf3STpaQ01w6PtDPdO3DI-QEUMYhJkLJUKTOZr5BP8oDAomXHklrgmW0LFRbNdULFUtg2pekZU6Eec7bebz-nLxgOP5kd0Nz93tsKCL5nuSRtzxVAXH0Pc/s320/DSC06841.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lights! Camera! Action!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bTIIqydr1JjIg52Ga6VhOlvyupQMncVSNrXC2adCgYV0NFtdAJgNpDbIxLiE5EgfQZnSXqOW4-pltKAZ0m7pnv_EmWdWptA7TedSH32-3FgYlLUPKkgj0z66YkI0c2cEBxVcpJ9Wigg/s1600/DSC06842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bTIIqydr1JjIg52Ga6VhOlvyupQMncVSNrXC2adCgYV0NFtdAJgNpDbIxLiE5EgfQZnSXqOW4-pltKAZ0m7pnv_EmWdWptA7TedSH32-3FgYlLUPKkgj0z66YkI0c2cEBxVcpJ9Wigg/s320/DSC06842.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hell Hath No Fury </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgNzp3n7Xya2kx8i67MAaYTD2Qf-a_fq9Lt3RD_o1XvK1-IAXBmYVGqrYzpT15yrpwxMT95weR5qkaFjvrGmNwYP2zVDq3qSNR_CiPkDl_hjJ7WUE2UIwhdSVZL6MQeZH3VHPOpdtmQQ/s1600/DSC06843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgNzp3n7Xya2kx8i67MAaYTD2Qf-a_fq9Lt3RD_o1XvK1-IAXBmYVGqrYzpT15yrpwxMT95weR5qkaFjvrGmNwYP2zVDq3qSNR_CiPkDl_hjJ7WUE2UIwhdSVZL6MQeZH3VHPOpdtmQQ/s320/DSC06843.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Who Need's A Bink When You've Got 8 Feet Of Vent Circuitry?</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEhd8uzgB7kBU4ptJKRfqajDKXpMqFnmI2cDDIjQ0BYK1DfnRLjCGkJHLthM7VfI3iOenp_oBxJm3qJQ8gA-sYoDb0Q98oRnmu7E-ueLrjFwkIDCbaUzNV9IDWE8_fvA4OUBZ8uGR_wc/s1600/DSC06848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEhd8uzgB7kBU4ptJKRfqajDKXpMqFnmI2cDDIjQ0BYK1DfnRLjCGkJHLthM7VfI3iOenp_oBxJm3qJQ8gA-sYoDb0Q98oRnmu7E-ueLrjFwkIDCbaUzNV9IDWE8_fvA4OUBZ8uGR_wc/s320/DSC06848.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sporting The New PICC Line</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-KSBLFqSApWtIuCb6VKGxdkDXlxu8ku3iZXG4mPY5JLunYX3o4pHWpMLR6_p6klw16BVmZxFnw-O1ws9XWh2zxP72JtJWp27eV8DOgfFshPhdXjd7kxC5BCtrUMFZri7rP9zN1nNByY/s1600/DSC06852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-KSBLFqSApWtIuCb6VKGxdkDXlxu8ku3iZXG4mPY5JLunYX3o4pHWpMLR6_p6klw16BVmZxFnw-O1ws9XWh2zxP72JtJWp27eV8DOgfFshPhdXjd7kxC5BCtrUMFZri7rP9zN1nNByY/s320/DSC06852.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm Seeing A Pattern Here...</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUFhuY7MUXmFcqCYyjS1Ym-oON6qyk9X6Zp5GusS2ALlhLXygLC2Hbn2mwMZFykU4Vl-CpzA5m3lvb2wsYStIsKWOHm3kD5LIuWb5TOKdknOpwQ2PiW3bPrBCk9eNQi94rcP4aV1tb1g/s1600/DSCN0929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUFhuY7MUXmFcqCYyjS1Ym-oON6qyk9X6Zp5GusS2ALlhLXygLC2Hbn2mwMZFykU4Vl-CpzA5m3lvb2wsYStIsKWOHm3kD5LIuWb5TOKdknOpwQ2PiW3bPrBCk9eNQi94rcP4aV1tb1g/s320/DSCN0929.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This Smile Can Cure <i>Anything</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9enLn6dtw4_boaaoGaEoiQLyepRbGrqEMNP4shWQOz1jcSECXK5sRNyhHM33cZfF3lFFPLsrBMZ1iAjqrraqLq1Tfi4cc8vtjRG9qRdlQseXQD1I46_tNfQqa4dx1pueyyIoNFXbNZgg/s1600/DSCN0952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9enLn6dtw4_boaaoGaEoiQLyepRbGrqEMNP4shWQOz1jcSECXK5sRNyhHM33cZfF3lFFPLsrBMZ1iAjqrraqLq1Tfi4cc8vtjRG9qRdlQseXQD1I46_tNfQqa4dx1pueyyIoNFXbNZgg/s320/DSCN0952.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Baby, You're A Superstar!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As promised, Da Munkay has also been returned to her. In one piece, but rebuilt to be a damn near exact medical replica of Little Bird, herself. Complete with one of her NICU caps, as well as the very first hospital ID bracelet she ever owned. And as suspected, she found this all fascinating. After reaching for it with both hands, she promptly began to her taste test, just to make sure it was still her favorite stuffy. I'm thinking that by providing her with the ability to pull out as many tubes and wires on this thing as she pleases, she'll hopefully leave her own alone. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIPanfi9yitkofaTn5TMtkn0kS3yFtKhsrCTL81vEaZcrgYRVy06mKq4WAzuch5l8qdhVcES8haudqE0E3MrtcfEMkU0KYvgT1IfwRQEl2Yti9C9FU4uV_j_GQk3ifR9R2TZ4Kn8f7Uw/s1600/DSCN0955.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIPanfi9yitkofaTn5TMtkn0kS3yFtKhsrCTL81vEaZcrgYRVy06mKq4WAzuch5l8qdhVcES8haudqE0E3MrtcfEMkU0KYvgT1IfwRQEl2Yti9C9FU4uV_j_GQk3ifR9R2TZ4Kn8f7Uw/s320/DSCN0955.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Da Munkay! </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVaahSIlyBpLE5ceVdfUJz6p-yDCA5Wy6W-sRgKBMJmLsXYJI-r0yADzC797NWdcenFtJuzHnabOiDI7y0v_JTAVgA7v6PEgfSK4GfZDjow27UmGOxBSWz8aKRqc1w1x8Gcuu8anFguc/s1600/DSCN0963.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVaahSIlyBpLE5ceVdfUJz6p-yDCA5Wy6W-sRgKBMJmLsXYJI-r0yADzC797NWdcenFtJuzHnabOiDI7y0v_JTAVgA7v6PEgfSK4GfZDjow27UmGOxBSWz8aKRqc1w1x8Gcuu8anFguc/s320/DSCN0963.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sweet Baby Curls!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7azSCXZFnYjqvFQTh1WJsv6ZmjThqM9MB-s6UWKv1JaOZbWSeuJwFH-N8NM8Lkr5LQO0GA-bJAvCCVY60Iq3zu6JFsqcOUCL3-1zMqv411Zz5CbFV-5oKYyc4CJ7caM5EploXJ57c_o/s1600/DSCN0969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7azSCXZFnYjqvFQTh1WJsv6ZmjThqM9MB-s6UWKv1JaOZbWSeuJwFH-N8NM8Lkr5LQO0GA-bJAvCCVY60Iq3zu6JFsqcOUCL3-1zMqv411Zz5CbFV-5oKYyc4CJ7caM5EploXJ57c_o/s320/DSCN0969.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Still Hasn't Grown Into Those Eyes, And I Hope She Never Does!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4h4N9E7Iuvch9MNtFYgbDFdP97K7pphCqaX7JYyVSueDz_dKF7bJguboFMlcP6n7-BzMF3wpRFdiJJ7NU7C4ZH8MjaFZIZOEJTPMDL6hcMcgY-U8-_UnseNTl0t7AnMSWA2BGLPceNMI/s1600/DSCN0982.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4h4N9E7Iuvch9MNtFYgbDFdP97K7pphCqaX7JYyVSueDz_dKF7bJguboFMlcP6n7-BzMF3wpRFdiJJ7NU7C4ZH8MjaFZIZOEJTPMDL6hcMcgY-U8-_UnseNTl0t7AnMSWA2BGLPceNMI/s320/DSCN0982.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fishy Kissies!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWnEdxhlqNa4Hc7NMURjzXyigyEBHcWUjX33MiFV2L77DQdV1sZiazl5GGNO-Cu86YIlEI40teoWM4yMjGW50SSN5z7HE2d-J_koTn-qJY_B8x8c0MxuEiTDUmHOaIgZ3b6qfl3V6WsE/s1600/DSCN0975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWnEdxhlqNa4Hc7NMURjzXyigyEBHcWUjX33MiFV2L77DQdV1sZiazl5GGNO-Cu86YIlEI40teoWM4yMjGW50SSN5z7HE2d-J_koTn-qJY_B8x8c0MxuEiTDUmHOaIgZ3b6qfl3V6WsE/s320/DSCN0975.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"You can let go, Daddy. I got this!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSgDjcgv9gp8Vio4zghOnEePiTq0R7QzpLT8vLpWVNA1Ox2xbffz5uNKIMeTfk2dCFB5gE_5niHRLy06029iYYMTvQuLZTKWgCs0YBgR5dmfgvANslbZIBi5akYBZiC-zkid3vePjb9jY/s1600/DSCN1000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSgDjcgv9gp8Vio4zghOnEePiTq0R7QzpLT8vLpWVNA1Ox2xbffz5uNKIMeTfk2dCFB5gE_5niHRLy06029iYYMTvQuLZTKWgCs0YBgR5dmfgvANslbZIBi5akYBZiC-zkid3vePjb9jY/s320/DSCN1000.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Sleepy Monster Finally Caught Her!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Aside from purposefully left-out details about the "H" word that the staff's been chattering about a lot recently, that basically sums up the last month for us. I really don't want to go there right now, and sully an otherwise positive post. I suspect another sleepless night over this topic, anyway, so perhaps I'll manage to squeeze in the details on a separate entry. For now, let's just enjoy the awesomeness that is Little Bird's photos.</span></span><br />
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<br />Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-247186593609511902012-04-06T10:18:00.000-04:002012-04-06T10:18:56.993-04:00One Fine Day.....<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When we arrived at the PICU yesterday, we were surprised to learn that Little Bird was swapped back into the post-op bay. We must be twitchy, because no sooner did we walk in the doors did a group of nurses look at us and say, "<i>Nothing's wrong!</i> We just needed her room! She's over there, in bed number four!". We get that a lot lately. "Hello, Rachael? This is Claire, at the PICU. <i>Nothing's wrong!</i> I just wanted to let you know that we changed Little Bird's formula." Or, "Hi, MFH, it's Cathy. <i>Nothing's wrong!</i> I just wanted to see how you guys are holding up." Aftershocks. That's what I call them. Those sudden moments of terror that we still feel during any initial words of conversation between us and our team. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Little Bird was sound asleep and snoring in front of her TV. She's got a love for the Penguins of Madagascar like no other. While Grammy and I were scrubbing in, MFH approached her bedside and gave her the paternal once-over. As he did, she just so happened to sense a presence. She opened her eyes, and nearly shit herself silly to find this gigantic, bearded face in front of her own. I <i>really</i> need to start learning to ready the camera <i>before</i> we walk in. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-HnxNYq_w-vxR0sd3QcQF-mnXRs0jyrkssnLlFpNnGzi-Mu5ktR5gjx09JMldx8Eiwpz207IXVMSyVEAHj2LrOgUUOZ6o-mgzQ1KU0PS6QR12OdG2IeNUJnzTZknRDPFrx40oVis91s/s1600/DSCN0732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-HnxNYq_w-vxR0sd3QcQF-mnXRs0jyrkssnLlFpNnGzi-Mu5ktR5gjx09JMldx8Eiwpz207IXVMSyVEAHj2LrOgUUOZ6o-mgzQ1KU0PS6QR12OdG2IeNUJnzTZknRDPFrx40oVis91s/s320/DSCN0732.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I see you!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-AAiEhkXpDrWqS0eWwtX1Y37bOGik7M3MpIyAwBIdliXbHoJAyvgHnZj4ExoMVX_Jmg9m82TnZhd-l3psvKueIcjLe-wEte51onB5BurLgjPXE13mo56kBaNAefmPV7ZdVCk61BXgiLs/s1600/DSCN0733.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-AAiEhkXpDrWqS0eWwtX1Y37bOGik7M3MpIyAwBIdliXbHoJAyvgHnZj4ExoMVX_Jmg9m82TnZhd-l3psvKueIcjLe-wEte51onB5BurLgjPXE13mo56kBaNAefmPV7ZdVCk61BXgiLs/s320/DSCN0733.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"This won't hurt a bit!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifh299CO_LTRhykzoOvs5BXvdrV9Js794G573Pw_bHKWbmdOI_gTKgIcttiqyGHb8gmqhebERyJgGbcRB2AuMOWEQaAEoXPltxe-ISScB1dIHaSmSPTpp8j3OWtjWEzpT-Ga_UFexWP3Q/s1600/DSCN0736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifh299CO_LTRhykzoOvs5BXvdrV9Js794G573Pw_bHKWbmdOI_gTKgIcttiqyGHb8gmqhebERyJgGbcRB2AuMOWEQaAEoXPltxe-ISScB1dIHaSmSPTpp8j3OWtjWEzpT-Ga_UFexWP3Q/s320/DSCN0736.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Daddy is so comfy!"</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few moments later, a slew of our nurses came in to greet us with excitement. "You have <i>got</i> to see these pictures!". We left a camera at the baby's bedside in order for our friends to capture any Kodak moments that we might miss when we're not there. And boy, did they ever! The Easter Bunny was making his rounds in Danville. And what baby girl doesn't love a visit with this cute, candy-bearing creature? Little Bird. <i>That's who!</i> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She. Was. <i>Terrified</i>. At first. But after a few minutes, and some very funny voices, she ever-so-slightly warmed up to him, and posed quite proudly for some photos. Now, this is the part where ya'll are gonna wanna slap me, because I didn't bring that camera home. There's still plenty of capacity and battery power on it, and therefore, I don't have them available to upload just yet. But I promise you, the next update will include them in time for the holiday.