Now I don't really know what to fool myself with to get through March. Because I have no idea when this little drama nugget is going to come home, but it sure doesn't feel like it's going to be any time soon.
No, thanks. But I appreciate the offer.
|You expect me to come home in this crap weather?|
Winter blows a fatty. I think I'll wait for spring.
But now, we are in this cul-de-sac of breathing drama that just seems endless. The past few days, her sats are still OK, but she's working harder to get them there by breathing super fast. I'm sitting in the NICU right now, watching her head bob up and down as she works for every breath.
I just told the nurses this morning: if she's here in June, they are going to have to get me an adult-sized isolette.
|You'd breathe fast too if your mom was asking nurses for adult-sized isolettes.|
Or if someone shaved random spots on your head in order to poke you with needles.
Get off my tiny back.
If you didn't know what happened, you'd think that I was sitting at home for the past three months stuffing my face full of Taco Bell and getting fat and slovenly while watching sophisticated television. (Keeping Up With The Kardashians?) Which, honestly, isn't far off, sadly, and also I don't really care if the meat in a beef supreme chalupa isn't really beef because that shit tastes good. I may not get to bring two babies home, but I do look like I'm having two food babies. **
|I brought her some of her own clothes.|
Looking fah-bulous, dahling.
But last week, we were moved to the intensive side for staffing reasons. And also for a much-appreciated reminder of just how far Ainsley has come. I almost forget sometimes.
While I was there, a mom fresh from the delivery room came in to see her baby. You're technically not supposed to know things about the other babies, but it's impossible since you're sardined in the room together. As soon as her husband wheeled her in she started sobbing. I'm not a hugger, but I've never wanted to hug someone so much in my whole life. Because GOD if it isn't fucking hard having a baby in the NICU. Unless it's happened to you, you just don't understand at all.
|Well, she's the least dramatic baby in the intensive rooms. So there's that!|
It would be nice (or whatever) to have some information about what happened so that we can stop wondering.
* Sats...Oxygen saturation level. Should be mid-90's. If it drops below mid-80's-ish, it's called a desat. And desat = asshat. Sats tell us if she is getting enough oxygen/breathing effectively.
**You can really go thoroughly fuck yourself if you want to leave me a rude comment over me complaining about being fat. That's all I'm going to say about that.
One Year Ago: Panera's Wi-Fi Loss Prevention Owes Olivia
Two Years Ago: That's A Real Thing
Three Years Ago: Hey, It's Cheaper Than Therapy