I’m not looking for love on the Fourth of July in 2003, but, as they say, that’s exactly when you find it.
In June 2003, I ended a year-long relationship with a boy I met during my sophomore year at the University of California, San Diego. Like me, he was a communications major, but unlike me—who has found an internship at a local news station here at home—he’s taken off for the summer in New York to pursue his dreams of finding work in theater.
My friend Tammy, an upbeat coworker at a local chain restaurant, has made a summer project of helping to get me over my heartbreak. I have to give her credit—she’s doing a great job. “Oh good,” she says as I climb into her passenger’s seat.
“What’s good?”
“You’re in flip-flops. We’ll have to park and walk awhile.”
Pacific Beach is one of the most happening spots in all of San Diego, especially on the height of summertime holidays. After we find parking, it takes us thirty minutes on foot to make our way to the sand. We’re sweltering by the time we spot the roped-off property that a group of friends from work has reserved. When a round of margaritas makes it our way, Tammy and I toast and giggle over the first salty sip.
I scan the scene: thousands of young, excitable, beautiful people packed up and down the San Diego coast. Around us, they laugh and dance and pose for photos.
Then, my eyes land on a group standing next to us—good-looking guys, all tan and fit. My eyes fix on one in particular: he’s tall with dark hair, green eyes, and muscular, broad shoulders. He’s gorgeous.
I lean into Tammy. “Look at him,” I say.
“The one in the gray T-shirt? Yeah. I know.”
“No,” I point, inconspicuously. “The taller one.”
Just then, he glances over.
“He just caught me pointing!” I whisper. Tammy and I burst out laughing. Secretly, I’m glad he busted me.
Gradually, his group hovers in to circle around ours, and he and I begin to chat. His name is Jeff, he tells me. He’s twenty-six, five years older than I am, and has just finished his master’s degree in industrial technology at Cal Poly, on the central coast. He’s been working as an EMT and doing some real estate on the side with his dad, but he’s considering going into a field where he can be hands-on in helping people full-time—paramedic training, the fire academy, or maybe even medical school.
Instantly, I’m intrigued.
I like Jeff’s ambition and the fact that he likes to be the one helping people—our attraction is instant and mutual. The ocean water is warm and glimmering with sunshine when he invites me to join him for a swim, but after a few minutes, his friends holler down to him—they’re leaving to host a house party that night. I follow his lead out of the water and whisper to Tammy, who’s waiting at my towel: “We have to join them.” Fortunately, she and Jeff’s friend have hit it off, too.
When we arrive, his smile lights something inside me: This is what they mean when they talk about love at first sight. As he and I stay close at the party and talk, it’s clear that he’s ready for the same things I’ve always dreamed of: to find someone to share life with, to share a home and start a family.
The first few dates solidify my feelings for Jeff. I open up to tell him about the problems in my family, mainly my older brother, who’s been struggling with a serious drug problem since we were teenagers. Jeff listens quietly, with great patience and understanding, and when he responds, he’s thoughtful, kind, and intelligent. He’s the eldest of three boys, very responsible, and he loves to take charge and manage everything. Jeff always chooses the right thing to do, and over time, I find a deep sense of security in him. He’s the first man who’s ever made me feel safe—an experience I have never felt in my life, definitely not in dating. I trust him to make sure nothing bad will happen to me—to protect me.
Over the next couple of months, I grow more and more sure that Jeff is everything I’ve ever wanted in a man, but because I know right away that I’m going to marry him, I can feel myself coming on too strong—and so can he. He’s used to being a bachelor who lives on the beach, and I observe that maybe he would prefer to remain free to do whatever he wants.
Three months into our relationship, in October, Jeff’s birthday arrives. Not knowing where we stand or whether he wants me to be part of it, I decide to break things off. I tell him that if someone doesn’t reciprocate my feelings, I can only continue to give for so long. Because I can’t be completely cruel, I leave the gift that I’d bought him—a surf shirt—outside his door.
Hurt and angry, he calls me. “Why did you do this?” I know he’s referring to both the gift and the breakup. Gently, I tell him that I really care about him, but that I need things to be different if he wants me in his life.
