Day 3 in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit is a strange place to be — long enough for the shock to fade, but still too close to the trauma to feel steady. For Charlie’s mother, it is a day filled with small victories, quiet heartbreaks, and a deep gratefulness for every breath her daughter takes.
Yesterday was, in many ways, a good day. A surprising day. A hopeful day.
Awake More Than Expected — A Glimpse of Strength
The PICU team had worried Charlie might struggle more after surgery. They expected she would need heavier sedation, more sleep, more intervention to keep her comfortable and calm. But instead, she showed them all just how strong she is.
She was awake far more than anyone predicted. Her eyes open, alert, searching the room, following familiar faces. Though her body is still fragile, and though every movement costs her energy, her spirit refuses to dim.
“She’s slowly improving,” the doctors said.
And for a mother standing watch at her bedside, those words carry the weight of a miracle.
Her night went better, too — not perfect, but better. In the PICU, “better” is a blessing.
A Hard Moment: When the Tube Must Move
But even good days hold hard moments.
At one point, the team had to adjust her intubation tube — sliding it to a different position to prevent pressure sores, mouth injuries, and the splitting and peeling that can happen when the tube rests too long in one place. It’s medically necessary, but emotionally devastating.
Charlie hates it.
And no matter how gentle the team is, the adjustment triggers a cascade of coughing that shakes her whole body.
Yesterday, after they shifted the tube, she went into one of these coughing fits. Her chest heaved against the machine. Tears never came — intubated children cannot cry the way others do — but everything about her posture, her eyes, her stillness screamed heartbreak.
After the coughing stopped, she wouldn’t look at anyone.
She stared only at the ceiling.
Her mother could tell — she wanted to cry.
And in that moment, her mother felt something inside her break, too.
So she did what mothers do.
She rubbed her daughter’s leg for a long time. No words, no pressure — just presence. Just love. Just touch strong enough to remind Charlie she is not alone, but soft enough to avoid overwhelming her fragile body.
Eventually, her mother pulled up videos of babies doing silly things. Slow, gentle distractions. Hope disguised as laughter.
Little by little, Charlie gave in and watched.
But her mood stayed fragile — swinging between sadness and anger.
And truly, who could blame her?
Her Little Bell, Her Big Voice
Even intubated, Charlie finds ways to speak.
Her favorite tool?
A tiny bell she rings constantly to call her mother over.
It is her voice, her control, her “I need you right now.”
And every time it rings, her mother goes immediately.
She has also revived her signature move — the one that makes her nurses laugh despite the heaviness in the room.
When she’s done with someone in her space, she lifts her hand, points straight at the person, and then straight at the door:
Time to go. I’m done with you.
Everyone finds it hilarious — not offensive, not rude. Just perfectly, beautifully Charlie. A sign she is still feisty, still spirited, still herself despite all she has endured.
It’s a reminder that even in a PICU bed, even intubated, even exhausted, she is not a passive patient. She is a fighter with opinions, preferences, and a remarkable ability to advocate for herself.
A Better X-ray — A Quiet Victory
This morning’s X-ray brought more good news.
Still inflammation, yes — but improvement.
Especially on the right side, where all the surgical work was done.
The doctors are pleased. Hopeful. Encouraged by her progress.
That word again — hopeful.
A fragile word here.
But a powerful one.
The plan is to continue monitoring her lungs closely. If things keep moving in the right direction, they hope to perform a dye study on Monday. If the dye study looks good…
extubation will be discussed.
A sentence that brings both fear and relief.
Extubation is hope — but also risk.
And yet, the thought of hearing her little voice again makes her mother’s heart ache with longing.
A Community of Love Surrounds Her
Throughout all of this — the coughing, the adjustments, the fear, the hope — one thing has remained constant:
The love and support pouring in from family, friends, and even strangers.
“Thank you,” her mother says again and again.
The gifts, the prayers, the messages — they matter more than people realize. They brighten this dark, fluorescent world and remind her that she’s not alone in this fight.
And Charlie feels it, too — in new toys, in soft blankets, in the little moments of joy that break through the pain.
A Girl Healing — And Looking Like a Model Doing It
Even intubated.
Even bruised and swollen from surgery.
Even exhausted.
Charlie is stunning.
Strong.
Brave.
Fierce.
Healing — and looking like a model while doing it.
Every inch of her is a testament to resilience.
Another Day Forward
Day 3 ends with cautious optimism.
– She is improving.
– She is awake.
– Her X-ray looks better.
– She is feisty, emotional, and deeply human.
– And she is surrounded by love.
The road ahead is long, but today… today brought more light than darkness.
And that is everything.
