The next day, she decided she would ask for a C-section.
"I want that chance with Lee," she said. "I want every single second that God gives me."
It helped that she felt less alone. She was still separated from Lee; he told her he didn't know how to cope with the pending birth and death. But his cousin Latrina "Teeny" Jones, 35, stepped in to help. She came over to cook, to vacuum or just to talk.
Danielle talked regularly with Christine Beck, a former hospice patient who had given birth in 2001 to a son with anencephaly. She called or text-messaged Tammy five, six, sometimes a dozen times a day.
"Then I don't feel so crazy," Danielle said.
She and Tammy talked about getting a tiny hat to fit Lee's head, about finding a heart-shaped jewel box to hold his ashes, about buying books to explain the concept of death to Dashon and Jonathan. Tammy found a donor to pay for Lee's memorial stone and arranged for a Choices volunteer to drop off groceries now and then.
Every time Danielle came by for an ultrasound, Tammy printed dozens of pictures of the twins. On the best of them, she typed: "Hi, mom!"
Danielle and Lee met at Broadway Mortuary on a late October afternoon to plan their son's funeral.
"I hate these places," Lee muttered, a toothpick dangling from his lips.
Danielle could not talk. Her hands trembled as director Donald Davis led them into a conference room, hushed but for the drifting piano music.
"I understand you have twins and one of them is not expected to make it?" Davis said, offering them seats. "We have some special pricing for children. For anyone under 12. What were you thinking of?"
Danielle sat motionless, her hands over her face.
"We have caskets for babies. We can have a viewing, if the condition of the child warrants it."
"I don't want him in a casket," Danielle said hoarsely. "I want to get a basket for him."
"That's not a problem." Davis looked at her with sympathy. "Any time you need a break, you just let me know."
Danielle wanted only to get through it. Pressing tissues to closed eyes, she listened as Davis reviewed cremation fees and obituary guidelines. She walked stiffly through a display room filled with caskets, as Davis pointed out the urns that came in smaller sizes for children: pink, blue, floral, frosted gold.
At last, Davis walked her and Lee to the door, handing them a sheaf of paperwork labeled "Baby Hayworth" as they stepped into a blinding sun.
"You all take care of each other," he called.
"I want that chance with Lee," she said. "I want every single second that God gives me."
Danielle talked regularly with Christine Beck, a former hospice patient who had given birth in 2001 to a son with anencephaly. She called or text-messaged Tammy five, six, sometimes a dozen times a day.
"Then I don't feel so crazy," Danielle said.
She and Tammy talked about getting a tiny hat to fit Lee's head, about finding a heart-shaped jewel box to hold his ashes, about buying books to explain the concept of death to Dashon and Jonathan. Tammy found a donor to pay for Lee's memorial stone and arranged for a Choices volunteer to drop off groceries now and then.
Every time Danielle came by for an ultrasound, Tammy printed dozens of pictures of the twins. On the best of them, she typed: "Hi, mom!"
Danielle and Lee met at Broadway Mortuary on a late October afternoon to plan their son's funeral.
"I hate these places," Lee muttered, a toothpick dangling from his lips.
Danielle could not talk. Her hands trembled as director Donald Davis led them into a conference room, hushed but for the drifting piano music.
"I understand you have twins and one of them is not expected to make it?" Davis said, offering them seats. "We have some special pricing for children. For anyone under 12. What were you thinking of?"
Danielle sat motionless, her hands over her face.
"We have caskets for babies. We can have a viewing, if the condition of the child warrants it."
"I don't want him in a casket," Danielle said hoarsely. "I want to get a basket for him."
"That's not a problem." Davis looked at her with sympathy. "Any time you need a break, you just let me know."
Danielle wanted only to get through it. Pressing tissues to closed eyes, she listened as Davis reviewed cremation fees and obituary guidelines. She walked stiffly through a display room filled with caskets, as Davis pointed out the urns that came in smaller sizes for children: pink, blue, floral, frosted gold.
At last, Davis walked her and Lee to the door, handing them a sheaf of paperwork labeled "Baby Hayworth" as they stepped into a blinding sun.
"You all take care of each other," he called.