He goes out and buys himself a new truck—a man’s rebellious manner of coping with heartbreak—and within a couple of weeks, he picks me up in his truck and asks for reconciliation. He says he regrets letting me get away and makes a decision to open up more and commit. I’m not sure that he’s ready to change so for the next few weeks I tread very lightly and maintain some distance from him . . . but, unable to imagine my future with anyone else, I finally decide to give him another chance.
Right away, I begin to see Jeff including me into more of his life. A month later, on Thanksgiving, he takes me to meet his parents. On the wall inside their hallway, he points out a portrait of his family. There are dozens of them, and they’re all handsome and pulled together. By the way Jeff talks about them, I sense that he will make an amazing father someday.
But following that day, there’s one piece that’s still holding him back: he speaks often about the need for a bigger challenge in his life; more incentive to work harder and use the gifts God gave him. He’s decided that he wants to join the fire department and train as a paramedic, and I support him to move forward with the decision—even taking on some of the costs of his tuition.
The week of my college graduation in June 2004, just shy of a year since we met, Jeff proposes. I’m beside myself. We nail down some of the details immediately: the date, which will be July 2005, the ceremony’s location on the beach, and Pastor Eric—the former pastor of the church where I grew up, which is an hour north of where we live in San Diego—to perform our wedding. Pastor Eric is a longtime friend of our family, and he commits to our wedding date and leads us through our preparations when we drive up to see him for premarital counseling. The session between the two of us and Pastor Eric confirms that I have made the right choice in my future husband—we share the same beliefs about love, family, and faith, and Jeff has Pastor Eric’s seal of approval as well as my dad’s. It doesn’t get any more assuring than that. Besides having a home and a family, I can’t imagine what our future might hold, but if it includes Jeff, I’m ready for anything.
AS I BROWSE wedding blogs and magazines, I can only wish for the stresses that most other brides seem to face: How to pare down the guest list? Which colors to put on the bridesmaids?
My biggest worry in our wedding planning isn’t a factor I’ve ever been able to control—it’s my brother. The opinion of Jeff’s family means a lot to me, and there’s been a struggle in my life that’s been the source of deep shame for years. My brother, Ryan, is two years older than I am. He lives in Oregon on some property our grandfather owned, but even when he’s away, I worry about him constantly. He has such a great capacity for love that his sensitivity is sometimes too much for him to bear, and for the better part of the last decade, Ryan has suffered a serious substance abuse problem.
He’s my only sibling, and he and I are very close. Recently I even bought him a journal. I wish I could be up there when you need me, I wrote on the front page, but if you ever can’t get a hold of me and need to talk, just jot down your thoughts in this little book.
Of course I want my brother at my wedding, but I just don’t know whether it’s a good idea to put him in the wedding. For Ryan to be a central part of the celebration, inside a mix of strangers and alcohol on a very emotional day, could be a recipe for embarrassment in front of my new in-laws.
To help me decide, I turn to Jeff. He knows how much my brother means to me deep down, and tells me, “We have to include him, Hill. You’ll always regret it if you don’t.”
Jeff’s wisdom and compassion in such a touchy situation cause me to fall even deeper in love with him, and soon, on July 9, 2005, our wedding day arrives. Showing up in his linen groomsman suit, combed hair, and clean-trimmed goatee, Ryan cooperates beautifully, posing in all of our bridal party photos with a proud smile and participating cheerfully in the festivities. Later, my parents tell me that as they were driving my brother to the airport, he told them: “Hillary’s wedding was the best day of my life.”
At the time, none of us knows that it will also be one of the last days of his life.
THE FIRST YEAR following our wedding isn’t exactly the way I’d imagined. With most of our finances going toward Jeff’s training at the fire academy for the city of San Diego, I return to the restaurant where I worked with Tammy and pick up as many shifts as I can. I crave something more: I’ve always been drawn to high-stress environments—it’s why I wanted to be a television news reporter. Now, as a new wife in her early twenties, I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ll ever be able to pursue the dreams I had for my own life.
