YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL TO ME
CAN'T YOU SEE
YOU'RE EVERYTHING I HOPED FOR

Its July 23rd, 1999. Today you are 28 months old. And suddenly, in the past hour, I am overwhelmed by the need to get your birth story and the days that followed it down on paper.

I'm trying to understand why that might be, and all that I can come up with is that maybe, finally, I can look at that first month of your life objectively. I can let go of that feeling that I have been robbed of something so priceless; those first days of your life when we should have been cuddling and bonding, and snuggling together in the quiet recesses of the night. When the most important thing I should have had to do was stare at you, and send out birth announcements and decide what outfit you should have on.

Because those things were taken from us, sweet girl. They were replaced by medical terminology and prayers for a breath, or an 'easy' day, or the hope that I could hold you today. Replaced by so many unknown things, living in a foreign world, that even today seems so completely surreal to me.

But, now, 28 months later, I know that we made a trade...we traded that first month for your whole life. Its not fair that we had to make that trade, but we did. And its time to say good-bye to the fear and resentment, and look at it as our greatest triumph yet.

Like the old woman in the movie, "Titanic," I will be able to recount your first month in vivid detail forever. I can relive it today as if it were happening all over again. The journal I am about to write is a gift to you, because you deserve to know your strength, your dignity, your limitless beauty despite adversity a newborn child should not have to face.

So, here's your beginning, my love...

March 23, 1997, 3:39 a.m.

A scream. My goodness--a scream...I told them, I knew baby girl, I knew you were going to be o.k. They told me so many times that you had no stomach, no visible kidneys, that your chances were not good. But I knew, with the faith that only a mother can have, that all you needed was one grain of hope...and I had a basket of it.

I'm breathless...you are so beautiful. I can't believe how perfect you are. I want to stare at you forever.

They take you over to the table to wash you off a bit. And there is whispering. They call your father over to the table. What? What is wrong? Someone talk to me. I can hear myself screaming it, but no voice comes out, no one acknowledges me.

Your father comes over and tells me that you have been born with an extra thumb on your right hand. That's it? Another sigh of relief. Better an extra than a missing one.

What a beautiful day we have. I feel wonderful, even after the c-section. I feel like I've done too many push-ups, that's all. I call everyone and tell them you are here. And over and over I echo, "She's so beautiful, she's so beautiful."

March 24th, 1997

Today, we go to CHEO, which is the Children's Hospital connected to the one we are staying in, to have a echo done of your heart. Its our last hurdle before we can go home.

The technician remarks what a good baby you are, how you are so still, how he's able to get such a good picture of your heart.

And the news is all good....you have two tiny defects, called an ASD and a PDA, which are of no consequence, which will probably close on their own, and will present us with no problems unless you ever need surgery.

That afternoon, we see the resident pediatrician, who signs our discharge papers for Wednesday...you could go home earlier, but they keep us because of my c-section.

Dakotah comes to visit, and we take pictures of her and you. She's wearing a big button that says, "I'm a big sister," on it. She loves you so much, and we tell her we'll see her on Wednesday.

That night, I begin to feel apprehensive. You have been too quiet, have barely moved, and have not cried. I tell the nurse, "she's different than she was yesterday." The nurse says you could be extra sleepy from your journey into the world, and sometimes babies with Down Syndrome are a bit quieter.

When I go to change your diaper, you are so limp, you don't even flutter your eyes. I pick you up and try to nurse you. You don't respond. I try undressing you, waking you up. I notice that my fingerprints are still on your skin from when I changed your diaper.

I ring the bell for the nurse. "Something's wrong with my baby."

We rush you down to the nursery, and they put a little clip on you with a bright red light on it. They tell me it measures your 'SATS.' I don't even know what that is, but they seem concerned. They clip it to your big toe, to your finger, strap it around your wrist, then your ankle. The numbers show between 75 and 80.

"Is that good?" I ask. "Well, ours would be around 100." So, in silence, I reason it all out...you're a newborn, so very tiny, maybe its o.k. your numbers are so low.

The nurse pinches your skin on your belly and it stays there.

Suddenly, things are moving fast...she's calling someone, asking what to do. She says she has to put an ng tube down. "What's that?" She tells me we have to try to feed you through a tube in your nose, and that I need to pump some breast milk for you.

So, I'm whisked away to a room to pump...a machine rhymically taking from me what should be yours.