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">During the last three weeks, we'd received several gifts from Team Little Bird. Friends from across the state and country have sent her the most thoughtful presents. A handmade prayer shawl, from one of our home health nursing coordinators. Created by the women of her church, and annointed by their Pastor, we made sure to let the staff know to keep it in her crib. A little lamb from one of our closest PICU nurses, whom Little Bird absolutely adores. A bible, and a silky, stuffed bunny that apparently looked good enough to eat (Oh, yes! She tried!) from Ben and Jeff. And while we're on the topic...Megan, if you're reading this, please forgive me. But Da Munkay's gonna get it. Surgery, that is. She's about to go under the knife and receive a mic-key button, Broviac line, tracheostomy, and emergency exploratory surgery. Hey, don't look at me! I didn't tell you to buy Little Bird her most favoritest, most snuggliest, most cutest, carried-everywhere-she-goes, tiny buddy! Seriously, she loves it. And I wanted to make sure I picked the one she trust's the most. You all have brought some of the biggest smiles to this little face, and experiencing them has been priceless to us!</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGShzipm_MUFohIsqLmeOy4eTZMr9I3R69uf_2tYhniQ9Tvb7_RIBFZEv_r4bnPjM6glH9P87X063un-hycmOcGVao0AzHDdrJ7dzIk1nsScq1qeEpUSFfCiIpen34ahFlJKX2hW_dg8/s1600/DSCN0729.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGShzipm_MUFohIsqLmeOy4eTZMr9I3R69uf_2tYhniQ9Tvb7_RIBFZEv_r4bnPjM6glH9P87X063un-hycmOcGVao0AzHDdrJ7dzIk1nsScq1qeEpUSFfCiIpen34ahFlJKX2hW_dg8/s320/DSCN0729.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"He was big, and white, and he had pink ears!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOiayDADuZ4hH6lW2cGcdYuXEHpL5o8oXUYHwaiyoIphHZsqx5oSl-Iq4-K4x6-8rZ5G1ZtZaiuAsqeViaXtNDX3yGSxHUCRZk6j3x-Qf57kQoNjNL3mFZcB4Tr2OU5AJ_D3GGaTsPJE/s1600/DSCN0700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOiayDADuZ4hH6lW2cGcdYuXEHpL5o8oXUYHwaiyoIphHZsqx5oSl-Iq4-K4x6-8rZ5G1ZtZaiuAsqeViaXtNDX3yGSxHUCRZk6j3x-Qf57kQoNjNL3mFZcB4Tr2OU5AJ_D3GGaTsPJE/s320/DSCN0700.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"We'll see how funny that bunny stunt was at three o'clock in the morning, now won't we, Mommy?"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtq-R22rWzrGevGgLQKrkOPhsKBmgmYBnZmfWRZPgIE0pFx31z22wQoV7KblGsnzUKAGmIAJ-Yx8T5gej0US7mD1AGVeMfsnbz85LgTfFYEchiY9jgNjLtJINGHNZMQZHpf7yvtSK52Y/s1600/DSCN0703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtq-R22rWzrGevGgLQKrkOPhsKBmgmYBnZmfWRZPgIE0pFx31z22wQoV7KblGsnzUKAGmIAJ-Yx8T5gej0US7mD1AGVeMfsnbz85LgTfFYEchiY9jgNjLtJINGHNZMQZHpf7yvtSK52Y/s320/DSCN0703.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Om! Nom! Nom!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDE6zVvjuzqnBKyZ840u1HamPBmc90VQJMrdHqnT0XvdNXzGifh0cMTj13Fswnx7mVaMyyu8tGPlytSPML4jZulFc-zjKQsGubu1WcDRACwkSOLgw3nXYzj35I6xaXpTKeGi6kE8mx8_o/s1600/DSCN0704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDE6zVvjuzqnBKyZ840u1HamPBmc90VQJMrdHqnT0XvdNXzGifh0cMTj13Fswnx7mVaMyyu8tGPlytSPML4jZulFc-zjKQsGubu1WcDRACwkSOLgw3nXYzj35I6xaXpTKeGi6kE8mx8_o/s320/DSCN0704.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"What do you mean, 'it's <i>not</i> edible'?!?!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLQucxPDutYaa9xaUkHXVhAOxwJEf1G27YetKiSG8Cni4ENcilFOPFhea9ND1DUuXBmLgAbFk3zy0fvDDwfXN0C1bPmu6NyJ3dNkzSOxrTbbJJSahfzBXoaTJE6-rVJsE-KYtLSyFPBas/s1600/DSCN0722.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLQucxPDutYaa9xaUkHXVhAOxwJEf1G27YetKiSG8Cni4ENcilFOPFhea9ND1DUuXBmLgAbFk3zy0fvDDwfXN0C1bPmu6NyJ3dNkzSOxrTbbJJSahfzBXoaTJE6-rVJsE-KYtLSyFPBas/s320/DSCN0722.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"And then, the little baby stopped chewing on her mommy's hand long enough to take a picture!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We hung out with her for a while, and caught her up on all the gossip of the day. Number Four's new boyfriend. Number One getting behind the wheel for the very first time. Number Five's new rash. Number Two and Number Three's shenanigans. Daddy's renewed rivalry with the next door neighbor. Mommy's nervous breakdown. And <i>of course</i>, everyone who has been praying for Little Bird's recovery. By the way, she told me to relay a message to you guys. She says, "Uhhh uhhhh uhhhhhh uhhh!". In trach<i>-ese</i>, this equates to <i>"Thank you so much for praying for me! I can't wait to come home and give each of you a great big hug! I have the best friends and family in the </i>whole wide world<i>!!!"</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i> </i></span></span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Speaking of home, well. See, that's been a bit of a dark cloud over us. And I'll explain it all in a few minutes. First, let me tell you about everything else we did. Amanda came in and asked us the most amazing question ever.<i> "Would you like to take Little Bird outside, for a walk?"</i> Oh. Hell. <i>YES!!!!</i></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKIBTMRXs57bgxAKF0CBb5isCw44aFPr62LPAxukGagqyAcW-lgp6YkEW9GJJyhH08xbtJLylyQfo_boPd8KC02-_0xGt3RgbEvdhUou4SvzntTvahGCrfrPMvPGaEDus0Uf1vmqcwsTQ/s1600/DSCN0767.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKIBTMRXs57bgxAKF0CBb5isCw44aFPr62LPAxukGagqyAcW-lgp6YkEW9GJJyhH08xbtJLylyQfo_boPd8KC02-_0xGt3RgbEvdhUou4SvzntTvahGCrfrPMvPGaEDus0Uf1vmqcwsTQ/s320/DSCN0767.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Outside? For real? You're pullin' my leg!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIc1iv6T1b7WA7wTnktkR-T1WLzbB9Gzk8xrhhHApDR78z4US7_SIC-U9rJK4W3FhD-Q5b0RD2dczDf2qi7EM4w2nxpREuOUS0PO77T6iUNJCGVsKyXD3eLf8L0jsHIOfFCxYF47uEtXU/s1600/DSCN0770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIc1iv6T1b7WA7wTnktkR-T1WLzbB9Gzk8xrhhHApDR78z4US7_SIC-U9rJK4W3FhD-Q5b0RD2dczDf2qi7EM4w2nxpREuOUS0PO77T6iUNJCGVsKyXD3eLf8L0jsHIOfFCxYF47uEtXU/s320/DSCN0770.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'll be right back!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1YEdmOXT7AxR-IJNZOCnvTMYdsNlw2hmGxN3hMLyrDqFcPyKkj7VKjiVB1T0m46oYrniX-u7Lok_2AF-R2aQJgK5F-zEF22HFMmcGZ_dwjUp5R_wJovJkkevVThr6E0kdVVW6J6C7wc/s320/DSCN0772.JPG" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Oh <i>snap</i>! The floor just <i>moved</i>!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1YEdmOXT7AxR-IJNZOCnvTMYdsNlw2hmGxN3hMLyrDqFcPyKkj7VKjiVB1T0m46oYrniX-u7Lok_2AF-R2aQJgK5F-zEF22HFMmcGZ_dwjUp5R_wJovJkkevVThr6E0kdVVW6J6C7wc/s1600/DSCN0772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPHrsizbSdKTFaEf6NAiA9f7bEfv3C6q2nCV_YLy7XQfSXuyR5SCPoyEG79KiIhfeK4VPg2ewuURvNiqW4KmRKs-xdprngIthZGZJpXA1Z_jcigwZ814ihcn72GaGdz3qqS_WTfssD3k/s1600/DSCN0774.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPHrsizbSdKTFaEf6NAiA9f7bEfv3C6q2nCV_YLy7XQfSXuyR5SCPoyEG79KiIhfeK4VPg2ewuURvNiqW4KmRKs-xdprngIthZGZJpXA1Z_jcigwZ814ihcn72GaGdz3qqS_WTfssD3k/s320/DSCN0774.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Listen! No dropping the baby, big guy! Got it?"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlUrhF6G-pI9dG9JJy7tdAoZo6Q3tXnQeKQx_NWZrBXRlfd_fIxWgbISSUpseCu19rpnwA2RT5bNE4HygHXfGGXR4uM7mrBe-UAvQ_Ejg9wxEssF7dlXH7MRb0ld1BOtMs3t4I1m_4W4/s1600/DSCN0775.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlUrhF6G-pI9dG9JJy7tdAoZo6Q3tXnQeKQx_NWZrBXRlfd_fIxWgbISSUpseCu19rpnwA2RT5bNE4HygHXfGGXR4uM7mrBe-UAvQ_Ejg9wxEssF7dlXH7MRb0ld1BOtMs3t4I1m_4W4/s320/DSCN0775.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"C'mon, Dad! One sip of coffee! Mom doesn't even half to know!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Aside from her car trial, which was for training purposes, this was her first official outing. Just for fun! It took us all of five minutes to change her diaper, scoop her and her posse up, and we were out of that unit so fast we left a dust cloud in our wake. Little Bird was <i>so</i> excited, and so <i>curious</i>. We took a private elevator down to the lobby, but when it's doors opened up, she greeted all of the passersby with some of the best expressions ever. But then, we walked out into the sunshine and warm breeze, and she kinda lost it for a minute. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGj3YKkXk9BmV93V7wHWAlRQEyQ9cQBvw76TOeisGbUXFoaag4UOwJWDYBDIcSgh3LOIMdhuaAmI2IS8dnlWhkVPC6QxknBhIPU-NvewK8TDO7itZKF9HVnlEKCaz6wOViDRAas0NVuho/s1600/DSCN0779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGj3YKkXk9BmV93V7wHWAlRQEyQ9cQBvw76TOeisGbUXFoaag4UOwJWDYBDIcSgh3LOIMdhuaAmI2IS8dnlWhkVPC6QxknBhIPU-NvewK8TDO7itZKF9HVnlEKCaz6wOViDRAas0NVuho/s320/DSCN0779.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Adjusting To This New Scenery</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsbOi344-GDT4jWI4xgwGgVG231uR8SdAOBCk7xgYsCrJr9Ee04FMLt2cQlDA066LMrG_svOS6JEWUH2l3Dyuwk368aIs1re8czognegGM7jg_xFX6wRUCWkwr32VJSB-WPUa6DaKSNYI/s1600/DSCN0782.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsbOi344-GDT4jWI4xgwGgVG231uR8SdAOBCk7xgYsCrJr9Ee04FMLt2cQlDA066LMrG_svOS6JEWUH2l3Dyuwk368aIs1re8czognegGM7jg_xFX6wRUCWkwr32VJSB-WPUa6DaKSNYI/s320/DSCN0782.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Turn the lights down! It's too bright out here!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She isn't very fond of the brightness. And to be painfully honest, the breeze on her skin scared her. She's spent her entire life inside the confines of a hospital, so this is to be expected. But MFH was holding her, and kept her safe from all things frightening. Within a few moments, she eased up enough to put away her pout and take a look at the water fountain and fellow feathered friends. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">There was no chance that I was going to allow Dad to steal all the glory, and so Amanda assisted us in switching her off to me. We sat on the patio talking while the baby basked in this first real taste of what lies beyond the boundaries of her environment. And it didn't take her long at all to become damn near giddy with excitement and curiosity. Kicking her legs and bouncing on my knee. She had a blast. We all did!</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHlcH52CnLe1lxQkqqYvMyOxKh4WXHuPAk1R3G3vA_PWEU4hvwUZYK2wnnSoOdhj0KJTm5skzAi6IMI0DBUxkmhDSvtSCwkRJ2Ny-vjUpgtbU19GdGjhwqoI6n8lWvGX47RWGdE8A9kko/s1600/DSCN0784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHlcH52CnLe1lxQkqqYvMyOxKh4WXHuPAk1R3G3vA_PWEU4hvwUZYK2wnnSoOdhj0KJTm5skzAi6IMI0DBUxkmhDSvtSCwkRJ2Ny-vjUpgtbU19GdGjhwqoI6n8lWvGX47RWGdE8A9kko/s320/DSCN0784.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Hmmm! I tink I like it out here!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlx4KhkkXWSquB9_8VLILyOv693kwD_dkgQsMU0NHpTefQKC8U3CtmXwjlGs241yGP3mHCALW3HJMn6rF-ORzpQn_ZqPrRfv3sB5di4eAOBMIW1khqQDwn_SRxoULh30-z1KLdxxXGClA/s1600/DSCN0785.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlx4KhkkXWSquB9_8VLILyOv693kwD_dkgQsMU0NHpTefQKC8U3CtmXwjlGs241yGP3mHCALW3HJMn6rF-ORzpQn_ZqPrRfv3sB5di4eAOBMIW1khqQDwn_SRxoULh30-z1KLdxxXGClA/s320/DSCN0785.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">What A Miracle Looks Like</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEe8xV1vyFL0R-fK5BL_yjdDNqG9rvlp8JDR1okZWDN4TZ8yO1lRilDXHUBqGe3LQrazJCwZ3K2LH2hPos70y8_9CppdkMLuvNUXrU9P4VdB6NEy8cyDELyEhNoWuu5OsFVQd4Kw2xWg/s1600/DSCN0786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEe8xV1vyFL0R-fK5BL_yjdDNqG9rvlp8JDR1okZWDN4TZ8yO1lRilDXHUBqGe3LQrazJCwZ3K2LH2hPos70y8_9CppdkMLuvNUXrU9P4VdB6NEy8cyDELyEhNoWuu5OsFVQd4Kw2xWg/s320/DSCN0786.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"To da tur-toe pond!