“I know you would not want to be anywhere but your home when I asked you,” he said. Anybody who knew my heart knew that was true. I would not have wanted to say yes to forever in front of anybody else or anywhere else.
“But how did you know that I wanted a ruby?” I almost yelled.
“Because I know you,” he said. “It’s your birthstone, and I know what’s sentimental to you.” He told me my mom helped him pick out the ring, and she told me he paid for it himself. It’s so funny, because he lived so simply that I always assumed he had no money. But all those years playing in the NFL, he’d saved. We kissed, and by then the record had gone through “Stairway to Heaven” and started Eric’s favorite, “Going to California.”
“Your bags are packed,” he said. “I’m taking you up to San Ysidro Ranch.” It’s a hotel that’s one of the most romantic places in the world. He’d confided his proposal plan to Lolo, because she’d brought us together in the first place, and she suggested it as the perfect getaway.
“How did you do all this?” I asked. How long had I been watching Parenthood?
“I just did,” he said. It was about a three-hour drive to San Ysidro, and we called all our loved ones on the way. He told me he’d asked my parents’ permission, and they’d given their blessing. None of my friends were shocked, or at least nobody said they were. Everybody knew we were meant to be together. We already had a plan: we would get married the following year, so our wedding date could be 11/11/11.
I remember looking out on the coastline, thinking that now more than ever I wanted that wished-for baby girl. Trust God’s timing, I told myself. She’ll appear.
THE FOLLOWING SUMMER, A YEAR INTO TRYING TO HAVE A BABY, I KEPT A stash of pregnancy tests in the downstairs bathroom. I didn’t want them in my bathroom, because I would constantly see them. I just needed to know they were there when I was ready.
When I had the surgery to remove my right fallopian tube as a teenager, the doctor had said I would likely only be able to get pregnant every other month. Then, it didn’t seem like a big deal. Now it seemed like it cut my chances in half. It was summer, a month where I would be ovulating on my left side, where I still had a fallopian tube. Those months were always full of hope. I had been trying ever since Capri. I know that there are people who’ve waited longer or been told more definitively that they will not be able to conceive or bring a baby to term. I am in no way comparing heartaches. For me, passing the year mark was hard. I wasn’t ready to start monitoring when I was ovulating, because I was afraid of realizing I had a real issue. But I took a pregnancy test every month, just in case, and this time the Not Pregnant sign on the test hurt my heart.
I needed Eric. He was outside at the glass table with Master Wang, who was visiting. They were sipping tea, and Eric was listening intently to his old mentor. Master Wang was a powerful man, somehow young and old at the same time, and able to command any room he is in with silence. Eric always said he gave it to him straight and had no time for the trappings of ego or excuses.
I went outside to Eric, crying uncontrollably, a year’s worth of tears coming out. “I’m not pregnant,” I said, “and I’m never gonna be pregnant. And I just want to be a mom.”
Master Wang paused a long time, seeing the hurt in my eyes. He softened.
“Let me try a treatment on you,” he said. “An adjustment.”
I’m not a doctor, chiropractor, or nuclear scientist, so this is not advice. But we went inside, and he somehow knew that my issue was on my right side, where my fallopian tube had been removed. He did an adjustment that I can only describe as popping my pelvis. I asked God to make this work.
The summer continued, and I saved photos of wedding dresses on my phone for a November wedding. In August, Eric and I headed to Watch Hill, Rhode Island, for a getaway with his parents. He was intent on getting me on a bike to tour the area. I resisted and was irritable about it. I just felt a little off. But Eric won out, taking me out on ten- to twenty-mile bike rides. It’s beautiful there, with old Victorian-style “cottages” that are really these sprawling mansions by the ocean. We watched the sun set, and I was proud that we’d gotten through our bickering and gone riding. Go team.
When we got home, we still had the cycling bug, and we made plans to see Eric’s friends in Venice. It was morning, and Eric was upstairs in the shower. I was standing in the kitchen when I had this strange feeling. It was so striking, so clear, that I said the words aloud:
“I don’t feel alone.”
Some instinct put my hand toward my lower stomach, and my heart started beating fast. I slowly walked to the bathroom, pulling open the drawer where I kept my pregnancy tests. I’d had my period, and this wasn’t even a month where I would be using the fallopian tube I had. I heard my girlfriends’ voices in my head telling me I was crazy. Asking me why, if I had my period, did I insist on taking pregnancy tests and putting myself through the pain of the bad news. But the voices faded. I peed on the stick and read the instructions in the same ritual I always followed, even though I knew the drill by heart. “Place on a flat surface . . . windows facing up . . .”
I did. And I waited, thinking, Should I have waited for Eric? Was it wrong to do this alone?
No, I decided, if this is a baby, it’s just me and this kid right now. We have these minutes to find each other, or not. Finally, I looked.
Pregnant.
I ran upstairs screaming. We’d found each other. Eric thought something was wrong because I was crying. I couldn’t talk, just handed him the pregnancy test. What I’d known for that minute, he now knew, and I watched the excitement and relief wash over him.
We called everybody. My sweet mother almost tried to turn around on the highway to get to me sooner. Everybody wanted to come over, and we welcomed them. I’m sorry I didn’t call you, but I would have if I’d had your number.
One of my girlfriends who knew my cycles asked if I wanted to take a second test. I didn’t want to pee on another stick, because I didn’t want it to say anything different. If this was some foolish dream, I wanted to live in it longer.
I called my dad. I love my father, but he responded as a manager of a talent who had a lot of deals in the works.
“Well, what are you gonna do?” he asked.
“What do you mean what am I gonna do?” I said. “Um, I’m having the baby?”
“No, what are we gonna do? I have all these things.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe do some things for you. I’m not gonna work for a bit, how ’bout that? We’re just gonna grow the business of the Collection, and I’ll do design meetings. And I’m not gonna go on the road.”
Creatively, I had been my parents’ outlet for so long. My having a baby felt like an opportunity for my mother to take even more ownership of the business and for my father to put his energy and ideas into other things.
I called my doctor right away, and they were scared at first because they said I was at high risk for a tubal pregnancy. They wanted me to see a specialist immediately at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. When we left the gate, we had ten cars of paparazzi following us. There was no way we could get to the hospital without putting an even bigger target on my back. Anytime a female celebrity goes to a hospital, it’s like sending up a flare that paparazzi should be on high alert for a pregnancy. We were already being more cautious about protecting what we prayed would be a healthy, happy baby, so Daisy Duke’s evasive driving maneuvers were no longer going to fly. We turned around, and my heart sank.