This time...this time is rough. It’s indescribable, seeing your child go from a smiling, happy, playful toddler to being heavily sedated and fighting for her life within a day’s time. Hours feel like days; days feel like weeks. Josh has to keep reminding me that we’re only 48 hours on the other side of surgery. Looking at our sweet girl is hard. If it wasn’t for her cheeks having a touch of color and the shallow rise and fall of her chest, she’d look lifeless. That absolutely shakes me to my core. I find myself looking at everything in the room but her. For now, I can get away with it; when she starts to wake up, I’ll push my feelings, worries, and stress aside like I always have. She needs us to be strong for her, to hide the worry. You see, I’ve spent the last month preparing for each moment to be our last with our heart warrior. I’ve had this overwhelming feeling that this would be it - this would be the surgery she wouldn’t bounce back from. I know we’re not out of the woods yet. Close, but not quite (at least in regards to the “woods” of this surgery). So far, she’s fighting hard. Today saw incredible gains in weaning medications and support. As with any recovery, it’s a bumpy ride filled with twists and turns. After suctioning her trach late tonight, the nurse saw yellow secretions, pointing to a possible respiratory infection. That’s the last thing she needs while recovering from this invasive surgery. So now, we pray and wait.
