We knew that Danni was going to be taken over to the CVCC in the morning in order to get her ready for her upcoming surgery. When I woke up in the morning, I debated waking up Adam so we could be with her when she moved, but I knew he was tired and hadn't slept well (neither had I really), so I let him be....
... I was in the wheelchair ready to head over to see my baby girl, and we were just waiting on the nurse to bring me another dose of pain drugs, when our room phone rang. Adam answered, it was the CVCC, and they wanted us over there now. So we grabbed the couple things we wanted to bring with to spend the day with our daughter, and stopped at the nurses station quick to grab the drugs. I threw them in the bag on my lap that had my breast pump parts. I remember being... nervous, kind of like when you get the shakes, but not entirely.
Adam pushed me through the familiar halls and tunnels that lead to our daughter. When we got to the elevator I remember stretching my arm back behind me to hold his arm/hand. I was so worried about our baby girl, she must not be doing well if they want us over there right away. At that point, I had no idea how bad things really were. When the elevator got to the tunnel level, I let go of his hand so he could push me as fast as we could comfortably go. (The day before when he wheeled me over, he would go slowly over the bumps in the floor since it hurt my incision to jiggle so much.) Today, I think he knew that I didn't mind the discomfort; we needed to get to our baby!
I remember coming through the CVCC doors and (what I'm assuming was) the head nurse was standing at the end of the hallway-like entrance, and looking straight at us. She approached us and, I think, asked if we were Danni's parents or something, then guided us around the corner to the right. When I looked, it was a much different sight from the large empty area we saw the day before when we had visited. There was a large group of people standing outside a room with the large glass wall opened entirely, making it only have three walls. Most of the people were staring inside the room, watching what was going on, and we were being led over there. I remember one lady, the chaplain, looking over at us as we approached. When we got close enough to see inside the three-walled room, I saw several machines, monitors, wires, a CPR bag, Dr. Baker, and Dr. Gremmels. Dr. Baker was standing next to the bed either doing chest compressions or squeezing the CPR bag, I don't remember which, but I remember him switching with another person who was standing on the other side of the bed.
At this point, I could tell there was a little body laying with her head pointed towards the side of the bed, on the adult-sized bed, but I couldn't really see my daughter. The other people in the room made a pathway up to the side of the bed that Dr. Baker was on, and Adam wheeled me up. I stood up to see my daughter, looking so still and lifeless that she didn't even look like herself, with people doing every medical thing they could do to make her come back to life. I was chocking on the tears I was trying to fight from coming, my throat was tight and felt like it was closing. I put my finger in Danielle's tiny little hand, waiting for her to wrap her little fingers around it like all newborns do, but she never did, so I curled her little fingers up around my index finger and held them in place with my other fingers. I don't recall for sure, but I think this is the point when my tears started falling. I stood there, without feeling any of the pain from the hole in my stomach where they took her out of me two days before, and tried to pray. The Our Father is a prayer I've known since shortly after I could talk, Adam and I would pray it every night together while I was pregnant with her, asking God to keep her healthy and alive. But for some reason, I now knew none of the words. I tried and tried to pray for my Danielle, and I'm sure God heard me and knew what was in my heart: let my little girl live!
We weren't by her side for too long before they asked us to step outside in the hallway to watch while they did another chest x-ray to see if her heart was doing anything on its own. I sat in my hospital wheelchair, with Adam standing behind me, holding the handles. The chaplain, who at some point had introduced herself was standing with us. I think this is when she asked if we wanted to pray with her, and I explained that I was praying while I was in the room with her. I just wanted to see my daughter and what was going on with her, so I looked back through the open wall into her room. Dr. Gremmels came walking out of her room, over to where we were. He put his hand on my shoulder and said the worst thing possible, "I'm sorry," and he hung his head even lower. I don't think I knew what to do in that moment, I'm sure there were tears streaming down my face like Niagra Falls, but I was trying to fight them back again, or still. There was so much numbness throughout my body, that it was like my brain, that was trying to control my body, was in a separate place from my body, and neither really knew what the other was doing.
I think it was the chaplain who asked if we wanted to hold her, and I said yes, or nodded, or conveyed somehow that I wanted my baby girl in my arms, where she was supposed to be. She led us over to the couch/ bed, where we had planned on spending many nights getting a few hours of sleep on, while our baby recovered from surgery, until we could bring her home. I moved from the wheelchair unto the couch, and Adam sat next to me, with his arm around me, tears still running down my face. Someone brought the hospital-grade scratchy tissues over for us, well, more for me. The curtain was pulled, so we could not see what they were doing with Danielle, all the medical devices they had to unhook, that had failed to keep her alive.
Eventually the curtain was pulled back, and my lifeless baby, wrapped up in a blanket, was placed in my arms. I held her, and cried, and cried, and cried. Kissing her, crying, holding her tighter, and occasionally, when my nose was so full of tear-induced snot, grabbing a scratchy tissue so I could breath again, and then continued to cry. I'm not sure how much time passed away while we were in our own little world, spending time with our daughter's body, but the chaplain came in and asked if we wanted hand and feet prints made, we somehow conveyed a "yes" answer to her. She got the stuff ready, and we said goodbye to our baby girl. I'm not sure how I did it, but I stood up and drug my slipper-covered feet along the tile floor over to the large bed she had been laying on before, carrying my child. I placed her on the bed so carefully. The chaplain, and another lady made hand and feet prints and impressions for us, while I got back into the seat of the wheelchair.
The chaplain decided to walk with us back over to our room, carrying the bag of breast pump supplies that I no longer needed. Somehow my face was dry of tears by the time we got back to our room. We passed by the nurses' station, and saw our nurse. I think she tried to ask about how our visit went, or how our baby was, but my body and mind were disconnected again, and I couldn't comprehend anything, but the chaplain explained to her that our daughter had died, as Adam and I continued the short distance to our room.
I remember going in to go to the bathroom, and when I came out, Adam was sitting on my hospital bed. I somehow didn't make the connection that he wanted to cuddle and hold me, and was confused thinking that I wasn't going to sit on the couch/ bed, as I wanted to recline, because the feeling was starting to come back to my body and the incision. I made my way over to my bed, and Adam and I held each other, crying more, and now we were beginning to be able to talk again.
I know my cousin, Linda, called at one point, and now, I'm not sure if I answered it anymore or not, but I knew she was calling to come and meet our new daughter, and I also know that Adam's Uncle Joe also called to come visit. If we did answer, I know we didn't tell them that Danielle had passed away. But, the nurse was kind enough afterwards to have all our calls directed to the nurses' station so we wouldn't have to deal with it.
Sometime around noon or lunch time, I think, we decided that we should call our parents to let them know that they had lost their granddaughter. I think we called my mom first; she was at work. I think I got about five words out before the tears starting streaming down my face again. My mom broke down, in her shared office. I remember her telling Tracy, one of her work friends that I have met several time and often catch on the phone when I call mom's office, that Danielle had died. Adam called his mom and told her as well. We had asked both of them to pass it along to the rest of the family, so we didn't have to make that phone call again.
Mom, dad, and Jeff came and brought dinner for us. Mom shared with us the information she had collected about getting a funeral together for her.
When bed time came, even though I didn't want to be one of those people that had their husbands sleep in bed with them, making it a little awkward for the nurses coming in to check on me, we didn't care. I needed him, and he needed me, and we somehow managed to get some sleep through the horrible nightmare we had just lived.