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I suppose it was this taste of freedom that led me to ask Amanda something I already knew the answer to anyway, but still wanted to confirm it, one more time. Was there even the most remote possibility of being able to bring Little Bird home before her first birthday? On Monday, she'll turn nine months old. We're coming upon planning a celebration for her. I guess what I really wanted to know was, would it be in our backyard, or the rooftop playground of this facility? Amanda has always, always been very forthcoming with us, and I knew she would be again. She looked at me, and shook her head. "There is none". It's going to take at least the next three months to simply build her back up to where she needs to be in terms of her nutritional intake and weight gain. And that'll be right before we begin the next step of more surgeries to hopefully fully repair the damage that the ischemia caused. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I simply nodded, in agreement with her. I want nothing more than Little Bird's complete recovery, first and foremost. Even though it is more than mildly devastating to hear that home is now a land far, far away, the fact that Little Bird was sitting on my lap, outside? Is nothing short of miraculous. So what? So what if we've decided to coordinate with our medical family, and plan a birthday party of epic proportions within the PICU? So what if we are organizing the most spectacular bash any group of wee ones could ever imagine? Complete with cake, and ice cream, and TPN galore. We have so much to revel in, in her simply being alive right now. Little Bird's first birthday will be of the stuff dreams are made of. We've already begin to debate a theme. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">With that, we decided that it was starting to get a bit chilly, and brought the baby back inside. The turtle pond in the lobby is beautiful. Little Bird got a kick out of watching the water flow through these ceramic reptiles.It was also starting to put her to sleep, so we headed upstairs for nap time. But not before letting Little Bird make her rounds on the floor and visit with her BFF's. I'm fairly certain that she's met more people in nine short months than I have in nearly thirty four years. Shy just isn't a word used to describe her! </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPrVbKWeSl8Sv2f5TxtEUKJoLmm2bUZELxyIOOh-F1bJojKypgUYPF2LcW6zIrbR3Oqg-Cxr0yLbJDKs2xaOsuceojm5n3r83L8KNtBnvyM0zzzy8yFkQ5o4sEDG-_K0OaCeTh9yxHML0/s1600/DSCN0797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPrVbKWeSl8Sv2f5TxtEUKJoLmm2bUZELxyIOOh-F1bJojKypgUYPF2LcW6zIrbR3Oqg-Cxr0yLbJDKs2xaOsuceojm5n3r83L8KNtBnvyM0zzzy8yFkQ5o4sEDG-_K0OaCeTh9yxHML0/s320/DSCN0797.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Let's do this again sometime!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm free tomorrow afternoon. How's that sound?"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We got back to her room, and Amanda prepped her GT feed and TPN while we tucked her in. She's starting to teeth, and will orally attack anything that comes within her grasp like a rabid kitten. First the innocent and sweet little smile. Then the clutch. Before you know it, you're missing a couple of fingers and your wedding ring. But, with or without teeth, she can chew on my hands <i>any</i> day! Who can say no to that face? </span></span><br />
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</span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-76973358343279911792012-04-06T10:16:00.000-04:002012-04-06T10:16:22.778-04:00There Are No Coincidences......<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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 <a href="http://rachaelsanko.blogspot.com/2011/11/dreams-and-nightmares.html" target="_blank">written about previously</a>. 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."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. <br />
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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. <br />
</span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-37840737268410412452012-03-23T04:17:00.001-04:002012-03-23T17:30:37.477-04:00"Priceless Life....."<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I've tried to write this entry so many times already. And each time, I get to a certain point, but can not find the words. It's so difficult to describe, that of which I can not understand. To differentiate what is real, and what is a dream. Where do I even begin? Thirteen days ago, we were on the brink of freedom. T-minus forty two hours to discharge. We were a go for take off. Less than half a day later, Little Bird was fighting for her life. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On Wednesday, March 7th, we completed our car trial. Our final to-do before the big day. It was the very first time that Little Bird got to experience the sunshine on her face. A breeze on her cheek. The very first time she stepped foot outside of a hospital in over eight months. She loved every minute of it. So curious, as we wheeled her and her posse of equipment downstairs towards the parking lot. Smiling at people on the elevator. So proud of herself when we got back on the floor, and friends circled around, hoping for a peek of her sitting in her car seat. And that was another first for her, too. <i>Such</i> a <i>wonderful</i> day. For a split second, it almost felt real. It almost felt true. We were <i>so</i> close.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Three days later, Little Bird was so <i>happy</i>. Sitting at the nurses station that Saturday afternoon. Eating Popsicles. Wearing a pager, and a 'charge nurse' name tag. Greeting visitors as they walked into the PICU. The biggest, goofiest grin in the whole wide world. Our family was so busy. Coordinating with our home nursing team. Organizing Monday morning's game plan. One of our nurses would meet us here first thing in the morning, and accompany us to and from the hospital. Our respiratory therapist would be here by the time we walked in the door with the baby. Our nurse managers would arrive shortly afterward. We were going to give the older kids the day off from school. It was going to be such an amazing milestone. <i>Little Bird was finally coming home</i>! And then, all of a sudden. Everything slipped thru our fingers like a thousand grains of sand. Spring ahead. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">An epic argument with my oldest son that night. The worst we'd ever had. Stupid. Selfish. Overbearing. I knew it all, and had to have the last word. Feigning sleep on the loveseat. Number Five, on the couch next to me. Footsteps on the stairs. Was Number One coming back for round two? I didn't open my eyes until I heard MFH's voice. Confused. Half-asleep. Pacing in place. <i>"I don't know if this really happened, but I think the hospital just called."</i></span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Something was terribly wrong. Little Bird. Lethargic. Feverish. Her belly began to distend. An initial white cell count thru the roof. They started broad spectrum antibiotics immediately, but needed our consent for further treatment. A CT scan with contrast. Wait by the phone. We thought it was a joke. A farewell prank by the staff. One for the road. Or even perhaps Marie. She was known to throw emergency scenarios at us during training. It was four o'clock in the morning. Nothing ever makes sense at four o'clock in the morning. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">After a while, they didn't call back. So we called them. Linda was her nurse. And she did not mince words. <i>"Listen, you don't want to walk in here right now and see her like this.</i>" Nobody knew anything. The scan showed a few ominous air pockets, but nothing more. Maybe somebody mixed up her bolus and continuous night feeds. I almost did that once, myself. But it didn't make sense. High white cell count equals infection. Fever and lethargy equal infection. Distention to fifty two centimeters equals.....<i>"Oh, God! Call them back! Call them back RIGHT NOW! It's NEC! IT'S NEC!!!"</i></span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Necrotizing enterocolitis. We'd been there before. Long ago, in the NICU. And Linda understood our urgency. She was already leaning on the doctors for us, thinking the same. Do you know the odds of this happening again? The odds of it striking at eight months old, and for the second time? <i>Less than</i> four percent. Her odds of surviving a perforation? Virtually non-existent.</span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">MFH left to gas up the van when a resident on the floor called back. They needed more consent. Anesthesia. An emergency laparotomy. Go in, and see what's going on. Release the pressure that continued to build. Fix her. Make her better. By the time he got back, I could barely say the words to tell MFH what was going on. Very real, tangible pain. Like someone was physically crushing my soul. They said it would only take an hour. Hour and a half tops. Should we pack a bag? Bring the binder? It's funny, the way you forget everything you ever knew when someone tells you that your baby is going to die. We wouldn't get the chance to question anything. The next phone call came from the surgeon. He stopped mid-way thru the procedure, refusing to put her thru any more.<i> "Mrs. Sanko, how quickly can you get here?"</i></span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The elevator door opened. The lights on the floor were dimmed. Not a soul in sight. They were all in Little Bird's room. She'd just come back from surgery. They ushered us inside. I heard her before I saw her. Talking thru her trach. Her head, turning from left to right. Her eyes blank. Febrile. Delirious. Sweating. Shivering. Hurting. A spider web of IV lines. More than we'd ever seen before. Doctors. Nurses. Surgeons. All crying. I gave her my finger, and she squeezed it with such ferocity. <i>"No boo-boo's, Sweet Love. It's just a dream."</i> There wasn't even time to close the wound. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Her surgeon came over after a few minutes. Trying to explain what happened. A stroke in her bowel. Loss of circulation. Necrosis. Spreading like wild fire. He removed as much infection as he could, but didn't think he was able to get it all. <i>"When will you know? When will you go back in and check?"</i> He paused for a moment. <i>"That's what I'm trying to say. I'm so sorry."</i> And all I could think of was priceless life. I didn't even realize that I'd said it out loud until I felt her respiratory therapist put her hand on my back. <i>"Priceless life"</i>, and everyone just stared at me. <i>"It's what her name means. We didn't know that until the other day, when we looked it up. We didn't know that when we gave it to her. Priceless life."</i></span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She was in septic and hypovolemic shock. Ninety percent of her small bowel and colon. Gone. Where else could it even spread? The only place left was her stomach. And so much black tar coming out of the drainage tubes. They were giving her a king's ransom worth of powerful pain medications, at our full discretion. Yet her heart rate was still hovering over two hundred. Full vent support. Blood transfusions. Three different antibiotics. Fluids. Glucose. Anything they could give her to keep her comfortable. I asked if she was getting Tylenol for the fever. She wasn't. There was nowhere to give it. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And she was so tired. But she wouldn't sleep. She seemed so scared to close her eyes. We stood there, holding her hands, talking to her. For <i>hours</i>. Giving her kisses. Wiping her down with cold washcloths. Playing music. Telling her we'd watch over her if she chose to rest. Finally, at three o'clock on Monday morning, she did. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Her nurse made sure to silence the alarms on all of the machines. But in that moment, I'd wished I was blind. For the next several hours, we stared at the numbers on the monitors. The fluids through the tubes. Her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the ventilator. The clock, intimidating us from across the room. Every so often, her breathing pattern would change, and become distressed. Her nurse would look at us, and raise her eyebrow, and we'd nod. And she'd give her another dose. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">After a while, her vitals actually began to steady. I took a walk outside and sat in the van for a long time, just staring. Thinking. Months ago, I was sitting in the waiting room of my doctor's office when a woman across from me began describing to everyone else an experience she'd had. She was older, and graying, and there for a re-check. She said she'd gone in for a plastic surgery procedure, and her heart stopped on the operating room table. Clinically dead for nearly seven minutes. A bright white light. Feelings of love, and of warmth. I was actually trying to tune her out, until she continued further. She said there was a voice, neither male nor female. And this voice told her that unless her mother was there to greet her, she couldn't stay, and would have to go back. She said there shadows everywhere, and that she walked thru them, searching for the one that was most familiar to her. Once again, she heard the voice, as it instructed her to return. And I suddenly, I couldn't distract myself from her. But that quickly, she was called back by the nurse. Sitting in the parking lot that night, I thought about her. About what she'd said. I couldn't help but wonder who was waiting for Little Bird. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A team of residents came in and explained to us that if she could remain stabile, her surgeon was going to go back in that afternoon and take another look. Make sure he'd gotten all of the infection out. "<i>Could she handle that</i>?" By the looks of things, they thought she would. Her blood gases were beginning to prove that the lactic acid level in her little body was decreasing. The antibiotics were starting to work. For the first time since July 9th, 2011, I was truly thankful for the machines. For the IV lines, and drainage tubes, and wires. A ventilator, and a feeding tube, and a trach that were no longer the enemy. Everything happens for a reason, and I finally understood why all of that was meant to be. <i>Everything</i> is eventual. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few hours later, her nurses told us to go home. Do what needed to be done. Talk to the kids. We'd left them in absolute in chaos. Call the family. Make sure they knew what was happening. <i>Prepare</i>. But how do you do that? There is no way. There is <i>nothing</i> in this universe that could<i> ever</i> prepare a parent or a sibling for something like <i>this</i>. Little Bird was still asleep. Stabile. And not yet scheduled for the operating room again. No one knew when it would be. Her fate was hanging on a phone call from a few hundred miles away. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We weren't in the door an hour when it began to ring. The staff called an emergency meeting. They weren't going to attempt another surgery. Not yet. It was too soon, and she needed more time to heal as best she could. She was still asleep, but it wasn't a coma. She continued to respond to pain. If she held on until Tuesday, then they'd go back in. Check. Insert a central line. They'd already booked the suite for nine thirty the following morning. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We tried to do Marie's job. It's a lot harder than it seems. A thousand phone calls. The school. Our pediatrician. Our in-home nursing team. The home health supply company. Our respiratory therapist. Her crib is still in the living room. Decorated in pink, and waiting for her. Supplies are still arriving as I type this. The pharmacy called. Her prescriptions are ready to be picked up. Calendars on the fridge. Our nursing schedule. Outpatient appointments. Cases of formula in the foyer. <i>"What do I do with all of this? Because it's here, but she isn't." </i></span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The house was so quiet. Nineteen hundred square feet. Seven people. Not a sound. Number Five doesn't understand. "<i>Why can't heaven fix her? </i><i>The hospital has band aids.</i>" She's never even lost a pet. How do you make a four year old comprehend the impossible? And the older kids. Not knowing what to do or what to say. The look of panic on their faces every time the phone rang. Them, standing watch over their parents. Sleep is the enemy for all of us. So hard to get there, and when we wake up, it's last Sunday night all over again. Instant anxiety. It all comes rushing back. I stayed on the loveseat, watching the clock. They rotated on the couch across from me. Taking turns. Staring at the television. Not realizing that they are in high school, and were watching Wow Wow Wubzy. Even when I ordered them to bed, they didn't leave. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Stuck behind a school bus, on Tuesday morning. We didn't get there in time. They'd just taken her into surgery when we arrived at the front desk. When they said it would be four more hours, we knew that they were suspecting the worst. I couldn't sit in her cribless room. We went out to the car to wait. Sitting in the parking lot. Watching the crow. Perched in the tree across from us. Cawing. Staring. It flew directly over us. And then the cell phone rang, and it felt like my heart exploded inside of my chest. Her nurse, Amanda. <i>"She's out of surgery. They need to speak to you. Come upstairs."</i> It had only been twenty minutes. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We damn near crawled back inside and up to her floor. Not knowing what we were about to walk into. Not wanting to know. We got to the desk, and Marie was there, waiting for us. Once the shaking started, I couldn't make it stop. She led us into Little Bird's room, and her surgeon came in behind us. All of the lights were out, and nobody was turning them on. He leaned up against the wall. I looked at Marie, at MFH. At the surgeon. At the floor. Oh my <i>God</i>. Here it comes. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>"</i><i>Forty centimeters"</i>. The swelling had gone down enough for him to be able to get an accurate measure. That is what remains of her small bowel. The infection did not infiltrate her stomach, like he'd thought it did. The antibiotics were fending it off. He'd spent the last forty eight hours consulting with the University of Pittsburgh. Directions on what to do next. Instructions on how to put Little Bird back together again. Whether or not she'd be transported across the state. Whether or not she'd be considered a candidate for a transplant. Whether or not twenty inches would be enough. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They advised that it was. Enough for an attempt to repair the damage. He was going to give her another day. Another interval to rest. Until Thursday. Resection the piece, and place an ostomy bag. He didn't insert the central line yet. She wasn't able to tolerate anesthesia that long. So he scheduled that for Thursday, too. Her arterial line was still intact. And he suspects an underlying condition. A blood clotting disorder that may have caused all of this. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They brought her back from the operating room a few minutes later. Tiny. Fragile. Pail. Swollen. Unconscious. But still responsive. Amanda and Linda got her situated while we spoke with Marie in the hallway. I knew we were out of the vent program. But I needed to hear it from her. She just hugged me. Apologized. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't anybody's fault. No rhyme or reason. It simply just is. And I want to be angry. Believe me, I do. Because being angry feels a hell of a lot better than being destroyed.</span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When we went back in, Little Bird knew we were there. She heard us talking to her. Felt us kissing her face and fingers. Smelling her hair. So much of that is now gone, too. Shaved away. To make room for the scalp IV's. And she started talking thru her trach. Almost singing. A strange, rhythmic pattern we've never heard from her before. Like she was trying to tell us something. She squeezed my finger again, very tightly. We spent a long time talking to the nurses. They said they'd received word on Sunday night. They called each other at home. Started a prayer chain between them. <i>"She won't give in. Not to this. She's been thru so much. If anyone can do this, it's Little Bird."</i> </span></span><br />
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</div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On Wednesday morning, Little Bird's pediatric specialist came in to check on her. Her numbers were good. Her blood gases showed real improvement. She decided to lower the vent support. See what she could tolerate. Amazingly, she adjusted to her previous CPAP settings. <i>"I can't believe this! There is no medical explanation for it. Everything in her chart says she should not be here right now." </i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But her arterial line had collapsed, along with just about every other IV site they'd attempted. And they needed something more permanent. They'd inserted a PICC line. By Thursday morning, she was still stabile, but the PICC line had also deteriorated. Her surgeon cancelled the previous plans for that day, and instead opted to take her in and place a Broviac. A catheter in her heart. They'd wait until Monday afternoon before trying to resection her bowel. Too many major surgeries, back to back already. And they weren't operating on just any patient. Little Bird is very much their baby, too. There is no such thing as strangers. <i>Not</i> anymore. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On Friday, she started to come around. Not quite fully awake. But more responsive. Half smiles. Trying to keep her eyes open. They started TPN and she tolerated it a hell of a lot better than anyone expected she would. The central line was also steady, and she wasn't rejecting it. We spoke to her anesthesiologist, to give consent to Monday's surgery. He read her chart, and immediately thought she wouldn't be able to handle another procedure. But when he walked into her room that evening, he changed his stance. He didn't expect to see her, kicking her legs. Looking around. Nobody really did. But she was. <i>"I don't know any other way to say this, but your daughter was touched by the divine.</i>"</span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On Saturday, Little Bird was back. Alert. Smiling. Talking thru her trach again. As soon as we walked in, she turned her head toward us, started gabbing, and wouldn't stop. Ironic, how God would let her in on the biggest secrets. The little girl, who can't speak, but knows what she saw. The tiny baby, patiently waiting for an entire medical community to figure out how to fix her broken body. Yet, still finds it within herself, somewhere, to smile. She may be in pieces, but her will is as strong as it ever was. I'd asked her, last Sunday night, to give me a sign. <i>"Tell me what to do, Sweet Love. Tell Mommy. What do you need me to do?"