I begin to consider going back to school for nursing, but our lifestyle ends up taking priority. After our wedding, we rented a two-story beach house in Pacific Beach, just three blocks from the sand. The house is one of the most amazing designs I’ve ever seen, complete with secret passages and artsy designs crafted into every corner. We frequently entertain friends and spend our money going out to eat, and it’s not long before our finances have spun us into a panic. Jeff and I sit down and have a very honest discussion: I’d always believed that getting married was supposed to create security, and deep down, I’m feeling resentment at Jeff. How is it fair for him to pursue his passions, while I pay a majority of the bills? We agree that we have to start prioritizing better, and we need to make some sacrifices—together. We look long-term: What are our dreams? We want to have children, we want to buy a home, and to do either or both of these, we need to start saving money.
When our one-year lease is up, we pack up the little furniture we have and put it into storage. Then we move out of our beach house, and in with Jeff’s parents, fifteen miles east of the beach in the suburbs of Mount Helix. As a temporary plan, I cannot complain—it’s generous of them to let us move in on their space, and my mother-in-law keeps a home and a yard that could be featured in Better Homes & Gardens. I can hardly enjoy it, though. I’m so worried about what my in-laws think of me, and I feel devastated—humiliated—that at twenty-four years old, I cannot take care of myself financially. In our bedroom, Jeff and I often argue in a forced hush, and I feel like a failure to both him and his parents. There’s no one I can vent to in private, and I never thought that even with a husband, it would still be possible to feel alone in the world.
After a few weeks, we’re having so much trouble that we decide to take some time apart. I pack a bag and leave for the weekend to stay with a waitress friend, who takes me to a party and reminds me how to let loose like I haven’t done since college. We arrive back at her apartment in a blur and fall asleep for a little while . . . until late that night—August 12, 2006—when my life changes forever.
It’s my cell phone that wakes me up, my dad’s number on the glowing display. It’s also two o’clock in the morning. “Hillary?”
“Dad?”
“There’s been an accident.”
I grip the V-neck of my pajama top as my dad’s voice shakes while he narrates the details: my brother had been at a party, and, after drinking too much, he got behind the wheel of a car. Then he and two of his friends—one of them who was in my class, she’s the young mother of an infant—tried to make it home. “Someone is dead, Hill, but they won’t tell us who. Mom and I are headed to the scene now.”
“No . . .”
“Hillary . . .”
“I’m coming home!”
I hang up and run into the bathroom, where I lose everything I’ve consumed throughout the course of the night. Then I emerge, and I call Jeff’s phone. . . .
No answer.
I dial again, but still, there’s no answer, and again. I leave a message. “My brother’s been in an accident, Jeff, someone’s dead. Please call me back!”
After a couple of minutes, my phone rings. He’s with friends around a bonfire on the beach, and he’s had some drinks, too. “I don’t know what’s happening, Jeff.”
“I’m coming up there. Let me call your folks,” he says, and when he does, he can hear the emotion in my father’s voice.
“They won’t let us on the scene, Jeff, they won’t tell us anything!”
“Tim,” Jeff tells my dad, “if he’s alive, he needs you at the hospital—not there. Hillary is on her way to your house. I’ll sit tight here until she arrives there, so I can talk you through this. Just do me a favor and keep me posted.”
My friend and I call a taxi and head an hour north, straight to my parents’ house in Lake Elsinore.
When my parents get to the hospital, they call Jeff again.
“Jeff,” Dad says. “We’re at the hospital.”
“And?”
“Jeff . . . he’s not here.” There’s some commotion, so they get off the line and a few minutes later, my dad calls Jeff again. My dad’s friend is a retired California highway patrolman and he has gained access to the scene. “Jeff,” my dad says through tears. “It’s him.”
THE SUN IS rising when we leave to visit the accident scene. In the middle of the night, Jeff’s parents drive him up to my parents’ house and pick up my best friend, Renee, on the way. En route to the scene, Jeff turns to me while we’re sitting at a stoplight. “Babe,” he says. “I’ve been thinking. We should honor your brother by naming our firstborn after him.”
I look into his eyes, knowing what this means—we’re staying together—and wanting him to know that he’s just given me something more meaningful than I’ve ever experienced before. From this point, a child might be the one thing that can pull me out of what lies ahead.