When I get back to the nursery, you are gone. Where are you, my sweet baby? They've taken you to the Intensive Care Unit, and someone will come talk to me soon.

An hour later, a doctor comes in, one I don't know, all in scrubs, and sits down. She tells me they tried to put an ng tube down, and couldn't do it. That it came back up. That you have a condition called esophageal atresia, and that you are very, very dehydrated and very sick. That your lungs are full of mucus and fluid that you've tried to suck. That tonight was going to be 'minute by minute' and if things went well, and you were o.k. in the morning, we'd talk to a surgeon.

A surgeon??? Oh no. As I try to rest, I realize that the Cardiologist said your heart was o.k. except for surgery. What does that mean? What if they can't operate? I pray like I've never prayed before that they can fix you.

At midnight they come and tell me I can come see you. But first I have to take all my jewelry off. Have to scrub for 2 minutes up to my elbows. Have to put on a mask, and a gown. A routine I repeat dozens of times in the next month.

I walk into a room full of beeping machines, a nurse sitting at every single tiny incubator there is. I can't find you..which one is mine. When I do find you, I'm so shocked. There's tubes and wires everywhere. You're so lifeless. A machine makes a whoosh wooshing noise, taking breaths for you.

I see a little wrapper that once held a square of gauze in it with your name on it. I pick it up and open it. Inside is a lock of your hair. My heart sinks...why did they do this?? Why? Is this a momento, 'just in case?'

I realize, when I begin studying you, that its because they have shaved some of your beautiful hair to get an i.v. in. There's a big concoction right in the middle of your forehead that involves lots of tape and a medicine cup, cut in half.

They show me the x-ray of how the ng tube didn't go down. Amazing, three short hours ago, I had to ask what an ng tube was.

I start to talk to your nurse, ask her how she does it, how she can be a Mom and work in a place with such sick babies. She tells me that she was the worst pregnant woman in the world, convinced her child would be born with the most horrific things.

She cries as she tells me that this defect is rare, but the cases that she's seen, the babies have had to remain hospitalized for months.

Months?? I can't do that....its not that I wouldn't, but I can't. Doesn't anyone understand that? Aren't you listening God? I can't. I have a three year old at home, an hour and a half away. She needs me, she's never been without me for more than a couple of hours. I have no one to watch her. How will I tell her her sister can't come home?

I call everyone to tell them what's going on. My dad has just had knee surgery, they cannot travel the 250 miles to be here. My sister asks if I want her to come. I say yes, and then stop myself...no, no, don't come. Because if I need you to come, I acknowledge how serious this is.

And I tell them all,one more time, how beautiful you are.

God, are you testing me? Are you seeing if I'm going to be o.k. with Paige having Down Syndrome? Are you making her so very sick, so that I am reminded how much I love her? How I would die for her already?

You made a mistake. I don't need that reminder. I know...don't you get it? I already know....

March 25, 1997

I meet your surgeon today. He's a big guy named Dr. Bass. He exudes confidence. That's a good thing, I think. He draws me all kinds of diagrams, writes lots of words I've never heard of down, tells me they are now looking for a bunch of other defects called 'VACTERL Association.' So many words...how will I remember them all? Tracheo Esophageal Fistula, or Esophageal Atresia, or maybe both, which was which again? G-tubes and ng tubes and long gaps and ultra long gaps. Reflux, motility....so many words.

Wait...she's perfect, remember? The pediatrician told us we could go home yesterday. This is just a dream.

I find myself saying things out loud I'd never thought I would voice....what are her chances? Can she survive? I don't want her to be a guinea pig. You need to tell me if she is going to die...because if she is, I want her to do it with dignity.

Are these selfish thoughts? Do I not want to put you through unnecessary intervention because I'm too weak to deal with it? Or am I doing it for you? God, I've struggled with these thoughts for months for you, Paige. I want someone else to decide.

He can't make any guarantees...he doesn't know what he will encounter until he gets there. But he's a doctor, right? He can fix anything. I wish I could convince myself of that right now.

He is so, so nice, and explains everything very factually. It is only when he gets up to leave, takes my hand in his, and tells me he will take good care of you, that I feel that lump form in my throat.

Save her, Dr. Bass...please be my hero, not my worst nightmare.

March 25th, 1997

Surgery Day. We have decided to baptize you before you are operated on. I'm scared that God is going to see, and think I don't believe enough...that I don't have enough faith that you will survive.