</i> When she squeezed my finger, and looked me in the eye, I knew what she wanted. To be here. Regardless of all of the pain. All of the needles. All of the surgeries. She has God's ear, and he's listening. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She had her tenth surgery on Monday afternoon. As far as anyone could tell, so far, it's considered to be a success. They were able to resection the forty centimeters of small bowel as instructed. The specialists at Pittsburgh said to give her some more time to heal. As early as today, her team will attempt to reintroduce formula to her digestive system. If she is able to tolerate it, they will continue to do so, slowly increasing her amounts until her vitals signal for them to stop. After that, we wait. Three to six months of healing before she begins a series of major surgeries aimed at stretching what's left of her intestinal tract. And she will need every second of that time to recover. Her efforts at breathing CPAP were proving to be too much too soon, and so she is back on vent pressure support. The fever still lingers. And we've yet to learn the full extent of damage to her other major organs. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Tomorrow isn't something we speak of anymore. Even those first precious ten days of her life were nowhere near as delicate as it is right now. And I can still feel it. That fist around my heart. That lump in my throat. The phone rings, and I can't breathe. Home is another word we've yet to mention. And honestly, it no longer even matters. My daughter is alive right now. Thirteen days ago, I'd have given anything to have her with us on this one. And I meant it. Three to six more months? I'll do that, standing on my head. I'll do <i>anything</i>. </span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-30407229191764785572012-03-04T05:01:00.000-05:002012-03-04T05:01:57.390-05:00Slumber Parties and Murphy's Law....<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On Friday morning, MFH and I packed our jammies, and headed to the PICU for a much anticipated and long awaited slumber party with Little Bird. We've just completed months worth of medical training, and we were pretty excited to show off what we know while rooming in with her. The ultimate measure of whether or not we can successfully handle bringing her home, this is a designated twenty four hours of only the two of us, taking on every aspect of her care ourselves. No help from the staff unless we cried 'uncle', and pushed the panic button. The nurses were to be viewed as our 911.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Days ago, the floor became so packed with patients that we were bumped over to the post-op observation room. We were hoping that our vent program coordinator would have been able to pull off getting us a private room for this, but when we walked in, we knew we were shit out of luck. She was still in the bay; the busiest area in there next to the nurses station. And our one shred of hope to get any kind of rest during this trial was bumped out the window. But the issue wasn't so much about privacy. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As soon as we approached the baby, we noticed that she was clad only in a diaper, and had a splint on her left leg. An IV line had been placed just before we got there. My eyes immediately sought out the contents of her suction canister, which pretty much explained why before any of the nurses had the chance to. Tracheitis, again. Something that she'll always be prone to getting. Kind of like strep throat, but with an alarmingly high risk of spreading to her lungs. And she was not a happy camper. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKQm_71fSarGymPNbKQP3ZbPp3rlpbe8UxKStPDRwLQR-TL0lbdPgPtJeMNwO6_a29Ubj_nN6EfsMoaLONqzGyrpdwvYQOnSHg3VxN4ueGQ7sq3NGntTAS0BiNySjSnw041lnWaouxDGU/s1600/DSCN0419.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKQm_71fSarGymPNbKQP3ZbPp3rlpbe8UxKStPDRwLQR-TL0lbdPgPtJeMNwO6_a29Ubj_nN6EfsMoaLONqzGyrpdwvYQOnSHg3VxN4ueGQ7sq3NGntTAS0BiNySjSnw041lnWaouxDGU/s320/DSCN0419.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shhhh!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVSDxcESuDdHfbHIrUrz1kWA7odCCZ31RElnOb7WbXd2DuvgrjTENhF5X-J-bWcp42nv5nDRbgmPxBMAiKQk64WDr6U9_f10rvqyVLykX4G02wM1sC8yqhgIJO7HopX1nOs7DMzkZd-0/s1600/DSCN0440.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVSDxcESuDdHfbHIrUrz1kWA7odCCZ31RElnOb7WbXd2DuvgrjTENhF5X-J-bWcp42nv5nDRbgmPxBMAiKQk64WDr6U9_f10rvqyVLykX4G02wM1sC8yqhgIJO7HopX1nOs7DMzkZd-0/s320/DSCN0440.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I doesn't feel good too-day, Momma"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1IcQgTnP-e9EQNSO0D02WenoEqpIp3xgJ-Oyqxg4KAUOW2EYHiT8Q1VaA9TyWgT4PRd0MnLKuDIreYCehtPBWQmcgSF27tlfYNMc1YDvP9CWrYYM2Dr6mW5FLiJtUu-ChCia0CPkRvUo/s1600/DSCN0445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1IcQgTnP-e9EQNSO0D02WenoEqpIp3xgJ-Oyqxg4KAUOW2EYHiT8Q1VaA9TyWgT4PRd0MnLKuDIreYCehtPBWQmcgSF27tlfYNMc1YDvP9CWrYYM2Dr6mW5FLiJtUu-ChCia0CPkRvUo/s320/DSCN0445.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Can I has dem luvins?"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Sweaty with a fever, and unable to get comfortable, she looked a hot, temperamental mess in between the saddest boo-boo face I ever saw. Chad (our shift nurse), came over to fill us in. She hadn't slept at all the night before, and she thumped her splint off of the mattress in a means to tell us to pipe down. The attending physician on the floor ordered a course of high-dose antibiotics, along with the standard Tylenol to help break her temperature, and ease the pain she has when she coughs. At that point, we expected our overnight plans to be cancelled. A few minutes later, the senior respiratory technician from our home care company arrived with more of our equipment. We were also supposed to take a little road trip. A car trial of packing up Little Bird and her posse, and taking a spin around the parking lot to ensure that we are prepared to do this without future outings turning into Chinese fire drills. Right after he walked us thru the mechanics of our oxygen cylinder and heated moisture exchange, Marie walked in wearing a facial expression that said it all. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Because the baby is now sick, our car trial was understandably postponed until Monday afternoon. We both totally expected to hear that. We also assumed that because of the trach bug, our date of discharge was instantly pushed back. But our program coordinator told us not to panic....yet. To know Marie is to love her, and I can tell ya, the woman certainly knows how to make things happen in that hospital. But I'm beginning to think that this may even be beyond her control. She said that it was yet to be decided, but that as it stood, they were pumping forty eight hours worth of the strongest possible medicine into Little Bird, in hopes that it would clear up this infection faster. Our in-home nurses are scheduled, along with our respiratory therapist, to meet us here at home on Tuesday. Nobody wanted to make any hasty judgement calls. She told us to stand by with an open ear, because Tuesday was still what we were shooting for. But we wouldn't know for sure until Monday, pre-driving test. So, we signed the paperwork, agreeing to the terms of the room-in, and Marie left for the weekend.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few minutes later, our audiologist came by. Last week, Little Bird underwent the standard newborn hearing screening, and very much to our surprise, failed the exam in her left ear. Chad tried to make us feel better, and blamed the results on possible background noise from the vent. Though, at the time, she was utilizing a Mapleson bag, which is ten times quieter than her machine. I couldn't stop worrying about this. Not that it would change a thing. If Little Bird didn't have ears at all, she'd still be perfect in my eyes. I wouldn't love her any less. Still, it was really unexpected, especially at the last minute. MFH and I always knew that she could hear...something. From day one, she's always responded to our voices. We see her startle with loud of sudden sounds. So we knew that, worst case scenario, it would be a partial loss.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhLUWACwuv1g-Ypmv8ozJO6pzXIeoWVFhgdDGVZenIeMH9YBCzrqCht1huYk7mK-PpwsMIroBa00kuzqJOzEo7_VADeafyMW8qoFsIsJ-HsBfnSIevAWegPy_xO0AfRYBSrFDEKkaVjY/s1600/DSC06716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhLUWACwuv1g-Ypmv8ozJO6pzXIeoWVFhgdDGVZenIeMH9YBCzrqCht1huYk7mK-PpwsMIroBa00kuzqJOzEo7_VADeafyMW8qoFsIsJ-HsBfnSIevAWegPy_xO0AfRYBSrFDEKkaVjY/s320/DSC06716.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Taking Her Mind Off Of It With Movies</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFC1k0o1DqQwEdTbOJ-U8IO1JzNQrtcV9V4jwfWbSW_QejnmfSMpKbmt6U5-ttxdOMX4wjwTTUe_HhOVXj2rva-EWAYLVasd_jWUpWcEJDUVbH8MXlmpIcSkNYOdAUG3ZWyTq31kFFzUo/s1600/DSC06719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFC1k0o1DqQwEdTbOJ-U8IO1JzNQrtcV9V4jwfWbSW_QejnmfSMpKbmt6U5-ttxdOMX4wjwTTUe_HhOVXj2rva-EWAYLVasd_jWUpWcEJDUVbH8MXlmpIcSkNYOdAUG3ZWyTq31kFFzUo/s320/DSC06719.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yep. She's Still Fascinated By Fingers!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Don't ask me why they opted to re-do this test at her bedside, and in the busiest room in the packed unit, on a Friday afternoon. But they did. I must have had a certain, get-the-fuck-away-from-my-baby look about me. Because as the hearing specialist and her partner were setting everything up, a senior doc from infection control came by with a slew of residents. He introduced himself, but I was too busy trying to simultaneously suction the baby and calm her down to remember what he said his name was. As I attempted to hold Little Bird's head still while they placed a probe in her ear, he asked me how she was feeling. I didn't mean to come off like a total bitch, but must have when I replied, "Well, she's struggling to breathe, didn't sleep all night, and has a fever. She doesn't feel well!". He was visibly taken aback by my reply. To be honest, I kind of was, too. But I didn't have time to explain it to him, and he simply took the tongue lashing, mumbled an apology, and got the hell out of Dodge.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IR98hOlw8DMUXiM0dPI5Kff5AlwgoxtenXOGJblnq1pDMpDi_KYqcpXaH6BG3BuhAnk5dWct9DDKMbmBXuaXWixVlK6EY_e2WXT_8rGMOIdLM0ZfFLZo-c1IC594Bl8Wl3gcddvyehE/s1600/DSCN0424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IR98hOlw8DMUXiM0dPI5Kff5AlwgoxtenXOGJblnq1pDMpDi_KYqcpXaH6BG3BuhAnk5dWct9DDKMbmBXuaXWixVlK6EY_e2WXT_8rGMOIdLM0ZfFLZo-c1IC594Bl8Wl3gcddvyehE/s320/DSCN0424.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I needs huggles"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5DyAHv7Qf2WjeNrkDxTx1nunZzbhOONpMgGkkTAm_eb7PeIXk5U0JIeS-6kYvBBzbTBBvuQf6m0lbGIFfs3YxMq8OzDJaf2Ep4m5SI4IWgOSU-3jBAVvx-7nlB_AJaWgbfSN6zTTGg6c/s1600/DSCN0425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5DyAHv7Qf2WjeNrkDxTx1nunZzbhOONpMgGkkTAm_eb7PeIXk5U0JIeS-6kYvBBzbTBBvuQf6m0lbGIFfs3YxMq8OzDJaf2Ep4m5SI4IWgOSU-3jBAVvx-7nlB_AJaWgbfSN6zTTGg6c/s320/DSCN0425.