When we reach the scene, the morning sun is in full blaze. A group has formed—among us, Renee and my cousin Melissa, whom I grew up with and who, from now on, will be the closest thing I have to a sibling. If there’s anyone here who can relate to the depth of my grief, it’s her.
The emergency responders have left. Jeff is busy staking a cross in the ground. Melissa, who’s a nursing student, is well accustomed to offering comfort in painful moments. She and Renee stay close behind me as I search the vicinity of the crash site for the last pieces of my brother’s life. Tossed in a bush, I locate one of his green flip-flops . . . and as I scan my eyes some more, I see the last evidence of his life: a puddle of blood, still wet, on a pile of gravel specked with broken glass. I’ve fallen to my knees when Jeff comes to my side. “What is that?” he says.
I show him my finger, now painted red. “It’s his blood,” I tell him. “It’s still wet.” Sobs overtake me, and I collapse onto the ground. I lift my face and through my tears, I seek out any glimpse of comfort—then there, in the distance, beyond the highway, the image strikes me: the old stone building with its clay-tile roof—the church where my family and I used to attend church on Sundays.
The feeling rushes back to me, how as small children my brother and I would turn around in our pew to watch my parents play the bells in the choir loft. At the front of the church was always Pastor Eric, playing his guitar for all of us children during the Sunday services. Even as I sit here now, I can hear Pastor Eric sing the words of my favorite song:
This is the day that the Lord has made.
I will rejoice and be glad in it.
This is the day, this is the day that the Looooord has made . . .
But when Pastor Eric left the church, so did our family. It was right around the same time that my brother started getting into trouble and my dad was working hard to provide. As a family, we lost touch with spirituality.
I grasp for the peace and happiness I used to feel when Pastor Eric was on the altar; that calming time in my life when I was free from worry and heartache. I think of Ryan, how recently he had finally listened to me and returned to church when he moved back home from Oregon. He began to volunteer his time at the church and wore his name badge proudly. I was so proud, and relieved, when he told me that he’d been growing close with the clerical staff and was looking to the pastors for some positive influence in his life.
And here, in this moment at the place where my brother has died, it dawns on me that I haven’t seen Pastor Eric since right after our wedding. There was always something about Pastor Eric that made me feel an innate sense of peace, regardless of what was going on. Even my brother agreed—in his final effort to try to clean up his life, Ryan had written in his journal that he intended to make more of an effort to talk to God and the pastors at church.
By now, Jeff has approached me. He peels me up from the side of the highway. “We have to go, honey,” he says. “Traffic is slowing down for us. This isn’t safe.”
For the next few days, I eat nothing. I stay at my parents’ home, with its revolving door of visitors and a blur of funeral arrangements and tasks to complete. My mom sits limp and helpless on the couch, while my dad entertains the countless visitors in a way that makes me wonder if he’s even aware that my brother is gone.
Jeff stays with me, losing sleep right alongside me. Lying next to him, I realize: How dare I consider giving up on him? How dare I accuse him of letting me down? This is my husband. We made a pledge for forever. Life can change in an instant, and here I’ve been, worrying about something so insignificant as money and my pride. Thank God we have family we can turn to, I realize. Thank God his parents were willing to take us in and help care for us when we were just learning to take care of each other.
DAYS AFTER THE funeral, I return to stay with Jeff and his parents. I also call the restaurant and quit my job. In the weeks to follow, I find it difficult to get out of bed. Jeff leaves every morning for the fire academy and doesn’t return until late in the evenings. On the rare occasion that I leave the bedroom we occupy, my mother-and father-in-law sometimes exchange worried glances. One day shortly after Ryan’s funeral, Jeff’s dad knocks and enters our bedroom, where I lie hidden under the covers in my pajamas.
“Come on, Hill,” he says. I pull the covers down from over my head and meet his gaze in the morning light. “Get out of your pajamas. You’re coming with me.” His voice is stern and strong, not at all like his usual easygoing, upbeat tone.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to run some errands together. You can’t stay in bed like this.”
In his car, we head for La Mesa, an area just a few minutes away from Mount Helix. “So . . .” I say casually. “What’s going on?”
