Day Ten....

Today is day ten. And I can finally exhale. Little Bird's odds of survival just jumped from twenty five to eighty percent. It tears me apart, this being one of her very first milestones. But I am also so elated. Nine days ago, I couldn't see this far ahead. Nine days ago, day ten didn't even exist. For the past week and a half, we lived not day to day, not hour to hour. But minute to minute. Breath to breath. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Ten days of observation. Ten days of rest. Ten days to prepare. And now? It's on. 

She's ready to fight. And she's not waiting. Yesterday, we were discussing the possibility of extubating her. Today, they actually did it. The ventilator is gone. She's now breathing with the aid of CPAP, and her oxygen level is that of room air. She is also desetting less frequently, and her blood gases continue to show improvement. Her PICC line was migrating into her heart. The staff still does not fully understand why, but they suspect it's due to a murmur she has. It's since been located, readjusted, and better secured. She underwent another ultrasound of her brain this morning. For the time being, they can only monitor the bleed. And even though there has been no remarkable deterioration, we continue to be haunted by the threat. The word "stable" is starting to become one of my favorites. Her feedings have increased yet again. She eats like a Sanko kid. She's now up to nine cc's, with her nurses adding one every twelve hours as long as she continues to digest. She's also now attempting to try and nurse a pacifier. And her doctor sprung some news on us that literally almost made me faint. So long as she allows for it, we may be able to kangaroo her within the next week. Skin to skin contact. I yearn for that moment so much that I can taste it. Though, for the time being, I am grateful to touch her, and today I was able to do just that.

Her neck begins at the tip of my middle finger, with the bottom of her diaper ending a hair's breath above my wrist. Her head is the size of a light bulb. And she is so soft. The softest thing I've ever touched. My hands don't know how to let her go. Her fingers are so strong. She squeezed one of mine and it took my breath away. Her palms are smooth, and I don't even know if she has fingerprints yet. Her hair is white, and she is covered in downy. Her eyes are dark and sad like a teddy bear. She opens them slowly, and her gaze lingers for a moment. I know she hears me. I know she knows I'm there. Today, I heard her cry for only the second time since she was born. But she can cry. She has a voice. And it's just the sweetest, most gentle sound. Like a little bird. She's my Little Bird.


She is just so.....amazing. They call her Feisty Little Lady. None of the staff expected any of this from her, not so soon. We certainly didn't. We know this is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Cautious optimism. Never trust a preemie. Even still, I can't help feeling the hope she's giving me. I want to celebrate her accomplishments, her abilities. No matter what they are. Her progress keeps me sane. Her life force is my faith that tomorrow does exist. I am blessed, even if it's only for ten days. It's not for nothing. Something good must come of all of this. One little bird. So tiny. So fragile. So strong. She is a living, breathing miracle. And I just love her. 
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