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">No Pinching The Baby!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In hindsight, I now understand why he came over to our bedside. Later that night, Chad managed to pull a rabbit out of his ass. A.K.A., a pull-out cot and a chair to finally sit down upon, as we'd been on our feet all afternoon. MFH and I had just gotten the baby settled and asleep, and were about to somehow attempt the latter ourselves when a very green fellow popped her head thru the privacy curtains. Apparently, she pulled not the short straw, but the shitty end of the stick, and was stuck giving us the news. The forty-eight hour dose of meds wasn't going to be enough to defeat the boogies. Her team had ordered a full, ten day course. And because of this, our release date was thereby pushed back by almost another week.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3qINk8Ieyf4pBukp1jwhNto4hOUtZtc4SnOI_TwvmlxNMfzKgIaLWl_pOZibAW93vyo58EayNcUO_GUWDH6ub3MoDuO3ex63_GfcLyY8ZR7tWRCrovUag-N1DQET-yDtJUbFiiiyQXk/s1600/DSCN0432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3qINk8Ieyf4pBukp1jwhNto4hOUtZtc4SnOI_TwvmlxNMfzKgIaLWl_pOZibAW93vyo58EayNcUO_GUWDH6ub3MoDuO3ex63_GfcLyY8ZR7tWRCrovUag-N1DQET-yDtJUbFiiiyQXk/s320/DSCN0432.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Oh, my! What big eyes you have!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4XCZKNyXVQmN5oZDKpiqCa6ixvmlCOuVzgUzJ9ckzNAfxTEHtljzg7bOFdSDof60VrgKHjzK3As8T6bdaCP66VcvJlph1zJ7Y0Re5um3c-Yx9ZGCNrBDi38Fm0gfgfvgupubci32U4hs/s1600/DSCN0434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4XCZKNyXVQmN5oZDKpiqCa6ixvmlCOuVzgUzJ9ckzNAfxTEHtljzg7bOFdSDof60VrgKHjzK3As8T6bdaCP66VcvJlph1zJ7Y0Re5um3c-Yx9ZGCNrBDi38Fm0gfgfvgupubci32U4hs/s320/DSCN0434.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Giving Kisses!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I think she was expecting me to totally tweak out. No word of a lie, as soon as she finished that last sentence, she took two steps backward. I kind of just looked at her, and said, "Okay". What could I have said? Freaking out isn't going to make Little Bird any better. And it wasn't the messenger's fault. By then, I was exhausted. And I knew that Marie had gone to Philadelphia for the weekend. So, there wasn't much that I could do, besides accept it, and thank her for letting us know.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'm not going to bother our coordinator with this right now. She's busted her ass for us enough the way it is. For instance, the morning after I'd posted our actual date of discharge on Facebook? Our nursing agency called to inform us that we didn't have anyone able to fill our night shift hours. Without twenty four hour coverage for <i>at least</i> the first seven days, Little Bird absolutely can not come home. And I'm almost certain that all of our back-up does this secondary to their day jobs. I don't know how Marie did it, but by later that evening, not only did we have night shift under control, we are now also <i>abundantly</i> covered.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj303EDNHZI7Jon2ZPAFtK8ektVsf84H_lquTESBFcGM566WKJawTu5lH4Vt5DYHsyl_YoHTRbJJg4F2R5Ib8hoGT4t-Rfn_XZ2jA6PX4V7PGxB-YnIDcpsgkCrOCpdcXcRQsNIuRIW_Uc/s1600/DSCN0453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj303EDNHZI7Jon2ZPAFtK8ektVsf84H_lquTESBFcGM566WKJawTu5lH4Vt5DYHsyl_YoHTRbJJg4F2R5Ib8hoGT4t-Rfn_XZ2jA6PX4V7PGxB-YnIDcpsgkCrOCpdcXcRQsNIuRIW_Uc/s320/DSCN0453.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Can't Get Comfy :(</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXo7PmXk0arr_5xgk5GPWlA8leWbiL-rR6usvWmHobcoqfae-A__RGJ7zd2J7_UPB-LZZzG0agXzeNGmdoXPll9K9PHkmH5anzKJFFEzDUHjgNaD7ez9I924mPTkQPwi-CJFu19WCEOkE/s1600/DSCN0463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXo7PmXk0arr_5xgk5GPWlA8leWbiL-rR6usvWmHobcoqfae-A__RGJ7zd2J7_UPB-LZZzG0agXzeNGmdoXPll9K9PHkmH5anzKJFFEzDUHjgNaD7ez9I924mPTkQPwi-CJFu19WCEOkE/s320/DSCN0463.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Reservations For Three, Please!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUiy3d-9hbsmcaSIG1k487GE_pBxWW-tR93E5lj_p1niPJY2yp6Z_YthwbSqDd2SDDHJar2DFY-a8cI7gPpjoGdgkIMR6zCtFBVBU2waeN95wLx2WQco20yblD6bxd7gx6j7SGJ9Vk-M/s1600/DSCN0470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUiy3d-9hbsmcaSIG1k487GE_pBxWW-tR93E5lj_p1niPJY2yp6Z_YthwbSqDd2SDDHJar2DFY-a8cI7gPpjoGdgkIMR6zCtFBVBU2waeN95wLx2WQco20yblD6bxd7gx6j7SGJ9Vk-M/s320/DSCN0470.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Not Much Space...</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLxkNApbW2ZYDZ69eN2EAfgo5zof6P9KZZ5rLta8cmRHdkUBi8Qy7CH7G4bIVU-kP595YNTQ4a6wL5fwp-ZONDmOXI3tyctkbyyaSwOQgiCkrqgcDEm7sCKZ_gwgO7QBIlFdTkbp5YNM/s1600/DSCN0472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLxkNApbW2ZYDZ69eN2EAfgo5zof6P9KZZ5rLta8cmRHdkUBi8Qy7CH7G4bIVU-kP595YNTQ4a6wL5fwp-ZONDmOXI3tyctkbyyaSwOQgiCkrqgcDEm7sCKZ_gwgO7QBIlFdTkbp5YNM/s320/DSCN0472.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">...Or Privacy, But We Made It Work!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Word of the sudden change of dates spread throughout the PICU rather quickly. Over the next several hours, so many different nurses stopped by express how bummed out they all are, too. But something tells me that this is far from being the end of the world for them. To say that they've bonded with Little Bird would be such an understatement. One of our regulars, Megan, has become so attached that she asked us if we would mind if she applied with our provider, in hopes of specifically being assigned to our home care team. If this were any other hospital, I'd probably be filing a restraining order right about now. But MFH and I both encouraged her to do it. We love Megan. Megan loves Little Bird. And Little Bird absolutely adores her. Even when we're not on her rotation (like that morning), she always comes by to hang and help out. The baby instantly recognizes her, and cracks the biggest smiles when she see's her. To me, that alone is worth every minute.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In between sending MFH on numerous coffee runs, we tagged teamed the routine of Little Bird's care throughout the night and into this afternoon. The tracheitis occurring now, of all times, turned out to be a bit of a blessing in disguise. She's just about guaranteed to get this, a lot. So it gave us a really good feel for how to handle it happening once she's home. With ventilated children, even a simple head cold is never simple. Minor illnesses can turn into major, life-threatening scenarios almost instantly. We both kept a very close eye on her pulse ox number, and as expected, it steadily declined. I managed to sleep for about three hours on the pull-out, while MFH stood watch over our sleeping daughter. At quarter to six, Saturday morning, he woke me up so that he could wrastle us up some more caffeine. Her oxygen saturation was hovering at ninety one. Not technically an emergency, but the monitor will alert at eighty nine, and we were trying to prevent our kid from turning blue. I know it's really nothing much, but it felt pretty damn good for me to be able to say that I knew what to do. All she needed was a new probe, and a temporary boost of an extra half a liter of 02. When Chad came over to check on us during shift change, I got two thumbs up!</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZFAAzbSZ2qqyzBME_YfJrUlVOHjb3mExnIF4PgB3ojvAhyl-KK5vrdzDh0fsmkWwaEhcQdp9zcm7qwgkrGq8p1pxrwqfpxg2nUVmPMR1GrvG4sexfpc8-qGhgpbzEcFV5nKj6wOwxzg4/s1600/DSCN0487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZFAAzbSZ2qqyzBME_YfJrUlVOHjb3mExnIF4PgB3ojvAhyl-KK5vrdzDh0fsmkWwaEhcQdp9zcm7qwgkrGq8p1pxrwqfpxg2nUVmPMR1GrvG4sexfpc8-qGhgpbzEcFV5nKj6wOwxzg4/s320/DSCN0487.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Finally, She Sleeps</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcMzGi7m1EQsAgz7kvO4MGfWAjjYwVa-WnKnKG1JeAIeb_hpvQpDb1kXxBAKPWcqJ3930-0PzqVbz-3XcmfueX09lAnMCzKrvRwjeg_wmKmI4jvcsbCQUFhpnqOVGhGHfc9EXjvzyG2E/s1600/DSCN0494.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcMzGi7m1EQsAgz7kvO4MGfWAjjYwVa-WnKnKG1JeAIeb_hpvQpDb1kXxBAKPWcqJ3930-0PzqVbz-3XcmfueX09lAnMCzKrvRwjeg_wmKmI4jvcsbCQUFhpnqOVGhGHfc9EXjvzyG2E/s320/DSCN0494.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The Cool Side Of The Pillow</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And you know you're learning something when random strangers start asking you if you work there. During Little Bird's ear exam that afternoon, her audiologist did. When I laughed and told her I was her mother, she was shocked at how much of everything MFH and I know. It really is sinking in. A couple of hours before our dry run ended, her ventilator began to continuously beep. High peep (from water in the line). Low pressure (a leak somewhere in the circuit). Back and forth. I was filling out paperwork when it alerted yet again, and MFH went over to further inspect it. All of a sudden, a true alarm, and an ominous noise we've never heard before. Very much like a jet engine. All MFH had to say was "Oh, shit! The vent is failing!", and I was right next to the baby, ambu-bag in hand. Turned out, we blew a temperature sensor. But at the same time, Little Bird sensed the loss of air pressure in her line. When this happens, she panics, and tries to hold her breath. Her oxygen level dropped fairly rapidly, but it only took MFH two seconds to fix the issue and once again, increase her 02 thru the circuit. No episode of House. No need to manually breathe for her. We had it under control. And given the situation, it's something I'm very proud of. Me. The girl who hated high school. Who takes her teenagers shopping with her so she doesn't have to calculate sales percentages herself. Who never met a science class she couldn't sleep thru. Suddenly more than capable and willing to calculate her daughter's sodium chloride and diuretic dosages by weight and in a single bound. Not afraid to press <i>that</i> button on a piece of equipment that sustains her child's life. Who would've thunk it?</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UuPslMzKa_pKfadolPDco1YBKztqRtve_Qtdw5LZySe7oqlytTYpQtkFORjO9uNXIUcUfxYiVqLY7tjvevAlJKTE6uvxUPN_RV4sb5jBeymZfTfYVk9dHJdLN1K-b5zCz1aJiSfGXYM/s1600/DSCN0500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UuPslMzKa_pKfadolPDco1YBKztqRtve_Qtdw5LZySe7oqlytTYpQtkFORjO9uNXIUcUfxYiVqLY7tjvevAlJKTE6uvxUPN_RV4sb5jBeymZfTfYVk9dHJdLN1K-b5zCz1aJiSfGXYM/s320/DSCN0500.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Whoops! Forgot About The Flash!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaYkGPITgNDDdtQgrhj2xmIxY9BHkpZuIFvxd8RSvUUd0zeNLAcLfSEuIRmwlsEcWCCbUvmz_hsixT2y3z-h0nGBUzbibR3zWQdK9Ye8tuVrel0IWpdVFrAlHhm0BiydcZjX_Tt6EnCUM/s1600/DSCN0508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaYkGPITgNDDdtQgrhj2xmIxY9BHkpZuIFvxd8RSvUUd0zeNLAcLfSEuIRmwlsEcWCCbUvmz_hsixT2y3z-h0nGBUzbibR3zWQdK9Ye8tuVrel0IWpdVFrAlHhm0BiydcZjX_Tt6EnCUM/s320/DSCN0508.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hangin' Out With Momma</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihfOUflcvsCC-tb_Ga7VEOukZiGYUAaDl2CzTcXxDZPsh-gVKx2Qs9N_W-6l0N15BXiXEndhg1zlhusT7rhFUjzApDQUdEu6Gk9Yk153z5DEekNmS_ZuikEJ4Lx5ir1oeQ1E253-Vup1s/s1600/DSCN0515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihfOUflcvsCC-tb_Ga7VEOukZiGYUAaDl2CzTcXxDZPsh-gVKx2Qs9N_W-6l0N15BXiXEndhg1zlhusT7rhFUjzApDQUdEu6Gk9Yk153z5DEekNmS_ZuikEJ4Lx5ir1oeQ1E253-Vup1s/s320/DSCN0515.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Daddy's asleep! Quick! Let's put his bra in the freezer!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgILWVcMPX1xs81xaKlZEsjSo3NmX_Vy7glFTngybA86FPt6agxufrwds7q6wuaKNotCyK2eDxfXoqwBzlY9t144yP2qNoYw2Dmg5fPiJhuE96WZwgkz3L_waP2ABfuek0RFSvrKktAdv4/s1600/DSCN0543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgILWVcMPX1xs81xaKlZEsjSo3NmX_Vy7glFTngybA86FPt6agxufrwds7q6wuaKNotCyK2eDxfXoqwBzlY9t144yP2qNoYw2Dmg5fPiJhuE96WZwgkz3L_waP2ABfuek0RFSvrKktAdv4/s320/DSCN0543.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Chillaxin'</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On that note, I'm going to end this here. Before I say anything else to jinx Little Bird's homecoming any further. We're really praying that Marie can divinely intervene on our behalf, come Monday. That something will change and everything will continue according to the original plan. Have you ever heard that saying, "Don't know whether to shit or go blind"? That pretty much sums up the emotion to this craptastic news. For how badly I want to bring Little Bird home as scheduled, I want her to be as healthy as she possibly can be when we do. It was so difficult to sit her siblings down this evening, and explain to them the events that just transpired. But it would be so much worse if she came home and had to be readmitted right away. We'll have already awaited this event for two hundred and forty one days. I just need patience, and to keep reminding myself that it will only be a handful more. </span></span><br />