“Peg and I have been talking, Hill,” he says.
“You have?” I hold my breath, thinking he’s about to tell me that they’re finished helping us; that I’m a useless partner to their son and that Jeff and I are on our own if we want to try to stay together.
“Yes, we have. We want to help you and Jeff get on your way.”
I turn and look at him, his blue eyes shining in the light that’s streaming through the car’s windows.
“I want you to start working with me,” he says. “Maybe that will help you start saving again. It’s time you two start thinking about having a home—I’ll help you find one, you know.”
“Rand, you will?”
“Of course! After all, Peg and I want some grandkids!”
Right then, I realize that a smile has spread across my face, something I haven’t felt in weeks.
We spend every evening for the next couple of weeks searching the Internet for a perfect property for Jeff and me. Then we find one, a condo with a comfy living area and just enough space for us to grow. When we go to view it, Jeff and I smile at each other: it’s the perfect size for a young family.
We make our offer and Rand orchestrates the entire transaction—a lifesaver, since Jeff is gone all day at the fire academy.
Later that week, Rand gets the news: the owners have accepted our offer. A few weeks after we move in, we rescue a young white-and-tan boxer . . . and we start trying to have a baby.
Trying, I say, because it doesn’t come easily. With Jeff’s schedule at the fire department and the fact that I’ve taken a job from one of Rand’s friends, a dentist, who offered me a full-time opportunity to help run his office, we both could do with a little more time and energy. Plus, with the weight of losing my brother, my emotional stress has confused my body out of its normal cycle. After about six months of unsuccessful attempts, we see a fertility specialist, who determines there’s nothing wrong with either of us—it’s just all about timing. Hearing me express how much I want this baby, a friend at work lends me her expensive ovulation monitor, and within a month, I can feel that something is very different.
It’s April 23, 2007, when I learn that I’m pregnant. Kobe, our dog, is the first one to learn the news when I scream out loud and jump in the car to find Jeff at the fire station. “He’s at a different house today!” his friend Jason yells from the fire station garage.
“Of course he is!” I laugh, and when I finally track him down near a station in the next district, he jumps off the engine to greet me.
“What’s up, babe?”
“Here.” I hand him an envelope with the pregnancy test strip and the answer key from the box inside. I let him figure out the results on his own. I watch his face as he interprets that two parallel pink lines indicate Positive.
He looks up at me, making sure he’s read it right. “Hill,” he says. “Are you serious?”
I nod.
He hugs me in the middle of the street and hollers to his guys. “We’re having a baby!”
My doctor gives us a due date of the day after Christmas, and I start a journal, keeping track of all my symptoms and the emotions that are building inside me for our baby. I also browse baby information sites incessantly and sign up to receive weekly emails from one website that informs me week by week how our little one is growing. I’m amazed that at nine weeks, the baby’s tiny limbs have formed, and at the start of the second trimester, his or her fingerprints have already developed—proof to the rest of the world what Jeff and I already know: that this child is one of a kind. A few weeks later, the baby’s skeleton is transforming from delicate cartilage to more durable bone, and he or she can actually hear what’s happening outside the womb. Apparently, the baby’s hearing in utero is extremely sensitive, but by the time he or she is born, loud noises won’t sound disturbing anymore.
By midsummer, around eighteen to twenty weeks along, we’ll be able to learn the baby’s gender. When anyone asks us which of the two we’re hoping for, our answer is uniform and unison: it doesn’t matter what we get. We just want a healthy baby.
The developments are exciting, but there are aspects of this baby’s arrival that I struggle with. My emotions on most days are amplified by the fact that Jeff is rarely home to comfort me, and he wants me to keep working when the baby arrives, an idea that I cannot accept. I’m one of the only moms-to-be I know, and I acknowledge that I need to reach out to the few moms in our circle of friends. At a Memorial Day picnic, I confide in Michelle, the wife of one of Jeff’s high school friends, telling her that I can’t keep up with how I feel myself changing, physically or emotionally.
“Listen,” she says. “When I was pregnant with Ethan, I felt like I couldn’t relate to anyone. But can I tell you something?”
