Here we are again, climbing from the base of a mountain. You've clawed your way toward the peek four times before and fallen back down each time. As of yesterday, you never needed more breathes taken for you by the respirator: 35. Today, it's 33. If you are especially lucky on a given day, that number might improve by one or two breathes a day. Tomorrow, maybe 32. Its hard to get excited by that kind of progress though, because at any moment that number can fall back to 35 with no warning what so ever. And it has, repeatedly.
Your mother and I have lived with seven years of shifting baselines. Victory improbably snatched away right when it looks like our fortunes have changed, over and over again. I've grown incredibly skeptical of good news and the appearance of odds, worthy of optimism. I'm glad that we don't believe that certain things are fated, otherwise we would have given up on parenthood a long time ago.