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</span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-48828942038389643912012-02-26T00:18:00.000-05:002012-02-26T00:18:10.914-05:00Sweet Baby Kisses!!!.........<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dziEyF4JgRZVuEcYMR0vJUdZh-kR2xx1Tm-wEPY5rDr7a2BeGyiBzwIRpbYDI2Ed09EK1xzwwOSELhZA505Uw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A couple of weeks ago, MFH and I began teaching Little Bird to sign. We started by considering what would likely be the most necessary and useful signals she can utilize at this age.We've come up with a list that includes above all else, kisses! I am not exaggerating when I tell you that it took her all of one afternoon to grasp this concept. Just a few hours. Each time we'd lean in to give her one, we'd smack our lips and tell her what it means, and ask her if we could have one. We assumed it would take a decent amount of time to teach her this. But, to our surprise? Well, just watch!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-5656454568185894952012-02-25T22:15:00.000-05:002012-02-25T22:15:43.114-05:00Crazy, Busy, Life.....<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On Tuesday afternoon, we met with Little Bird's medical team for the last time. One final gathering to ensure that everything is continuing according to plan. Our nurses are scheduled. Our equipment is here. Supplies are en route as I type this. The day of Little Bird's discharge is fast approaching. And when it finally does happen, we'd have spent a grand total of two hundred and forty one days inpatient. Almost eight unimaginable months. Nearly the length of a full term pregnancy. <i>But who's counting?</i></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMq0I2ksmxBeDFRXii5gaEnaUXtjE0VKQA2giWOb06-oF2HF3SB1WFOrEMxeFd-kh2i9c6U3OClObZTSoXUiAQ8r1JRCltrcp-R892P85gKxhTe0DmQnOasrunZRnVvwcE4p8QRjgj3jQ/s1600/DSC06554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMq0I2ksmxBeDFRXii5gaEnaUXtjE0VKQA2giWOb06-oF2HF3SB1WFOrEMxeFd-kh2i9c6U3OClObZTSoXUiAQ8r1JRCltrcp-R892P85gKxhTe0DmQnOasrunZRnVvwcE4p8QRjgj3jQ/s320/DSC06554.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Let The Countdown Begin!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRWYAKMhWE20MucPJv7CzZCgdcOfbD5IH9YhRrf-IOvqBnMwEfXWc6wrjXUKJI3DqAz54ZRn4AUnJDu0LVH4RQz1XnZKCr3HLswfIYR9b85FRn847s0nzMwfzO5hkI6ZlgxpuVarEXkQ/s1600/DSC06540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRWYAKMhWE20MucPJv7CzZCgdcOfbD5IH9YhRrf-IOvqBnMwEfXWc6wrjXUKJI3DqAz54ZRn4AUnJDu0LVH4RQz1XnZKCr3HLswfIYR9b85FRn847s0nzMwfzO5hkI6ZlgxpuVarEXkQ/s320/DSC06540.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Gift From <a href="http://www.facebook.com/groups/218678161503420/" target="_blank">Trennor</a></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfCDY0dFMd5OilxPsVVLqTV9i2iYLwFE2irgy4YoEXO8UWNjDeAQozlDBWa4QYZxczFgzdENfDKOLoAb0SL5UH-IXKar4ZndWId0kSC-bqbLstJppIupoMd-RDfw2OL7qTZJm2kRUbvmQ/s1600/DSC06581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfCDY0dFMd5OilxPsVVLqTV9i2iYLwFE2irgy4YoEXO8UWNjDeAQozlDBWa4QYZxczFgzdENfDKOLoAb0SL5UH-IXKar4ZndWId0kSC-bqbLstJppIupoMd-RDfw2OL7qTZJm2kRUbvmQ/s320/DSC06581.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pet Therapy With Gidget & Michele</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCml_2GM2glZ5eQp5ePGYM4C428i6pRv2W2NW-xtvPmo-zJyTU96DTsJQUXOvXQI5J5-mGcW36HBYIrG4z2cgrMqal-UUZlF3hHvi6a9TWdSDl_GGIYh5kIK2fvCdUhDUat5gmu-cNZPg/s1600/DSC06585.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCml_2GM2glZ5eQp5ePGYM4C428i6pRv2W2NW-xtvPmo-zJyTU96DTsJQUXOvXQI5J5-mGcW36HBYIrG4z2cgrMqal-UUZlF3hHvi6a9TWdSDl_GGIYh5kIK2fvCdUhDUat5gmu-cNZPg/s320/DSC06585.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Hey! I is bigger than dat puppy!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIC3O6ZjMggQHtKOVA0d1QoT2_0t7_rj0mKCXc5MCQKZEfnIKFJ-mGBAm6gGnEH9TwIJcBdyGtaEkz3UEHfctlQYYgjmKNQ_goHVh9mpbkSYun9P4u5U6GFDAxQI36TSxvYdT8H0sBMXA/s1600/DSC06590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIC3O6ZjMggQHtKOVA0d1QoT2_0t7_rj0mKCXc5MCQKZEfnIKFJ-mGBAm6gGnEH9TwIJcBdyGtaEkz3UEHfctlQYYgjmKNQ_goHVh9mpbkSYun9P4u5U6GFDAxQI36TSxvYdT8H0sBMXA/s320/DSC06590.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Your doggie's got great taste in hairstyles!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As you can probably gather from the pictures, we've had an insanely busy week preparing for this event. We've literally been waking up, getting dressed, running to the hospital, taking on the world, coming home, and collapsing on the couch before getting up and doing it all over again the next day. Sounds repetitive, but I can assure you, it's been anything but boring. From the minute we arrive, we're on our feet the entire time until we physically can not stand up anymore. Little Bird's care is very demanding. Suctioning as needed, diaper changes, mic-key button care, take her temperature, get her dressed, administer both oral and inhaled medications, G-tube feeding, trach care, therapy (speech, physical, and occupational), and an attempt at the bottle if she can tolerate it. Every four hours. Around the clock. Throw in time for baths, cuddles, and play, and you've got yourself a double dose of parental exhaustion. And this doesn't account for the the weekly routine of outpatient appointments, touching base with her medical team, tracking and stocking supplies, changing the trach and the vent circuit, and exercising the equipment. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gyRqFFTYqkogiyuk2BUV4uRQuL9DALa_SuyeaMD-qXf8I2Il5w7LYKu4tZMWT-HEoUrjufSrJObpsXG0z0bKsQRaN_cqN2Jt3VnObAc7ouL9R51odYKQ45cDCUoXCwpmEZ75brOUx_M/s1600/DSCN0335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gyRqFFTYqkogiyuk2BUV4uRQuL9DALa_SuyeaMD-qXf8I2Il5w7LYKu4tZMWT-HEoUrjufSrJObpsXG0z0bKsQRaN_cqN2Jt3VnObAc7ouL9R51odYKQ45cDCUoXCwpmEZ75brOUx_M/s320/DSCN0335.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Trendsetting</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5x90Fx5MqZDL9Q1dO_1d1xUEfdW7YtTc22vrMmZG0qhlqzYOc8blfmHUnf0m8kKh_Bs9-SpLtup9aeU7ARwDSgJdcyLwv_IzA4IHpdqDeBDUCgpQUutkI884ZJxCOdxkqG_6aseVmVA/s1600/DSCN0337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5x90Fx5MqZDL9Q1dO_1d1xUEfdW7YtTc22vrMmZG0qhlqzYOc8blfmHUnf0m8kKh_Bs9-SpLtup9aeU7ARwDSgJdcyLwv_IzA4IHpdqDeBDUCgpQUutkI884ZJxCOdxkqG_6aseVmVA/s320/DSCN0337.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ready To Take On The World!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDcMA9_ckGBSgvJ02_d8Ct59MOOoVnQpmQZZWNJotUYYfguylryB2Vyk_KtkrJeSL3KCQz1LpfurQNA0dGLUxgWjSfVZzpg0_F3fSmDyxGjc4Y1ovaKZ3ryvk4a-Y8quLIB5JqGBdpeg/s1600/DSCN0356.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDcMA9_ckGBSgvJ02_d8Ct59MOOoVnQpmQZZWNJotUYYfguylryB2Vyk_KtkrJeSL3KCQz1LpfurQNA0dGLUxgWjSfVZzpg0_F3fSmDyxGjc4Y1ovaKZ3ryvk4a-Y8quLIB5JqGBdpeg/s320/DSCN0356.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bath Time (It's Definitely A Process!)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuyX6B747DhyB0VrMKzpOxpiOFPGdQDxYnchd2jschVKBdTNvNwepllZg7tdVmb6Q24SrdVDgpCNjgyv_ThJmsqjKhWhjqD4W0dpb45Y5zZc3PuoLetNsTrHuVSYalIDAPSHSFAkPKgo/s1600/DSCN0357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuyX6B747DhyB0VrMKzpOxpiOFPGdQDxYnchd2jschVKBdTNvNwepllZg7tdVmb6Q24SrdVDgpCNjgyv_ThJmsqjKhWhjqD4W0dpb45Y5zZc3PuoLetNsTrHuVSYalIDAPSHSFAkPKgo/s320/DSCN0357.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Nooo! Not The <i>Green</i> Wire!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The lack of enough hours in our days combined with a recent conversation with one of our nurses led me to the epiphany I had last night. While flaunting some pics of Little Bird, I came across one of myself taken a few short days before she arrived. A baby bump pic that came hand in hand with a certain realization. My belly wasn't very big. In fact, I was <i>barely</i> pregnant. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2_24jvWDumROexurYTsVYm5DUi16A89WYjV-r0wfMmBte_QdyeLCXmuLBm5JRPpQZwiVpqpQVebArabOrbMClv6yGIepxS1bSbslVvpY29cQoaIIuW2df52LKlOKhCfdDlynqQdFvJc/s1600/IMG01282-20110524-1906.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2_24jvWDumROexurYTsVYm5DUi16A89WYjV-r0wfMmBte_QdyeLCXmuLBm5JRPpQZwiVpqpQVebArabOrbMClv6yGIepxS1bSbslVvpY29cQoaIIuW2df52LKlOKhCfdDlynqQdFvJc/s320/IMG01282-20110524-1906.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">July 5th, 2011-26 Weeks Along</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I know a lot of Ladies out there who have loathed getting round when they carried their children. But for how much I hated the morning sickness, or the hormone fluctuations. Or the crazy skin changes. Or the discomfort. Or the heartburn. Or the leg cramps. Or the sudden narcolepsy. I kind of liked the part when I'd gain all that weight. That point where you could actually get away with looking cute in a stretchy tee, and show off your great expectation. That proof of life. And no matter how many times you've been thru it before, feeling your child kick and wiggle never gets old. But with Little Bird's pregnancy? Her placenta was anterior. Even her strongest, Chuck-Norris-Approved, round houses were more like flutters. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZb7Tte0FXipvHtxBB3ifSivo4euTKCrPdMPSbSESo0RSXY9M7p3PLPACSwyksroaxXPWhbv8kWAiafJhknPPSiCZm99p5UTUFVqb2aP3q1hcZM87z_w5JYFqUvm-p576i3Imur_e78a0/s1600/DSCN0240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZb7Tte0FXipvHtxBB3ifSivo4euTKCrPdMPSbSESo0RSXY9M7p3PLPACSwyksroaxXPWhbv8kWAiafJhknPPSiCZm99p5UTUFVqb2aP3q1hcZM87z_w5JYFqUvm-p576i3Imur_e78a0/s320/DSCN0240.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her Seal Of Approval</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrsJgkw5EwWu9UTeGuG4WuKFZtSt33yf1BdrNUWxP9Aonq6C0dOhhJ-8nOxbSpM0pBu-CQonwUgxtMJAFeYEQVnBfvJcK7_DIsf9_CrKMx3Afi27SVidxUBwfRkcpy20M3F_mz50s9-Yo/s1600/DSCN0267.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrsJgkw5EwWu9UTeGuG4WuKFZtSt33yf1BdrNUWxP9Aonq6C0dOhhJ-8nOxbSpM0pBu-CQonwUgxtMJAFeYEQVnBfvJcK7_DIsf9_CrKMx3Afi27SVidxUBwfRkcpy20M3F_mz50s9-Yo/s320/DSCN0267.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">E=MC.....Squared!