Dakotah's Godfather, Gabe, does the baptism. He has recently become a priest, and he's a total doll. He charms the socks off the old lady nurse who has seemed so crusty since we arrived. The big joke is that everyone keeps asking him if he's the father, meaning your daddy. And he keeps saying, "I'm not THE father, I'm everyone's father."

We don't have anything to dress you in. I didn't know we'd be doing this. There's so many things connected to you, I can't dress you anyway. Your primary care nurse, Louise, puts a hand knit dress over the top of you, and a tiny blue hat. Again, I am reminded how very beautiful you are.

We take tons of pictures, and I try to avoid the fact that the reason I want so many pictures of you is 'just in case.'

After your baptism, the anesthiesiologist asks if we want to kiss you goodbye. I want to kick him. No, I won't! I will NOT say good-bye. They let me travel down that long hall of hell to the operating room, so I can see you for every possible second. I hate this hall. And if anyone were to tell me I'd be walking it 5 more times in the next two years, I would have dropped in my tracks.

No one has ever loved anyone like I love you. When they walked you through those doors, they took my heart too. Don't they know that only a few short days ago, we were completely connected, and that even the space of a piece of paper is too far a separation?

The wait begins. It is 9 a.m. They tell me that they should be done by 3. Three comes and goes. And so does 4. I'm crawling out of my skin. My breasts are starting to fill, aching for you to be there.

At 5, Dr. Bass comes to us and tells us he was able to make the connection. Yay!!! Its behind us, we're going to be OK!!! But, then he says, 'we won't know for 10 days whether or not we were successful, when we are able to do a swallow test.'

They take me to you, and you look so good...the same as you did this morning. He explains that the ng tube is placed for several reasons, the first being to feed you, and the most important, to keep your esophagus open. That no matter what, that tube has to stay in place, because he can't implant it again without more surgery.

Your hands are tied down to your sheets to keep you from pulling that precious ng tube.

I put a note on your incubator that will remain there for your entire stay, along with a picture of Dakotah. The note says, "My heart, my soul, my life, my darling Paige...Together we have no limits." The nurses threaten to take it down constantly, tell me it makes them cry every time they see it.

Friday, March 27th

Well, you are two days past surgery. Today is a big day. They are going to try to extubate you. You will be able to breathe by yourself!! How exciting. It must hurt your little throat so much to have that thing down there.

Its OUT!!!! I can see your face. It looks awful, lol...so full of tape and red rash from tape. But you're there..you're in there. What a wonderful thing breathing is. We are connected...I can tell, because I feel like I can breath again too.

A few hours later, I'm in the 'pumping' room...attached to the awful machine that sucks milk from me like I'm a cow at milking time. I hate this thing. I hate the sound of it, the feel of it. Hate that its robbing me of you being there. Wish that my 'let-down' feeling would come from the feel of you snuggling to me, not the pull of a machine. Wish that when I was nursing, it was your gentle sucking noises and sweet breath I felt on my breast instead of something so mechanical. Hate that there are people out there who think I'm not bonding with you because I can't nurse you.

I don't know it yet, but I'll spend much of the next 6 months attached to this machine. In the beginning, every 4 hours or so, and then every 2 hours, around the clock, as my milk supply begins to diminish. Its because my body knows its not you, my love.

When I return, the nurse is watching you, being very strange. I ask what's wrong and she says she thinks you're struggling to breathe. Once again, your SATS plummet to the 80's. Only now I know what that means, and I know its not good. They tell me that maybe you are just getting tired and need a little help breathing, that you may have to go back on the ventilator.

But how can you be tired? You have a whole lifetime of breathing to do. You are just beginning, lovey, not ending...

With resignation, I agree to let them reintubate you. I feel defeated. Louise tries to comfort me by telling me that its better to pull the vent, and let you breathe even for a few hours than it is to be completely dependent on it.

We'll let you rest...and try again Sunday.

Sunday, March 30th...Happy One Week Birthday, baby....Happy Easter

Today, before I come to visit, the Easter Bunny has come to our house, hiding eggs for Dakotah and leaving you each a basket. Dakotah doesn't understand it all. How come the Easter Bunny left a basket for you when you're not there? Do all babies have to be left behind at the hospital? You promised me, Mommy, she would be home with us Wednesday.

When I get there, the Easter Bunny had visited you too, leaving you a sweet little pair of bunny slippers. You look so adorable with them on, even though they are huge.

