Though viable outside the womb, this baby was over eight weeks premature. Her lungs weren’t ready for life in the big, bad, smog-ridden Los Angeles basin. He squinted and pinched his nose as nightmarish thoughts appeared about the loss of his own child to crib death six years ago. He shook his head and tried to force the vision of his baby girl out of his mind. He’d never forget her beautiful little face, not as long as he lived. When he hadn’t been able to save his own daughter, he’d vowed to become a respiratory therapist. But now, several years later, that wasn’t enough. He wanted to be a pediatrician. Regardless of what he’d have to sacrifice in his personal life, he’d see to it that he made it to his dream. Jaynie’s premature baby had pinked up beautifully after intubation. The report from the NICU doc had been a good one. No meconium or amniotic fluid had gotten into the little one’s lungs. The oxygen saturation in her blood was holding at ninety-two percent or greater on the ventilator, and if all went well she’d be downgraded to backup assist control breathing, and then extubated in a few days.
