Jane had a lovely morning, showing off for everyone and practicing kicking things while enjoying a little nakey time. Sorry, Tom, but SOCCER.
She naturally immediately started acting up upon my arrival, but settled back down, and Crazy... ahem. I mean, Awesome Nurse Angela manhandled her oxygen all the way down to:
THIRTY-ONE PERCENT. I'm not sure anymore, but that may be a day-time record.
We got her into the Boppy in my lap, since she seemed to like it so much yesterday. All was peaceful, until this beast rolled into our quiet corner:
Gah. Chest x-ray. Not our girl's favorite activity. During her fussing afterward, we discovered something new. Can you see that shine in the corner of her eye there? Do you know what that is? TEARS. Good god. She's that old, that her tear ducts work. Her little eyes were all welled up.
So we tried getting her settled again. She did not want my shoulder. She did not want to recline in the Boppy in my lap. She did not want the old school cradle-hold. In fact, she yakked on an epic level after a mere five minutes in the crook of my arm. Would Miss perhaps prefer some tummy time? Hmm.
After due consideration, NO.
Honestly, child! We patted, we pacified, we played womb tunes. We even got the newly-named Howard in on the act.
At last our combined efforts soothed the savage breast. And then? RIGHT THEN? A blood-draw for genetic testing (part of the last-ditch effort to be sure not to misdiagnose Jane's situation before traching her -- they're checking to see if she has surfactant deficiency [surfactant is the stuff that keeps lung tissue pliable and allows them to expand instead of sticking together]).
I threw in the towel. And so did our girl. She passed out, I gave her a kiss and booked out of there.
On the docket for tomorrow? Reintubation with the bigger tube! Whee!