She wanted to honor her son, to celebrate his life, however short. That's why she had refused an abortion, even after doctors told her that her little boy would be born without a skull.
Now he was here, squirming in his blankets, and Danielle Hayworth could not bring herself to hold him.
Her hospital room was packed with relatives cooing at her son's sweet face, telling her to enjoy every minute she had with him.
Danielle turned away from the bassinet. This was all she had dared pray for: a few moments to hug her son close, to memorize his sounds, his smell, how his thin fingers felt clasped around her own. But all she could think about was losing him, and how her heart would break.
She could not bear the waiting. She wept and wished for it to end.
"Is that bad of me?" ........
As she neared the start of her third trimester, in mid-October, decisions pressed in on Danielle.
Stringfield had told her Lee would have a much better chance of living a few hours if born by cesarean section. Vaginal births put a lot of stress on a baby's head; without skulls to protect them, anencephalic infants often do not survive the trauma.
The thought of hurting her son made Danielle cry, but so did the thought of a C-section. The surgery would keep her in the hospital an extra day. Who would watch Dashon and Jonathan? She'd come home sore. What if Jonathan had a seizure? How would she pick him up? "I feel so torn," she said.
Then there was the funeral. She was anxious about how Lee would look in an open casket, but mad at herself for worrying about it; she didn't want to be ashamed of her baby.
A prayer ran constantly through her head: Give me strength.
One morning, overwhelmed with despair, her body aching, Danielle called Schafer. Two hours later she was lying in the clinic's ultrasound room, marveling at Leah's chubby cheeks. Danielle had to smile when she saw Leah's nose -- it looked just like Lee Sr.'s. "Poor thing," she said.
Schafer had noticed in an earlier scan that Lee Jr. had a severe cleft lip. From then on, she talked up his cutest features: his long fingers and pert chin, a fringe of hair above his ears.
"I've been bawling all weekend, but after I saw that sonogram, I just don't feel like crying," Danielle said a few hours later. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't pregnant. But then I look at the pictures of the babies, and I feel thankful."
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 separated from Lee Sr.; he told her he didn't know how to cope with the pending birth and death.
She and Schafer 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. Schafer 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, Schafer printed dozens of pictures of the twins. On the best of them, she typed: "Hi, mom!" .......
Danielle smiled, but her mind was on her son. "Is he out yet?" she said. "Is he breathing? I want him!"
Lee Charles Crump Jr. was born a minute after his sister, at 4:19 p.m. -- wiggling, pink, but struggling.
"He's so cute, Danielle," Schafer called as two nurses rubbed him with a blanket.
"Why don't he cry?" Danielle wailed. "Is he breathing?"
"He's trying," Schafer told her. "C'mon, Baby. C'mon."
The nurses pulled a hat over Lee's exposed brain tissue and dressed him hurriedly in the outfit Danielle had picked out, a sweat suit with a soccer ball on the jacket and the letters MVP.
"Sweet boy," Schafer said. "Here he is, Danielle."
Danielle, heavily medicated, could not focus her eyes. She reached out for her son, murmured, "Hey, little man, I love you." Then she sank back, dazed.
Lee was starting to turn blue.
"We have to keep him going until Mom's awake," nurse Deanna Kowalski shouted. She clamped an oxygen mask over Lee's mouth.
"Just give us a half-hour, Baby," Kowalski said. "Just give us a half-hour."
Lee Sr. held the oxygen mask to his son's face as the doctors stitched Danielle. He had flinched when he first saw his baby's mangled head, "but now I'm OK with it," he said. Gently, he stroked Lee's cheek; softly, he murmured, "precious child ... precious child of God."
In the recovery room, Danielle sat up slowly. "Does he look like a monster?" she whispered.
"He doesn't," her physician, Amy Madril, told her. "He's happy as can be in his little oxygen tent."
Danielle opened her arms to receive her son. She rocked the tiny bundle a moment, then pulled back his hat with a groan. "I'm so sorry, Baby. Oh, Sweetie. I'm so sorry."
The room was bright with balloons and flowers; Lee Sr. was handing out pink and blue bubble-gum cigars. Danielle didn't want to touch her son. The mass on his head was awful -- bruised, swollen, worse than the pictures she had been shown in medical texts. Stringfield had told her that anencephalic infants can't feel pain, but it looked like her baby was suffering.
"I'm so sorry, little man," she sobbed. Someone took the baby and put him back in his bassinet. Danielle looked away.
Danielle was afraid to fall in love with her son, but he had such a way about him.
He cooed at everyone who held him, grabbed their fingers and squeezed tight. When Schafer rubbed him under the chin, he made little hums.
Lee Jr. weighed 3 pounds, 13 ounces, with his clothes on; he was all eyes and chin and cheeks. His daddy couldn't stop stroking his face. "Hey, Junior, how're you doing?" he'd ask.
Leah had been taken to neonatal intensive care as a precaution. She did so well that a few hours after the birth, her nurse said she could briefly leave the ward. So Danielle brought the twins together one last time. She nestled them side by side in a bassinet for photos. Then she cradled her babies, one in each arm, and kissed their perfect little ears.
She was quiet as she looked at them, and when she asked to be wheeled back to her room, she told the nurse she wanted to disconnect Lee's oxygen.
"I'm ready," she said.
But the baby adjusted to less oxygen. He slept Tuesday night in his father's arms and in the morning, he opened his eyes. Danielle had to laugh when he started chirping in a rhythmic peep-peep-peep that sounded like a hospital monitor. He mewed and squealed. Lee's cousin Latrina "Teeny" Jones even swore she caught him giggling.
The cleft made it hard for him to latch on to a bottle, but Lee smacked his lips so vigorously that visitors kept exclaiming: "That boy is hungry!"
"Pig," Danielle teased. "Fits right in with my other kids."
To keep their son comfortable, Danielle and Lee Sr. asked a nurse to feed him every two hours, a teaspoon of formula through a thin tube in his nose.
Almost every moment of his life, Lee was in someone's arms.
Danielle's mother, Rhonda Wilson, held the baby for hours. She had been anxious about how she would react, but now that he was here, "I feel really at peace," she said. "It's meant for us to have this time with him."
Lee's great-grandmother held him, and a dozen cousins, aunts and uncles. Even Dashon and Jonathan took turns.
"Hi, baby," Jonathan called. "It's your big brother!" He gave Lee one of his toys: a plastic cell phone.
Lee slept a second night snuggled up to his daddy. But with the morning light on Thursday, his parents could tell he was fading. His skin was cold and the pink was gone from his cheeks; he breathed in ragged gurgles.
Danielle held him naked to her bare chest, whispering to him, smelling his neck. He still had the strength to wrap his hand around her finger.
When she could no longer endure the waiting, Danielle bundled her son in a white satin blanket embroidered with angel wings. Passing him gently to Teeny, she went downstairs to feed her daughter.
When she returned an hour later, Lee was limp. Danielle held him in silence a long while, then looked up: "How do you know?"
Schafer unwrapped the blanket and put her stethoscope to Lee's chest. There was silence as she listened, and then she said, "He's gone."
It was 11:19 a.m., 43 hours to the minute after his birth.
Lee Sr. cradled the still body against his wet cheek. So softly it was almost imperceptible, he began to hum "Amazing Grace."