I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (9 page)

Being pregnant was a welcome diversion. Most of the time, it helped ease the pain of loss and gave us all something to look forward to. But at times the pressure was overwhelming. I had just lost my baby’s father in a tragic accident. How could I not cry? How could I not grieve? How could I not be depressed? I spent hours each day Googling the potentially harmful effects of grief on a baby in utero. This might sound crazy, but I was petrified that too much crying would hurt the baby. What if the child could feel my sadness? I could never forgive myself if somehow I hurt the little one by being too upset. After all, it was my responsibility to bring a healthy baby into the world. And I was committed to doing that.

Outside of that fear, the weight of what seemed to be a community baby gave me a sense of crushing pressure. The chaotic influx of these different emotions and thoughts weighed heavily on me. The only thing I knew to do was to withdraw, to stick by myself as much as I could. I couldn’t handle anyone
judging me for how I looked or how I was feeling or if I started tearing up out of the clear blue. Being alone so much did one of two things for me: either it relieved me of the pressure to act a certain way around others or it magnified my loneliness.

I couldn’t not think about Ricky. I was sleeping in the bed we had shared. Watching the TV we had watched. Vacuuming the carpet we had walked on. Sitting at the table where we ate together. Reminders were everywhere. Traces of his life, our life. I’d stand in front of his closet, brushing my fingers past each shirt, closing my eyes as the scent of his cologne still lingered ever so slightly. As if he were there. As if I could take one tiny step forward and touch him, fall into his arms.

I talked to Ricky all the time. “Come back,” I’d plead. “Come back to me.” During many of my sleepless nights, I’d sit on the floor of my bedroom closet, turn off the light, and beg Ricky to give me a sign he was still with me. “Do something!” I’d yell with such a force my lungs felt on the verge of imploding.

I’d give Ricky options to manifest, urging him to turn on the light or throw a lamp. I wanted evidence. I wanted proof. I wanted a physical clue that his spirit was still alive, that he could still see me, that though he was gone in body, his heart was still connected to me. Somehow. Some way. I was confident, especially being pregnant, that Ricky would give me some consolation that he hadn’t forgotten about me. That I wasn’t alone. But lights never mysteriously switched on. Lamps were never thrown across a room. And I never saw any visions of my beloved. That was disappointing, and it fed my sense of hopelessness.

As weeks and months passed, ever so slowly, reminders of Ricky started disappearing from the condo. I came home
one night after running an errand and noticed that the plans for the house we were building, his clothes, his journals, and other miscellaneous things were missing. Gone. I imagined his parents had taken them, but I didn’t know for sure. And I didn’t say anything for fear of anyone accusing me of being greedy, possessive, or selfish, wanting Ricky’s stuff. Because that’s all it was anyway. Stuff. None of it was Ricky. None of it could bring him back. I’ll never forget the day his closet was finally bare. I stood staring at the empty hangers, hooks, and shelves, the white walls stark and cold. After a minute or two, I numbly shut the door. I would never open it again.

Later, as I was rummaging through some drawers in the kitchen, I found a box Ricky had kept that contained a bunch of handwritten notes and cards I had given him, as well as the matches and dinner receipt from our first date at Shula’s. I was grateful for these small tokens, keepsakes that our love was real, that it existed. Around that same time Ricky’s parents opened his safe and found a bunch of gifts he had been waiting to give me, including a candle I loved and a pin I had admired on a shopping excursion in Hawaii. Though I treasured these things, nothing could make me feel as connected to Ricky as the baby inside my growing belly.

I was convinced our child was a boy. I wanted it to be, so the little bugger could carry on Ricky’s name. On December 15, as the technician in my obstetrician’s office poured the ultrasound gel on my belly and skillfully whisked the probe around, I stared in awe at the monitor. As tiny hands and legs squirmed, I strained to see if any particular body part stood out to confirm my suspicions of a Ricky Jr. And then, “Aww, Emily. You’re having a girl,” the technician announced with a smile.