“What?”
“It’s like this: you spend nine months dreaming about what this little person will be like, but then when he arrives, he’s even more amazing than you’ve imagined.”
“Really?”
“Oh, totally. You two were made to be parents, Hill. And I know it’s tough right now when you’re worried about money and trying to make big decisions . . . but you’ll see, it all falls into place.”
“I needed to hear that.”
“I promise,” she says. “Jeff will be an incredible father.”
Michelle’s advice helps me to enjoy the next few weeks, and at our next doctor’s appointment, we have the chance to learn the baby’s gender. “You want to know?” the doctor says.
Jeff and I look at each other. “Definitely.”
ON JULY 30, 2007, we send out an email:
It’s a little girl!!!!
Due: day after Christmas 2007
Current length: 9 inches
Weight: 0.5 lbs
We include the sonogram image of Ryland, and immediately, the responses begin to appear in my inbox. Michelle’s is the first, saying, “I love it! Think of all the pink, the mom-daughter shopping days, a partner to lay out at the beach with . . . while I’ll be here playing with worms and Transformers. Peg must be so excited too after three boys!”
Jeff’s college buddy Zach—a father of two girls—writes from where he lives in Northern California. (He responds swiftly, as he and Jeff have been brainstorming a surf trip to Indonesia.) “Why is it the bad-asses like Jeff and me end up with girls? Just kidding. Little girls are spectacular.—Zach”
My mom’s best friend, also a fire wife, writes to me after she hears the news: “Guess I’ll have to start looking for pink fire engines!!!!!!”
During the weekends when Jeff is working around the clock, my mom makes the drive down to San Diego to keep me company, help with chores, and get my input for the November baby shower she’s hosting for me back home. She also helps me decorate the nursery, which Jeff and I have painted in a soothing sage green with clean white trim and white furniture. We hang white letters on the wall that each hang from pink satin ribbons to spell: R-Y-L-A-N-D.
However, just as I’m settling into my third trimester in early October, Jeff is called out to deal with a storm of wildfires burning out of control in San Diego. We’re instructed not to go outside because the air quality is so low, and I experience constant anxiety about my husband’s safety—except for a twenty-four-hour break at home after five days, he works nonstop for more than a week. I’m starting to realize that with Jeff working in this field, I’ll worry like this until he retires.
Again, our usual inner circle calls and writes to check in on us: my parents, Jeff’s brothers and his friend Zach, and Michelle, whose family was evacuated from their home because the fires were spreading near their area. Peg and Rand check in on me often to make sure I’m hanging in there, but with everything I’m hearing on the news, my panic is growing.
Finally, the stress catches up with me when eight weeks before Ryland is scheduled to arrive, I go into preterm labor.
My doctor gives me two injections to stop the contractions and sends me home, where I’ll be on bed rest for the next eight weeks, or as long as we can possibly keep the baby from coming. Every few hours, I have to take a pill, which causes debilitating headaches and brings on jitters as if I’ve had twenty cups of coffee. The worst part is so bad that it’s almost comical: I can’t climb the stairs to our bathroom, so I keep a bucket next to me on the couch. My parents come down to stay with me, bringing me a wheelchair so that at least I can go outside for some fresh air. Together we all decide that it’s best to cancel the baby shower that my mom planned. The good news is that for a few weeks, we’re successful at controlling the contractions.
I study the baby development email updates religiously. The second week of November, one reads: “If you’ve been nervous about preterm labor, you’ll be happy to know that babies born between 34 and 37 weeks who have no other health problems generally do fine. They may need a short stay in the neonatal nursery and may have a few short-term health issues, but in the long run, they usually do as well as full-term babies.” This reassures me slightly, and my doctor echoes the same prediction: if we can make it to thirty-six weeks, he says, we will almost certainly be safe.
When Jeff is home, there’s so much I’d love for us to be doing to prepare for the baby, but he insists that I stay put and let him take care of me. As I watch him around the house, there’s a tiny little piece of me that would love to keep this man all to myself forever, but in our conversations with each other, we’re both counting down the days until Ryland arrives and our life changes from a couple into a family.