The drs. extubate you again. It looks good for a while...then you start to fade on us again. Come on Paige, come on, breathe....

Reluctantly, I have to leave, have to try and let Dakotah have a somewhat normal Easter. I've promised my in-laws I'll be home for dinner by 6. I leave, making them promise me that they will call if they have to intubate again.

On the way home, I stop at the photo place and pick up your pictures. My heart swells with pride and joy as I look at them. Even with all the 'attachments,' you are breathtaking.

During dinner, I pass your pictures around. I am so proud of you. So thrilled to be your Mommy.

Your grandmother starts crying. See, baby? I told you you were beautiful. She is so happy to finally see you.

Then she tells me that I should never let you see those pictures. That they will affect you the rest of your life. That I shouldn't show them to Dakotah. And she delivers the final slam...one she will echo many times in the coming weeks; don't let yourself get too attached.

My stomach turns. I want to vomit. How could anyone not believe I was already attached? We've been a team for 9 months. I believed in you when every indication told me I shouldn't. I've talked to you, dreamed of you, wanted you, for longer than I can remember.

It occurs to me in that moment that I have never hated anyone as much as I hate the collective group of people around me. How the sight of those people who think my baby is not worth getting attached to makes me physically ill.

I start shivering. Wrapped in heavy sweaters, I cannot get warm. I am colder than I have ever been in my entire life.

Wayne says she didn't mean it like that, that it was because she cares so much for me. Maybe my perspectives are all screwed up now, but who's wouldn't be?

Monday, March 31st

You've been breathing for 20 hours on your own!! Another few hours and they tell me we are out of the woods for the ventilator.

We take Dakotah to see you. She asks all kinds of questions. Do all babies live in 'glass beds' (incubators)? Why is my sister naked? Why doesn't my sister have any toys? She doesn't question the beeps, doesn't question any of the machines.

Tomorrow, when I come and visit you, Tigger comes with me, and he stays there with you for the rest of your stay, and through every future surgery you have. She was right, you shouldn't be without someone to snuggle. You look so adorable, sleeping back to back with him--you're both the same size.

Louise tells me to call ahead next time Dakotah is coming to visit. She will make sure you are dressed in your finest for her.

These people have become our family, haven't they, sweet one? This is our home for now.

Tuesday, April 1st

April Fool's Day. I arrive to find a crying nurse, and a pissed off surgeon. You have pulled that precious ng tube. The nurse is apologizing to me, telling me she just unbuttoned your hands for a moment, to change your sheets, and you pulled the tube. That she hadn't taken her eye off you for a second. Dr. Bass is beside himself, frustrated at the prospect of having to re-operate.

He wants to do some consultations to see what the next step should be.

I'm trying to be nice to the nurse, it wasn't her fault. And my heart is broken that we may have just wasted a whole week.

Dr. Bass comes back and says he has decided to leave the ng tube out. That we will try to feed you through TPN...yet another new term I learn, where they give you lipids and fluids to keep you going.

Little do we know, but thus begins another nightmare that still haunts us today. The nurse, already shaken, tries for 2 hours to get an i.v. line in you. Your head is shaven like patchwork. I can't count the picks on your body, can hardly find a spot to touch that doesn't look bruised.

You become the impossible baby, and even today, at 28 months, remain that way. I.V's are a tremendous challenge. They know you when we step into the lab at the hospital...Paige, the baby with no good veins.

But we don't have any choice but to keep trying. I stay with you, holding you, as they pick and pick at you.

Finally, its in. We can all relax. I read to you through the door in the incubator. Its hard to find something to talk about all the time, and I want you to hear my voice.

I wonder if you'll recognize it when we are home? Without the echo of an incubator, without all the background noises of monitors. Its strange, there are 6 tiny babies here, and it is so noisy, but there is not one single cry. Ever.

Thursday, April 3rd

The i.v.s are failing. They keep blowing. We can't get enough calories and nutrients into you to let you survive. Tomorrow, we'll put in a 'central line' that will allow us to do all those things. Its another surgery, but no more picks baby, I promise.

Friday, April 4th

I come in and Louise is saying that she just noticed you are very warm. Maybe the incubator was turned up too high. She takes your temperature. 104.8. Oh no. What's wrong,baby A flurry begins...you are removed from the room, taken to isolation. They give you tylenol right away, and attempt to take blood.

There will be no central line today. Whatever is wrong could go right to your heart if they do.