I sharply drew in my breath. “No, no,” I whispered, shaking my head. “Can you please look again?”

She obliged, if only to humor me. After a small pause, the tech said, “Yup, trust me on this one, Emily. It’s a girl, all right.”

I sighed, somewhat disappointed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a little girl. The baby was healthy, so who cared, right? I was just hoping for a boy so he could carry on Ricky’s legacy; this was our only shot! But the letdown was short-lived. As soon as I drove home, I started dreaming of all things girly—shades of pink, textures of delicate lace, ribbons, and bows.

Naming the baby Josephine Riddick, after her daddy (who was officially Joseph Riddick), was a no-brainer. No other would do. I looked forward to June 29, my baby’s arrival date, and with each passing day got a bit more swept away by envisioning the day I would finally meet and nuzzle my little one.

Though I was still sick well into my second trimester, abruptly pulling off to the sides of city highways and neighborhood streets multiple times a day so I wouldn’t throw up all over my lap, I started working in the sales department at one of the Hendricks’ car dealerships. I called new customers, reminding them of upcoming service appointments and maintenance that needed to be done to their newly purchased vehicles. While I was happy to swap my pajamas for some normal-people clothes and get out of the house on a daily basis, I didn’t enjoy the work. It was hard for me to sound constantly chipper when I was puking up my insides every few hours. Consequently, my career in the car sales industry was short-lived. But as I was a few months away from welcoming the arrival of baby Ricki, I spent the rest of my pregnancy nesting in my new home, the house Ricky and I had lived in before we started building our dream home.

Little Ricki was growing into a big little monkey. She was close to ten pounds when her due date approached. And she was happy as could be in my womb, showing no signs of wanting to leave the warm cocoon. My doctor was worried the baby was going to get too big, so they decided to induce labor on June 29. Mr. Hendrick drove me to the hospital. I was given Pitocin, which launched me into almost immediate excruciating contractions. While I waited for an epidural, my parents, who had flown in from Florida, my brother, Ernie, Mr. and Mrs. Hendrick, and their daughter, Lynne, scattered themselves around the labor room, praying for a healthy delivery. Hours had passed, the epidural working its magic, when my doctor said it was time to push. And push I did. For close to three hours.

Pushing was useless. Ricki refused to leave my body. All that strength, energy, and sweat wasted. I had been in labor for close to twenty-four hours when I was finally wheeled into an operating room for a C-section. Mom and Mrs. Hendrick accompanied me. Physically exhausted and starving after having not eaten for close to thirty-six hours, I was strapped to a table with a curtain positioned over the front half of my body. “You’re going to feel some pressure, Emily,” my doctor warned, as I braced for deep pain.

As the surgery was in progress, Mrs. Hendrick peeked over the curtain, where my abdomen was being sliced open. I don’t think she meant to say this out loud, but as her face turned as white as a sheet, she blurted, “Emily! They just pulled out your uterus.” Good grief! The last thing I wanted to think about was my spilled organs hanging out over the outside of my body.

But then, music to my ears—a baby’s cry. High pitched
and loud, baby Ricki entered a world that would never be the same. Mom squealed in delight, “Oh Emily, she’s beautiful!” When the doctor lifted my baby up so I could see her, tears fell. I can’t even tell you the warmth of joy I felt. Peace. Purpose. I hoped that her daddy could see her, that he could see the fullness of love he left behind.

After I’d been cleaned up, sewed up, and wheeled into the maternity ward, I was shocked to see my room full of people. Still bleary-eyed from being pumped up with morphine, body aching with pain, I quickly scanned the room, looking for baby Ricki. And there, in the swarm of a crowd that consisted of my family and the Hendricks and their friends, some of whom I didn’t even recognize, was my precious bundle of joy, being passed around like a football. Everyone was over the moon, cooing over the swaddled little angel. I was happy everyone was happy, but the staggering scene stirred up fears that Ricki had, in fact, become the community baby.

She wasn’t mine, I thought before gulping. She was everyone’s!

