If it quacks like a duck, it isn't Max.

Maximilian is driven. He has a sense of the way he wants his world to be, and seems to understand the obstacles in his way that prevent it from being his way in its entirety. The latest thorn in his world has been his intubation tubes.  Not fully understanding that they are there to help him, he detested them with his entire being. The nurses and doctors had to bestow calm upon him by narcotic means as much as possible, just so that he'd lose the will to fight his oppressive contraptions.  Be that as it may, he still managed to squirm and wiggle and paw at the diabolic plastic piping with a hate ridden, fervent ichor coursing through his body. But, even with these strong sleep-inducing nectars affecting his fight, the little guy still managed - with what we imagine to be some heroic music playing in the background - to extubate himself while the nurse wasn't looking this morning.

The nurses hummed, hawed, and scurried to see just how bad Max's decision was.  In the end, though, he was doing pretty well. His lungs did what they needed to do. They filled and emptied rhythmically, his pacing being regular and strong.  To assist a bit - in order to prevent a relapse, really - they brought out a tank of Heliox (80% helium, 20% oxygen) to pump through nasal prongs into his nose.  He can breathe. Mostly on his own. This is a good thing. A great thing really.

Now, his parents are no fools; we know that not all circumstances are permanent, and we know that some steps forward are negated at times.  We got to hear him cry today. It was a hoarse, rough-around-the-edges, little cry, but it was not the duck-like sounds he'd made before. For the first time in our lives, we got to hear our boy sound like a small baby should. We're putting today in the "Win" column.