An anniversary I’ll never forget!
It was our 11th wedding anniversary, a day that started out calm and joyful. We spent the morning relaxing, assembling a stroller for our soon-to-arrive baby, and floating around in the pool. As we got ready for dinner, we chatted about how fun our wedding day had been, laughing at the memories that made it special. Before heading out the door, we even snapped a few cute anniversary photos. Our daughter Hazel, 4½ years old, was happily playing with grandma, giving us the perfect opportunity for a date night.
We decided to take a stroll through Old Town Park City, where we got married and had recently moved. But just as we began to walk, I felt a sudden, sharp contraction low in my belly. It was so strong I had to sit down immediately. At that moment, I didn’t think much of it—after all, I wasn’t due for another month. But within 25 minutes, the pain intensified, and I found myself shouting for Brett to grab the car. We needed to get to the hospital immediately.
Hurrying, but still thinking we had time, we swung by the house to grab our hospital bags—mine was packed, Brett’s was still untouched. As we set off for the University of Utah Hospital, we plugged the route into the GPS, expecting a quick 25-minute drive. But to our shock, the map showed 55 minutes, the entire route blocked with traffic. Stuck on the only road through the canyon, we couldn’t believe our luck—of all nights for this to happen!
We knew we had no choice but to go for it. With our flashers on, Brett drove as fast as he could along the shoulder while I called 911. When the operator heard that my contractions were just 30 seconds apart, she calmly told Brett to pull over, warning him that help was on the way but that he might have to deliver the baby right there in the car. I was lying across the front seat of our truck, screaming in pain, when my water suddenly broke, and the pressure became overwhelming.
Desperate for relief, I got out of the truck and started pacing in the grass on the side of the highway, still screaming and trying to gather myself. The pain was excruciating, and fear gripped me harder than the contractions. I knew I could handle an unmedicated birth, but I felt completely unprepared. I wasn’t in the right mindset, and the surprise of it all made it impossible to find any calm or strength. I was terrified, though I tried to hide it. The night was pitch black, and traffic had come to a standstill in both directions.
The 911 operator, who was incredibly kind, tried to talk me through my breathing, but it felt impossible. Just as I was beginning to lose hope, I spotted flashing lights in the distance, moving towards us. For the first time that night, I felt a flicker of relief. Help was finally coming.
The firemen quickly spread out a tarp on the grass, telling me to climb on so they could deliver the baby right there. Fear gripped me, but I complied, trembling as I got onto the tarp. Just then, the ambulance arrived, and I gratefully switched to their stretcher. I begged the paramedics to let Brett come with me, but they said we couldn’t leave the car behind. With a sheriff leading the way, the sirens blaring, and me still screaming through contractions, we began our race to the hospital. The paramedics hooked up an IV and checked my progress as I dealt with the contractions in the least graceful way possible. I cried, screamed, yelped, and even cursed. In the brief moments between contractions, I apologized to the paramedics, thanked them repeatedly, and waved at Brett following behind us. Then it would all start again.
We sped to the hospital, pulling up to the emergency entrance. This experience was nothing like my first birth, which had been a calm, planned induction with an epidural and a few hours of labor. This was chaotic and terrifying, the pain overwhelming. I could feel her little head, and panic set in—what if she wasn’t ready? I needed this to be different. But the hospital staff rallied around us, rushing me through the hallways on the stretcher. I frantically asked for Brett, and moments later, I saw him running toward me from the opposite direction.
“Make sure you video this and take some pictures,” I managed to say, even as he rolled his eyes with a smile. I was wheeled into a room, where nurses and doctors seemed to be everywhere. They were talking to me, trying to help, but I couldn’t hear them over my own screams. Finally, a kind nurse’s voice cut through the chaos, telling me to plant my hand and roll onto the bed between contractions. I did as she said. On my hands and knees, the doctor urged me to push. I dug deep, tears streaming down my face, and pushed with everything I had. After two and a half pushes, I felt her come out, and the smallest human I’d ever seen was placed beneath me. She was perfect—but so tiny. I looked up at Brett, overwhelmed, and said, “She’s here, she’s beautiful, she’s so tiny,” before collapsing around her protectively.
Darla Rose Roth was born weighing just 4 lbs. 8 oz., and she immediately filled a space in my heart I hadn’t known was empty. From the first contraction to holding her in my arms, the entire experience took less than two hours. As the nurses cleaned her and explained she needed monitoring, they told Brett he could go with her. But my heart broke. I had carried her, grown her, but I couldn’t give her that last month she needed, and now she was being taken away. The doctor explained that my placenta had hemorrhaged, which caused everything to happen so quickly. I wrestled with guilt, feeling like my body had failed her, but I reminded myself to celebrate—she was here, and she was ours.
The next fifteen days in the hospital were a whirlwind. What I had thought would be just a few hours of monitoring quickly turned into an extended stay in the ICN, a low-level NICU. Darla, our little preemie, needed more care than we anticipated—oxygen support, antibiotics delivered through an IV in her forehead for five days, light therapy, a feeding tube, and constant monitoring. She went through countless tests, specialist visits, and had two parents who rarely left her side, except to spend time with her big sister. Thankfully, I had no complications from the birth, and while my recovery wasn’t glamorous, we were lucky to have a dorm-style “twilight room” in the hospital to stay in while we waited for Darla to be released. It wasn’t how we had envisioned the birth of our second child, but we made the best of it. Our family rallied around us, taking care of Hazel and everything else, which brought us immense comfort.
We were also deeply moved by the dedication of the healthcare workers. From the team that rushed me to the hospital that first night to the pediatricians, nurses, and staff who cared for our tiny preemie with such dedication—they were true heroes. Their expertise and compassion were exactly what we needed during such a difficult time.
When we were finally released from the hospital, it felt surreal. I had given birth fifteen days earlier, so I no longer looked pregnant and was moving around much easier than most new moms. Yet, we had this tiny baby with us who barely passed her car seat test because she didn’t even weigh 5 lbs. But mostly, we were excited. Hazel had only seen her sister through a small window, and we couldn’t wait for her to finally meet Darla and hold her hand. The emotions hit me hard as we pulled up to our house. After being strong for so long, the relief of walking through our front door was overwhelming. Watching Hazel meet Darla and instantly fall in love with her was the best feeling in the world.
Bringing home a preemie is very different from bringing home a full-term baby. There are nurse visits, constant pediatrician appointments, and the ongoing use of a feeding tube. It’s a challenge to know exactly what Darla needs, as preemie care often goes beyond what most parents are prepared for. But in just a few days at home, we’ve seen her grow and thrive. She snuggles, smiles, and has quickly become a cherished part of our family.
While nothing about her birth went the way I had hoped, I’ve come to accept it, and I’m grateful for the experience. And, looking on the bright side, we now have a unique story to look back on when we celebrate our next anniversary.