We had been married for two years when Danny and I decided it was finally time to start a family. I still remember how quickly our love story had unfolded—after only nine months of dating, Danny had proposed in an intimate, candlelit setting, and without a second thought, I said yes. Our early October wedding was nothing short of a dream: we danced the night away atop a cliff overlooking the Pacific at the breathtaking Point Vicente Lighthouse in Palos Verdes, California, surrounded by our closest friends and family. That same year, we purchased our first home in El Camino Village—a little fixer-upper, but perfect for us. Close to both our families and with a good school just down the street, it felt like life was aligning perfectly. We were happy, healthy, and in love, and starting a family felt like the natural next step.
“Are we sure?” we’d ask each other randomly. And every time, the answer was the same: “Let’s do it!” The thought of children had once been a distant possibility, but now it was our reality. Every night, we’d laugh ourselves to sleep, saying, “Let’s get practicing on this baby-thing.” We were young—I was 27, Danny 31—and eager to become parents. Life felt like it was on our side.
A few months later, while giving friends a ride home, I suddenly smelled a popsicle that made me violently nauseous. It was so intense I couldn’t believe it. “Who is eating candy back there?” I demanded, covering my mouth. “Can you please throw it out?!” I shot Danny a panicked look. “I think I’m going to throw up!” After dropping off our friends, we headed home. “I think I’m pregnant,” I whispered. Danny, cautious as always, replied, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I know my body, and that’s not normal.”
That night, we ran to CVS for a home pregnancy test. Three minutes later, I came out of the bathroom crying tears of joy. “We are pregnant!” I sobbed, throwing myself into Danny’s arms. The excitement was overwhelming, but reality hadn’t fully set in yet. At my OBGYN appointment, blood tests confirmed it: eight weeks pregnant. Two weeks later, we went for an ultrasound, hand in hand, ready to hear our baby’s heartbeat. But the room fell silent. “I’m so sorry,” the doctor said. “There is no heartbeat.” I was in shock. Danny and I clung to each other as tears streamed down my face. I was scheduled for a D&C days later, and Danny tried desperately to comfort me as I wept in pain and despair.
After weeks of grieving, we decided to try again. This time, we were cautious, fearful even, but hopeful. Pregnancy came quickly, yet the joy was short-lived: intense pelvic pain and bleeding confirmed another miscarriage. The heartbreak was unbearable. Further testing revealed my body wasn’t producing enough progesterone, a hormone essential for sustaining pregnancy. The diagnosis explained why my pregnancies had repeatedly failed, but the question remained—could it be fixed?
Determined, we tried once more with medication, but heartbreak struck again. Three miscarriages later, Danny and I made the difficult decision to pause. We were emotionally drained, physically worn, and unsure if we could endure another loss. And yet, just when we had given up, the universe surprised us: without trying, I became pregnant again. And not just with one baby—but twins. Superfetation, the rare phenomenon of conceiving while already pregnant, had gifted us two babies at once. We were overjoyed but cautious, aware of the high-risk nature of my pregnancy.
At 14 weeks, during a routine ultrasound, the doctor delivered devastating news: one of the twins had no heartbeat. Vanishing twin syndrome—a rare type of miscarriage—had occurred. I was heartbroken, inconsolable, and terrified for the remaining baby. My pregnancy was now considered extremely high-risk. At 20 weeks, complications arose with the surviving baby: severe IUGR, poor oxygenation, and concerns over premature birth. Doctors advised rest, de-stressing, and monitoring. Danny whisked us away on a brief “baby-moon” to San Francisco, giving us a small reprieve from the anxiety and grief.
At 27 weeks, during what should have been a routine appointment, I was rushed to Little Company of Mary Hospital. The doctors delivered shocking news: I had developed severe preeclampsia and HELLP syndrome, life-threatening complications that could lead to organ failure, hemorrhage, or death. An emergency C-section was the only way to save me—and my baby. Danny held my hand, unwavering, whispering, “It’s your baby or your wife. Save my wife.”
At 3:16 p.m., Emma Isabella Ryan was born: 500 grams, 10¾ inches long. Tiny, fragile, yet alive. The next five days were excruciating—I could not move, could not eat, could not see her. When I finally met her in the NICU, she was barely the size of my palm, wrapped in blankets, wires, and tubes, fighting for her life. Over the next 160 days, Emma endured blood transfusions, heart surgery, feeding tube placement, resuscitations, and more procedures than any infant should face. Yet she survived. She came home with oxygen, monitors, and an incredible fighting spirit. Our miracle. Our rainbow after years of loss.
Life continued with joy and heartbreak. In 2015, when Emma was three, we lost Danny in a sudden boating accident. Our world shattered, yet Emma and I persevered. I dedicated myself to sharing our story, hoping to give hope to others experiencing grief, loss, or hardship. I am writing my memoir—a testament to survival, motherhood, preemie life, and widowhood. I want anyone who feels alone to know they are not. Life may throw unimaginable challenges our way, but joy, love, and miracles are still possible. Emma is proof of that, and in her, Danny’s love lives on.