I wanted everyone out so I could have a moment with the baby I had just delivered. To hold her. By myself. But I was too tired and in too much pain to speak up. So I watched the display of awe from afar, cringing as people other than her mama cradled baby Ricki.

Minutes or hours later, the crowd thinned and Ricki was whisked away to the nursery. And more minutes or hours later, a nurse popped her head in and asked if I’d like to stop by and see my baby.

Yes please!

I bawled when I sat in the padded rocking chair in the
nursery holding my girl. It wasn’t just maternal ecstasy that fueled the tears; it was also the weight of responsibility I imagine most young mothers feel.
Good golly. This is it. The day I’ve been waiting for. I have a baby. I’m actually a mom.
And then, a wave of slight panic.
Well, now what? What am I supposed to do? What do I need to do? Where is the baby manual? Who’s going to give me instructions? Where’s my FAQ sheet?

As I rocked back and forth, nestling little Ricki up to my face, staring into her eyes, a mirror of her daddy’s eyes, I felt soothing peace. Oh, the fears were still there, but in the midst were pride and joy and calm. I touched Ricki’s delicate skin, soft and pink. Every feature perfect. My baby. Ricky’s baby. Then, the rush of tears.

I was in the hospital for about three days. I suffered from a severe bout of anemia, and almost depleted of iron, I could barely stand up, let alone move. When the doctor told me I was finally healthy enough to go home, I would have jumped up and down for joy if not for the stitches stapled in my tummy.

Mom and Dad stayed with me for a few days while I stumbled through fatigue like a typical new mom in a haze of changing diapers, frequent feedings, and moments I’d stare at Ricki, marveling at this beautiful new creature who had created within me a whole new world.

I remember waking up during those first few days at home after a much-needed power nap to a house full of people. Though I did appreciate all the help my parents and the Hendricks gave me during that time, I was disappointed that I
had what felt like only a few moments alone with my daughter. The bonding time I desperately craved and deserved seemed cut short by others hovering over her. Overcome by exhaustion and overwhelmed by the lack of personal space, I know I had moments when my frayed nerves got the best of me.

After my parents left, I enlisted the help of a woman named Margarita, a sweetheart from Colombia who didn’t speak much English. Even though there was a gap in communication, she was a godsend, spending a few hours a day with Ricki and me, loving on the baby and helping me heal and care for her.

As weeks passed into months, Ricki’s personality started to develop and shine. She was a happy baby with the sweetest temperament and more rolls on her chunky body than you would find in a bakery. She always smiled, gurgled, and cooed. And when she laughed, oh my goodness, I’d just about bust out laughing every time I heard those deep-bellied squeals of delight. I strolled her around the park, pushing her on the swings as she howled with laughter. I took her to the movies with me, watching the film as she’d cuddle up and fall asleep on my chest. I took her for crazy rides up and down the aisles during our grocery shopping excursions. I took her to Mommy and Me classes around the neighborhood and watched her interact with other kids her age as they bounced, tumbled, sang, and danced as only little ones can do.

When Ricki turned one, I threw her an intimate birthday party at my house with family and a few friends, wondering, like most parents do, where on earth the time went. My little girl took her first step around that time. Mr. Hendrick and I were on the bus at a race. Watching him eat a slice of cheesy pizza, Ricki held out her hand for a bite and then took a step
toward him to make the effort to get it herself. Mr. Hendrick and I stared at each other for a second, then started laughing. “Is that official?” he chuckled. It sure was!

Little Ricki was an anchor, a blessing in the middle of the fog that shrouded me still, more than a year after she was born. Though I was never diagnosed officially, looking back, I can see now that I suffered from postpartum depression. I hadn’t fully grieved the loss of my baby girl’s dad because I was so scared that a burst of spontaneous tears or deep reflection about the loss would somehow harm the baby. And once Ricki was born, well, I had to take care of her. I didn’t have time to healthily process the pain, the loss that got squashed down deeper and deeper in the midst of responsibility.