Then they tell me they are going to do a spinal tap. I don't need anyone to tell me why. I know that's what they do for meningitis. Menigitis is my ultimate fear so far. I know what it can do, how it can ravage your body in a matter of hours.

They bend you into an impossible position, your head literally between your knees. They puncture your spine. Once. Twice. They can't get any fluid. I'm crying, trying to talk to you so you will be comforted by my voice. The Neonatologist's voice changes, he wants this fluid NOW. He takes over, and starts giving orders. He's so harsh it terrifies me. I can't watch anymore, no more needles for my baby...please.

For the first time since you are born, I have to leave the room for a procedure. I am so sorry I didn't stay for you, sweetheart. To this day, I feel so guilty that I left. I was standing right outside your window...I was right there, I promise.

It will be 48 hours before we know for sure. 48 hours of sheer hell. 48 hours of watching every move you make, is this normal What does that move mean? Although every instinct tells me I don't want to know, I touch your soft spot a million times. If its bulging, we're in trouble...

And no central line. So, the quest for good veins begins again. How much can you take?

Sunday, April 5th--Two weeks old today

Well, it looks like its 'just' a blood infection. No meningitis. So that's awesome news. Finally.

The bad news is, no central line. And no chance for one for 10 days, until that blood infection goes away.

So, we settle back down into the 'what next' mode. Dr. Bass decides to go for it. He'll do a swallow test tomorrow, and if there are no leaks, we'll try to feed you orally. Oral feedings, lol..who knew? I thought it was just eating...

Louise gives us a huge gift today. While I am holding you, oh so gently, as to not upset any of your wires, she says, 'here, try this,' and lifts you up to my shoulder.

I burst into tears, the first tears this unit of people has ever seen from me. It feels so, so good. Feels so normal, so perfect. I can't stop sobbing, can't stop laughing. You smell so good. Feel so awesome snuggled against my neck.

I hold you for about two hours that way, feel your baby breath against my skin. And when its time to put you back, its like only a moment has passed....I have to put you down already?

Monday, April 6th

NO LEAKS. Could the world be any better than this? I'm dancing on the ceiling. The end is in sight. Nothing can stop us now. You have 8 more days left on your i.v. for your blood infection, and all you have to do is get up to a 90 cc feeding every three hours. That's three ounces. No problem with that, right?

We'll start feeding tomorrow, by bottle, so we can measure what you take in. But it will be breastmilk...the good stuff, lol.

Tuesday, April 7th

Yeah right you will feed orally. We started at 5 cc's. FIVE. That is 1/6th of an ounce. Probably 10 drops of milk at best. And you didn't take it. Don't you know what taking it will mean? It means you can go home!

We tried preemie nipples and clear nipples, and nuk nipples, and gerber nipples, and even my nipple. Its like you suck and nothing happens. What's wrong baby? Please, please tell me its not your esophagus.

I spent 45 minutes, three times today, trying to get that 5 cc's into you. I'm so frustrated.

I don't know it now, but this is only the beginning of my frustration of feeding you. We will struggle off and on with eating for the next two years.

In the middle of the night, like a vision, it comes to me. Maybe your tongue wasn't in the right place. Could that be it? Why didn't you tell me?

Wednesday, April 8th

WOOHOO!!!!! You took 5 cc's today!!!!!!! You did it!! It was a tongue thing. You were holding the nipple under your tongue instead of wrapping your tongue around it, silly girl.

Boy, you sure are a lot of work.

Lucky I love you so much.

Friday, April 10th

We're in a good routine now. Not too many scares lately. Things are settling down. You aren't hating having to take a bottle. You can take about 1/3 of an ounce at a time. Still a ways to go, but we'll get there.

I can't remember not being here. Can't remember when it didn't feel normal to cry all the way to the hospital to see you, because I was leaving Dakotah behind. Can't remember not crying all the way home because I was leaving you behind.

I know everyone by name now. All the nurses and most of the doctors. I know the babies around you.

Some days are good in our little world. Yesterday, Monica, the baby next to you, moved her feet. The doctors say that might mean that someday she'll walk. Today, they are teaching Jessica's parents how to care for a colostomy, because she's going home tomorrow.

And some days are not so good. We've lost one of the twins...he was just too tiny and too weak to survive. And his mom and dad have to figure out how to mourn Justin, while they continue to hope for Jason.

