I like to begin my story from when everything felt normal or at least what was normal for us. My husband and I had been together since we were teenagers. We married at 18 and had been married for three years when this story began. We were happy, building a home, and raising our first child, Noah, who was born on October 19, 2016. He was a perfect, healthy 8-pound baby boy who filled our world with love.
When Noah turned about a year and a half, we decided it was time to try for our second and final baby. To our surprise, we got pregnant very quickly. During our first ultrasound, the technician smiled and told me everything looked great. Then she paused and said, “Kayla, there are TWO. It’s twins!” My jaw dropped. Twins? Three kids? I called my husband and son into the room, and my husband’s face lit up with joy. We soon found out the twins were both girls, and everything in the pregnancy went smoothly.
But on September 23, 2018, when I was 21 weeks and 5 days pregnant, everything changed. I had caught a cold from one of the daycare kids I looked after and wasn’t feeling great. That morning, I noticed a tiny bit of pink when I went to the bathroom. I called my midwife, who suggested I go in to rule out a bladder infection. I thought it was unnecessary but agreed.
At the hospital, I waited for four long hours without being seen. My discomfort grew, and I started feeling what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions. When I called my midwife, she was shocked that the nurses had forgotten I was there. Soon after, they rushed me for tests. When I heard the nurse say, “The urine is clean,” I instantly started to cry, I knew deep down that something was terribly wrong. Moments later, my water broke during the ultrasound.
A doctor confirmed what I feared: my water had ruptured. When I asked through tears what would happen to my babies, she said coldly, “The babies will be born today, and they will die.” Hearing those words shattered me. My husband, family, and midwife surrounded me, crying and begging for help. The doctor refused to contact another hospital that might assist, saying there was nothing anyone could do.
I remember yelling that I was angry with God, questioning how He could let this happen. But something miraculous happened next, my contractions suddenly stopped. Just like that. The doctor decided to leave me for the night, saying she still wouldn’t let me hear the twins’ heartbeats because it was a “waste of time.”
The next morning, another doctor came in and explained that Baby A’s feet were already visible and that I could die from infection. He told me no hospital would help before 23 weeks, and he refused to even call to ask. I begged for medication to help my babies’ lungs and brains develop, but was denied every time. For four days, I lay in that bed, afraid to move, praying, crying, and hoping someone would care enough to try.
Then, on September 27, labor began again. I was 22 weeks and 2 days pregnant. I felt utterly defeated, ready to face the unthinkable. As they wheeled me to the delivery room, my sister arrived and held my hand. Then, a new doctor entered and said, “Kayla, I know you want these babies saved. I’m going to call every hospital nearby with a NICU and see who will take you.” For the first time in four days, I felt hope.
Fifteen minutes later, he returned with his coat on and said, “Two hospitals agreed to take you, we’re going to London, and I’m coming with you.” I burst into tears as we raced down the highway.
In London, I was diagnosed with pneumonia, something the first hospital had missed. I was not only fighting for my babies’ lives but also for my own. The doctors explained the risks, but I refused to give up. When I finally went into full labor, my husband arrived just in time.
At 9:12 p.m., Luna was born, weighing only 14 ounces, but she kicked and let out a tiny cry. Seventeen minutes later, Ema followed, weighing 1 pound and measuring 12 inches long. They were both alive. The doctors said we might only have 12 to 24 hours with them, but I held onto faith.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Luna and Ema fought harder than anyone could imagine. They spent 115 days in the NICU and came home before their due date, healthy, strong, and full of life.
Today, they are thriving, happy little girls. Looking at them, you’d never know they were born at just 22 weeks. We now dedicate our lives to spreading awareness for babies born this early, to show the world that they can survive, and they can thrive.
From being told there was no hope to celebrating over three beautiful years of life, our daughters, Luna and Ema, are living proof that miracles do happen.
