f ir st pe r s on
My Drop Dead Life
By Hyla Molander Gusts of wind shout through the fog over
Tennessee Valley, slapping my long brown hair in all directions. I
hold my legs steady on the cliff side and watch the 10-foot Pacific
waves devour bits of red earth three stories below. The bushes make
a rustling sound, suddenly reminding me of the rumored mountain
lion, but when I turn around, two deer spring down the hill instead.
This is where it all started—Tennessee
Valley Beach. The day after Erik and I
moved from Florida to California—both 21
at the time—we hiked two miles to reach
this magnificent Northern California coast-
line, and I was immediately filled up with
the power of a universal force I had never
experienced before.
We fell in love with Tennessee Valley that
day. Then, as we married and began build-
ing our family, we fell in love with our life in
Marin County even more.
My children’s photography business
quickly grew to include 2,000 Bay Area
families and worldwide publications, while
Erik climbed the management ranks at
Industrial Light and Magic. We fought like
most couples do, but we had finally reached
the point in which the playful gesture of a
middle finger could end most arguments.
Isn’t marriage about learning to see the
perfection in each other’s imperfections?
On Easter Sunday, 2003, I reached over
my seven-month-pregnant belly to help our
one-year-old daughter, Tatiana, find colorful
eggs in the backyard. Our girls would be 19
months apart.
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As I caught Erik smiling at us, I said, “Do
you think about how lucky we are?”
“Yes,” Erik replied. “I think about it at
least five times a day."
We had everything we had ever wanted.
After our casual Easter dinner, Erik got
up to make the coffee, and Tatiana and I
watched in horror as he slid down the kitch-
en counter.
“Erik, get up,” I said.
Then I noticed the blood on the side of
his mouth from where he’d bit his tongue on
the way down to our white-tiled floor.
One minute he was laughing, and 35
minutes later he was pronounced dead.
Heart attack, at 29 years old.
Just like that.
I stood over his motionless body in that
sterile hospital room, kissing his cold eyelids,
as heaving sobs rolled through our unborn
daughter. My mouth traced his lips, wishing,
more than anything, that I could blow life
back into him.
But Erik had taken his last breath.
I wanted to lie on top of him and die.
How can I do this without him? How can
I tell Tatiana that her daddy is dead?
 Care for another baby? How? Why?
The only way to get past this, I knew,
was to walk straight into my pain. I vowed
to take hold of my sadness, wrestling it like
a wild rattlesnake, so that I could eventually
be a good mother again.
I didn’t want my heart to be broken into
pieces. I wanted to be broken open. I need-
ed to find meaning in this tragedy.
After shutting down my photography
business, I started every possible type of
therapy: traditional grief counseling, mas-
sage, energy work, a spousal loss sup-
port group, hypnotherapy, Eye Movement
The only way to get past this, I knew, was to walk
straight into my pain. I vowed to take hold of my
sadness, wrestling it like a wild rattlesnake, so that
I could eventually be a good mother again.
Desensitization Reprocessing for Post-
Traumatic Stress Disorder, and vigorous
exercise. All of it helped, but I continued to
search for answers.
Words poured through my fingers, de-
scribing the hammering angst. Again and
again, my mind replayed that Easter Sunday.
I wrote about the blood, Tatiana’s screams,
and then her frequent reenactment of her
daddy’s death. Each excerpt peeled back
another layer.
Six weeks after Keira’s birth, Erik’s moth-
er said, “Sweetheart, you need to get back
out there. Erik wants you to find love again.”
She saw my loneliness. She knew I longed
for what I’d had before.
So, even though I felt like damaged
goods, I entered the world of online dating.
I wrote and rewrote my Match.com profile,
marinmagazine.com M a r i n
which finally read, in part: “There is a place
where happiness overwhelms you, where
you feel you might burst because it feels so
good. I have been to that place. I have been
there and tasted its richness and I know
that I will return there once again. I have
to believe that those capable of loving with
such intensity, of living each moment com-
pletely, must deserve to love again.”
The next morning I had 10 e-mails. The
men didn’t even seem to mind that I was a
30-year-old widow with two babies.
I started dating, but knew I wouldn’t
settle for less than Erik would want for me,
for less than I wanted for myself. I couldn’t
bring him back or replace him, but Erik had
taught me how to love, and I knew I would
recognize that feeling when I found it with
someone else.
Time passed, and after a couple of six-
month relationships, two years of workshop-
ping sections of my
writing, and the even-
tual resurrection of my
photography business,
along came the seren-
dipitous e-mail through
M a t c h .c o m . A l o n g
came Evan.
When I introduced
Tatiana and Keira to
Evan and his eight-
year-old son, Jason,
the connection was instant, and in less than
two years, we were married. Soon after, at
the courthouse where Evan legally adopted
the girls, Tatiana, four years old at the time,
said, “Mommy, do you think Daddy Erik sent
Daddy to us?”
“Yes, my love,” I told her. “I think he did.”
Erik had always promised to take care of
us, and I believe that he sent Evan to us so
that he could keep his promise.
Only months after I met Evan, he’d said,
“It’s all right if you never love me as much as
you love Erik.”
But what I’ve discovered is that because
of loving Erik, because of losing him without
notice, I am able to love Evan even more.
I’m able to love Tatiana, Keira, Jason, and
our new baby, Julian, even more.
Now, on this Tennessee Valley cliff, where
I scattered Erik’s ashes, I have found the
meaning in my tragedy. Erik’s death has
taught me to live life with twice the inten-
sity. Through my memoir, Drop Dead Life: A
Pregnant Widow’s Heartfelt and Often Comic
Journey through Death, Birth, and Rebirth, I
hope to remind others to do the same.
As I admire these undulating mountains,
I realize that even behind the mysterious
fog, there is always light.
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