I recognize the new ones. The parents whose babes are hours old. I see it in their eyes. That look of a deer caught in bright headlights. Too paralyzed to move. Too terrified to react. Functioning at best. Listening, trying to take in the new world of words, and not play the 'what if' game. Stunned at what lies ahead, and yet, thankfully, immensely naive to it.

Sunday, April 12th

Last night I baked a whole bunch of goodies for the people here who have become our family.

Food is always popular with everyone around here. I can't wait til you want it.

The 'runner' for our ward is a very nice young man who looks immensely like David Schwimmer...that sweet, dopey kind of cute. He does everything for everybody, our own personal little Cabana Boy.

He asks who brought in the food, and when they tell him I did, he walks past me, whispering just loud enough that I can hear it, "Looks like THAT baby won't be going home for a very long time."

He's so funny.

Today, everyone is in a super mood for some reason. Chatty and friendly. Louise tells us that she has never gotten flowers from a man. I find that hard to believe. She's about 28 or so, cute as a button, with a wonderful personality. I can't believe she's single. Can't believe she hasn't snagged a doctor.

She's been everything to us here.

Monday, April 13th

Great news!! I think.

We are being kicked out of here...to the step-down nursery at the hospital you were born in.

And if all goes well, you can go home by the end of the week.

This is what we waited for baby!!!!

O.k...so why am I so terrified. I don't know how to be your Mommy without all these people here. What am I going to do with you 'unplugged' How will we function without knowing your SATS or your respirations or your heartbeat?

How can we leave these people who are our family? We can't say good-bye to them...they have been our lifeline.

I never thought I would have such mixed emotions about leaving here. Thought I would never want to come back.

Tuesday, April 14th

Moving day...how weird to be leaving. What a journey it has been. Only one more stop before we are home. A few more days in the hospital.

Louise is there...its her day off, but she came in to do your 'Walk About.'

Whenever a baby graduates from NICU, they take him or her around to all the rooms, saying good-bye to everyone, and then all the nurses congregate in the hall as you leave, clapping and wishing you well.

When we leave, we leave Louise a rose, with a note that tells her that every time you meet the smallest of accomplishments, that will be her flower, everytime you smile, and enrich someone's life, every time you make a difference, you will be sending virtual flowers to her, until she is utterly surrounded by them.

Maybe your garden always be full, Louise, always. Thank you...

I'm such a basket of emotions today.

Wednesday, April 15th

The new place. I hate it already. Your primary care nurse is "Jane." I dislike her instantly.

She gives me some little speech about our Cosmetic Surgery consult...saying, "All parents of kids with DS want to change the way their baby looks, but you'll get used to it. In fact, now that I look at you, she looks a lot like you."

Read the chart, Jane. The consult is for your hand, not your face.

Later that day, she tells me that 'these babies (meaning babies with Down Syndrome) are sometimes 'too retarded to suck.'

Gee, I bet even Jane would have had a hard time sucking without an esophagus. But she sucks now. Big time.

I take my first step as your advocate that day. I request that Jane not be your nurse any longer, citing 'personality conflicts.' The conflict is that she is rude and I don't like her.

Monday, April 20th

They tell me you are coming home today.

I sure hope that's not some twisted joke.

I packed and repacked your diaper bag a million times. A warm outfit, and a lighter one. When did Spring arrive anyway I didn't see it happen...

Your car seat, don't forget your car seat. If I do, they won't let me take you home.

Before I leave the house, I call, just to make sure all is well. I couldn't bear the thought of getting there and not coming home with you.

I'm so nervous.

Paige!!! You look so funny!! Totally unplugged, not even an i.v.!!! Wow, I can pick you up and walk anywhere I want to with you. Your nurse wants one more cuddle before you go. What if she doesn't give you back?

O.k...we're in the car. They can't stop us now. Just gotta get out of the parking lot, and we're home free.

And here we are...home at last.

I waited for this for so long, believed in it, then thought it could never happen. See Dakotah? Isn't she the best big sister you could ever want? Tomorrow we will find her carrying you like a football, telling me she brought the baby to me, lol.

Home at last. Home at last.

So, that's it. That's the story of our first month. Even after that, I thought we had put all of it behind us. Of course, that isn't exactly true. Paige has had 6 surgeries since, three of them within a month of each other.

In some ways, its best we don't know what the future brings us. That we have to handle it as it comes.

But, we have a future, and that's what matters most.

It was worth every moment...

YOU'RE EVERYTHING I HOPED FOR...
EVERYTHING I NEED...
YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL TO ME....

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