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuouxIyv-2zmbWpBSeT_Fyiw6q4dh2RjUx2jaEM396phWhQdQNgDDyJAdEBtCBYKCkEygHM5cFXhoWRsYch6loszhPwmx28EGoeg5mhLdOkeBKjfdMf6cV2iKtF-efjVI_fhTLUL5Yu7Y/s1600/DSCN0270.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuouxIyv-2zmbWpBSeT_Fyiw6q4dh2RjUx2jaEM396phWhQdQNgDDyJAdEBtCBYKCkEygHM5cFXhoWRsYch6loszhPwmx28EGoeg5mhLdOkeBKjfdMf6cV2iKtF-efjVI_fhTLUL5Yu7Y/s320/DSCN0270.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Teamwork</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjV99MrIwzKM_lKqseJDYrw6boZxNxfYKFtr9kziIFfVKq8NlSFBMCE-9cLO26rN3l1jVh7n53RSlOdODyYFfPLt7snwmEghF2gm9X62PJ9gk1mpto5-dCozQcoCKbyFoUQltDXgFvG9s/s1600/DSCN0268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjV99MrIwzKM_lKqseJDYrw6boZxNxfYKFtr9kziIFfVKq8NlSFBMCE-9cLO26rN3l1jVh7n53RSlOdODyYFfPLt7snwmEghF2gm9X62PJ9gk1mpto5-dCozQcoCKbyFoUQltDXgFvG9s/s320/DSCN0268.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">That Wasn't So Bad!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">For how bitter it was to have been reminded of all of that, it was also very sweet. Because in our case, she and I got to experience our prenatal milestones in an inconceivable way. A backwards pregnancy. I may not have had the opportunity to see her face in 3-D imaging beforehand, but I was able to hold my daughter's hand during her twenty sixth week. I used to feel cheated out of the nearly fourteen weeks that I should have been able to carry her. But somehow, I've since been given twice that length of time. Ironically, I am still able to swaddle this tiny bundle of sweet love, and hold her close for much longer than had she'd been full term. And when we rock each other to sleep, she curls herself in toward me, navel to navel. Though I physically could not support her, or keep her safe then, I am now. Through the knowledge I've obtained during the last eight months, I can nourish her. I can breathe for her. I can protect her. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0MmmLafGtRKBYmUnWD7-5o6fsGS8PO0Y2t4N4OOEw7FcYei68iIhDydUJsaQhRU6DADGMubTyuKeAbgAhvncIDo6C3W09WYamu7LZbrpEdSNYmTZeAoglvHxAXcxrkhSowcpJoL39IE/s1600/DSCN0291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0MmmLafGtRKBYmUnWD7-5o6fsGS8PO0Y2t4N4OOEw7FcYei68iIhDydUJsaQhRU6DADGMubTyuKeAbgAhvncIDo6C3W09WYamu7LZbrpEdSNYmTZeAoglvHxAXcxrkhSowcpJoL39IE/s320/DSCN0291.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gettin' Her Jane Fonda On</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeeNVb4Ng_fkCxQcwFZuWqxZIEJzNREXLmPx-iCTR07x8oFLUlH_Pvh5MvN55JyCgqyi18CdOvBIfBQRozyuJg4INlCXBPruDEn-zpIw4JfJAbHWbeI5Zh8LFq2lrCh-G6uwelz4NkzI/s1600/DSCN0310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeeNVb4Ng_fkCxQcwFZuWqxZIEJzNREXLmPx-iCTR07x8oFLUlH_Pvh5MvN55JyCgqyi18CdOvBIfBQRozyuJg4INlCXBPruDEn-zpIw4JfJAbHWbeI5Zh8LFq2lrCh-G6uwelz4NkzI/s320/DSCN0310.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Baby Blue</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsZp1DUplbydaAO1YIn4HCQ91pZZloNibR20F3gci-xJCQcM0gs2OmQ7wB0YbZ4O12_sGad1tB0tJHGcxJYAFqUcWRm7k7Cvj2af27J6HeagpaF7VniPvVP8hVb6OuhkcMK8U0HB3k-U/s1600/DSCN0233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsZp1DUplbydaAO1YIn4HCQ91pZZloNibR20F3gci-xJCQcM0gs2OmQ7wB0YbZ4O12_sGad1tB0tJHGcxJYAFqUcWRm7k7Cvj2af27J6HeagpaF7VniPvVP8hVb6OuhkcMK8U0HB3k-U/s320/DSCN0233.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"This diaper isn't going to change itself!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9XwoAl9EUlZDlApR73_bivd5BCDV8ddzc2A47hnKksk0LFMEe4natmiAqclXv-uvO92nJ1QHRG0RXl0KR1sUuT1kkIONH6knGs-MaCrp-QGEHsc9XF9yHlxSGalm_gC6yHD4GmZdwBk/s1600/DSCN0029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9XwoAl9EUlZDlApR73_bivd5BCDV8ddzc2A47hnKksk0LFMEe4natmiAqclXv-uvO92nJ1QHRG0RXl0KR1sUuT1kkIONH6knGs-MaCrp-QGEHsc9XF9yHlxSGalm_gC6yHD4GmZdwBk/s320/DSCN0029.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Visiting With Shooter</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last night, the staff asked us how confident we're feeling about all of this. Ninety nine percent. That's where we stand. I now know better than to ever say a hundred. Because Little Bird guarantees that she can and will throw us a curve ball at the most unexpected moments. Like two weekends ago, when her trach unexpectedly occluded again, and a lazy Saturday went from peaceful napping to chest compressions in a split second. This was the fourth time we've experienced that particular scenario, and it surely wasn't the last. Even though it will always scare the living shit out of us, we've somehow managed to trigger something inside of ourselves. A voice that says <i>don't panic...you know what to do...give her what she needs now and twitch later</i>. It is an acquired skill, much like keeping your cool in the delivery room. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJ2bUO50NPa-XGLr4D-jiFbqCGSoOXzBJn_YYnFnTXshF_IL20z7hOnDRCwJ-yHk5krbNQ0SPY3LyesdK4mcX1pyXFHwQf9JUjiD0ZzMzlQrNXjYCTX8IzlVgYNt3IWQvu2fv-_xTjSE/s1600/DSCN0131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJ2bUO50NPa-XGLr4D-jiFbqCGSoOXzBJn_YYnFnTXshF_IL20z7hOnDRCwJ-yHk5krbNQ0SPY3LyesdK4mcX1pyXFHwQf9JUjiD0ZzMzlQrNXjYCTX8IzlVgYNt3IWQvu2fv-_xTjSE/s320/DSCN0131.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Being A Tomboy (Thanks Archie!)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTuAcCPA8bXreUfHhLoABopePtyyJY189Z2dRwTYXT723Ar5jJnRi1IMEsjBryWClOkrY53zQI02WKiuJeN8-5KYLCnpl4VdPfj2Lu962lUoMhE94nZT2Fg2l7Butt_WEZ7siJZ65ijI/s320/DSCN0132.JPG" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Does This Color Make My Diaper Look Big?"</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKX485j_3i7dOHX0RdPXlDEDR1lR2-iHnuxtv9qGp_Hx9F7RisjNe6Fl3QYcShfWpxCSiBzZMU2r82wNlyWY3Orh-XzJVBY_-Zjv-sLBwxIb7ItzGAkX4TUXBhAZeJVlJJUBr0UpqzpH0/s1600/DSCN0136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKX485j_3i7dOHX0RdPXlDEDR1lR2-iHnuxtv9qGp_Hx9F7RisjNe6Fl3QYcShfWpxCSiBzZMU2r82wNlyWY3Orh-XzJVBY_-Zjv-sLBwxIb7ItzGAkX4TUXBhAZeJVlJJUBr0UpqzpH0/s320/DSCN0136.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thick As Thieves</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDOM2cuW-ZoQtEDJT-1VhoRQ8GfUnI12hkj3x8P3THLrhF-DGD-4XNNjWjF2P_BeWUkYboV7h5Teijs8e7RKfYYdN6ajmyS0Ae-G8gHwF0ukKoCMpBbLZ2WHqIMQp62nvcZdaRdOL9iI/s1600/DSCN0308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDOM2cuW-ZoQtEDJT-1VhoRQ8GfUnI12hkj3x8P3THLrhF-DGD-4XNNjWjF2P_BeWUkYboV7h5Teijs8e7RKfYYdN6ajmyS0Ae-G8gHwF0ukKoCMpBbLZ2WHqIMQp62nvcZdaRdOL9iI/s320/DSCN0308.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Sign From Above</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_i1uIAidcxMsuk0vBJTeQcM0tOLgW78DxJJy7mpWicfoAdBUadDcU62FYbENSAQCOTCJROa4LlVaVdkhTkv6BDXQQnHNghwi7xQFSXExNgKgpoAgNbMa_L9k2uNqJA9AN0vpyaIXaSU/s1600/DSC06558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_i1uIAidcxMsuk0vBJTeQcM0tOLgW78DxJJy7mpWicfoAdBUadDcU62FYbENSAQCOTCJROa4LlVaVdkhTkv6BDXQQnHNghwi7xQFSXExNgKgpoAgNbMa_L9k2uNqJA9AN0vpyaIXaSU/s320/DSC06558.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Does my hairs look otay?"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDP6L12Dk4vufRSFEMCV_4Wh45m3DZHjNht9jrj-9WuVOrMD0vsvgakIdf7syOJ1zH1fafhTbFRAmE-3jd_EQunPIJTAlC2wOCV3TeYlnQrhTh1OT1I1g-a_8vtCmzFgI4Zwu28XjAbY/s1600/DSC06563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDP6L12Dk4vufRSFEMCV_4Wh45m3DZHjNht9jrj-9WuVOrMD0vsvgakIdf7syOJ1zH1fafhTbFRAmE-3jd_EQunPIJTAlC2wOCV3TeYlnQrhTh1OT1I1g-a_8vtCmzFgI4Zwu28XjAbY/s320/DSC06563.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I tink I need some suctions. Here ya go!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjK-ZaoiIeMP851GNVFB-xiGdsDI18-ofcCZD2HhYEZEnZANh8GaE5Y4WsvvqfZgn8iZMzkb0eiH6gkxs3yPqb_C8kW1z_JfRaZUVynvYp4t5gnPBs0HD-dcJVWTZlPBoPWiKC-RXnqw/s1600/DSC06567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjK-ZaoiIeMP851GNVFB-xiGdsDI18-ofcCZD2HhYEZEnZANh8GaE5Y4WsvvqfZgn8iZMzkb0eiH6gkxs3yPqb_C8kW1z_JfRaZUVynvYp4t5gnPBs0HD-dcJVWTZlPBoPWiKC-RXnqw/s320/DSC06567.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I don't always drink formula, but when I do? I prefer Dos Alimentum. Stay thirsty, my friends!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-LWEbPjnOFF6huzmPLYyKKi0h7sOFqXXQ598MqMXXUogGgC59W2sroUbOdcVWddPx2h2gddVXMnvN92oFRIu92pzntNYVZ7_0zfO6J1hK34TZ9W03a1F1wWZlHmzLSNtsN9SujMDSPo/s1600/DSC06578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-LWEbPjnOFF6huzmPLYyKKi0h7sOFqXXQ598MqMXXUogGgC59W2sroUbOdcVWddPx2h2gddVXMnvN92oFRIu92pzntNYVZ7_0zfO6J1hK34TZ9W03a1F1wWZlHmzLSNtsN9SujMDSPo/s320/DSC06578.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I just gots to be meee!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We are days away from one of the biggest milestones of our lives. But our story will not end when we cross the threshold of this house with Little Bird. I'm going to continue to update on everything life throws our way. Our first steps in this new world. I've never been more proud of anything than I am of this family. All of it. The good <i>and</i> the bad. We're far from perfect, and completely crazy. But if you all stick around a while longer, you'll get to witness what makes us tick, what drives us to the brink, and what binds us together. Eight very different personalities under the same roof? Now that's something to write home about!</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTuAcCPA8bXreUfHhLoABopePtyyJY189Z2dRwTYXT723Ar5jJnRi1IMEsjBryWClOkrY53zQI02WKiuJeN8-5KYLCnpl4VdPfj2Lu962lUoMhE94nZT2Fg2l7Butt_WEZ7siJZ65ijI/s1600/DSCN0132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></a></div>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7697457704100518387.post-18559619810736890172012-02-17T00:03:00.000-05:002012-02-17T00:03:58.103-05:00I Need A Favor....<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Remember when I introduced you all to <a href="http://carterslove.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Devan</a>? Well, On December 19th, Devan's cousin, Courtney, gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. This family can really use some help right now. Baby Brenna was also born with super powers. An extremely rare, and very serious medical condition known as <a href="http://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/condition/harlequin-ichthyosis" target="_blank">Harlequin Ichthyosis</a>, her skin lacks a certain protein essential to protecting her from infection. She is also very prone to dehydration, breathing difficulties, movement restriction, and inability to regulate her body temperature. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">After having spent the first several weeks of her life in the NICU, Miss Brenna was finally give the go-ahead to come home. But earlier this week, she caught a stomach bug. On Wednesday, she was readmitted to the NICU. Even though she is grateful for this medical intervention, I know Courtney is also pretty torn up, and sick with worry. Brenna's tiny, six pound body already expends so much energy constantly regrowing new skin cells that this poses a really serious threat to her health. If you have a minute, can you please say a prayer for <b><a href="http://blessedbybrenna.blogspot.com/2012/02/nicu-round-2.html?showComment=1329450286703#c7152508917345850966" target="_blank">this precious little girl</a></b> and her family? It would mean the world to them right now.</span></span><br />
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</span></span>Rachael Sankohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03305525595747067004noreply@blogger.com1