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In honor of Rick, Macy, and Caleb… may you impact others as you did me.

FOREWORD

I’m fine.” A simple phrase with deeply buried meaning behind it. More often than not, those words are spoken by a person who is far from “fine”—but a person who is struggling to survive and yet appears to have it all together. I know the struggle behind those words all too well, after all I began building a wall of defenses against the world from an early age. Born to a heroin-addicted mother, I practically began life in survival mode. By the time I was five years old, I had witnessed my mother jumping from moving cars, being beaten to near death, and even selling her body for drugs. Eventually I ended up in and out of foster homes, suffering abuse at the hands of strangers. As my life progressed, I continued to feel void of meaning and I just… existed. This existence left me burying all my problems with any food I could get to my face. I had to reach nearly five hundred pounds before deciding that I wanted to find a way to live and not just survive. I arrived on The Biggest Loser ranch with huge empty spaces in my life. Little did I know, I’d be brought back to life by a woman with her own voids to fill.

I can tell you that only God could have known what He was doing when He put the two of us together. Abby Rike and I are about as opposite as opposites can be when it comes to upbringing and lifestyles. From the very first moment, however, it felt as if we were connected. As Abby said, “We are sisters. We just didn’t know it.” As roommates during The Biggest Loser process, we stayed up having late-night talks like preteens at a slumber party—every night. Abby told me all about her beautiful family—Rick, Macy, and Caleb, and I told her all about my momma, Tammy. We cried, we laughed, and we were silent in those moments when no words could express the pain we both felt. Our tragedies were so different, mine built up over a lifetime and hers all commencing in one fell swoop, yet they bound us together and sealed our friendship. Abby is only a few years older than me, but she gave me such a protective and unconditional love, something like that of a mother. And I let her, which was something I had never done. I think during that time, as our bodies were shrinking, our hearts were expanding. Those gaping holes that we came with were being healed. Mind you, they will never be gone, but somehow our friendship gave them a new shape.

It makes my heart so happy to know that Abby has this opportunity to share her story with you. As you begin to read this story, you, too, will find so much more than just a tragedy that ends in triumph. If you are anything like I was, you ask yourself, “Will I ever get through this?” If you are ready, you may find some answers in these pages. Abby is inspiringly honest and joyfully candid about her story, and she genuinely wants to tell her story so that it may help as many people as possible. It is always good for the soul to know that there is someone else out there who has been where you are. This book will not only take you through the depths in order to understand just how deep grief can go, it also will take you to the highest pinnacle as you journey with Abby into her present day where she inspires others and continues to stand strong in her faith.

As a professional social worker I work with many clients who are in the midst of grief. From my personal experience I recognize that it is difficult to see the other side when you are in the thick of things. Abby Rike knows firsthand how lonely grief and loss can be and how devastating it is to our fragile hearts. Her story beautifully illustrates the amazing truth that no matter what life throws your way, no matter how painful or overwhelming, no matter how long you’ve been buried under the circumstances of your life, you can one day be much better than “fine.” Abby’s story confirms for us that there is always hope.

Shay Sorrells, MSW

The Biggest Loser, Season 8

CHAPTER 1

Into the Depths

He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our despair, against our own will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.

—Aeschylus

I am standing on the side of the road. It’s as though my feet are planted in the ground, planted in cement. And I’m just waiting. No one will tell me anything. The dreadful scene that lies around the curve ahead remains a mystery for now as I’m frozen in place, standing like a statue at the defining moment of my life—eerily controlled while the life and love I’d cherished slips from my grasp. The intense combination of the red, white, and blue lights from the multitude of emergency vehicles penetrates my vision so severely I am overwhelmed by the visual assault. These are the lights that embody emergency, rescue, and often tragedy. Only this tragedy—my tragedy—has left us with no one to rescue.

My heart beats as if it wants out of my body, as if my heart knows it belongs in the van with the three people who had filled it with the joy of a truly perfect love. I ask the unavoidable question piercing my soul: “Is there a white van in the wreck?”

“Possible family member” is the emergency responder’s reply into his radio.

“I need to know if there’s a white van!”

And then simply, “Yes.”

Friday, October 13, 2006, began as a calm and quiet day of precious hours shared between a mother and her brand-new, beautiful baby. And I knew beauty. I had watched it grow and radiate from every part of my daughter, Macy, for almost six years. I had witnessed the beauty of her innocence and the gift of her vivacious spirit. And now we’d been blessed once again with our blond-haired, blue-eyed, nine-and-a-half-pound perfect baby boy. The past eighteen days spent with Caleb had been absolute bliss. Caleb represented our hope for the future, and Rick and I savored the joy he added to our lives.

He was the only boy, Mommy’s handsome “feller” (as I so lovingly called him), PaPa’s fishing buddy, Daddy’s little Longhorn, and the most wonderful completion of our family.

In those moments with my new family of four, I was acutely aware of the blessings that had been showered upon me. Not once did I take what I’d been given for granted; they were my purpose, my joy, my truth, and my everything. My roles as wife and mother were everything I’d ever wanted, and I would not have traded lives with another human on the planet.

That particular Friday I wasn’t feeling well. Aside from the normal fatigue every new mother faces, my chest felt unusually tight, and I was running a low-grade fever. Nevertheless, I wasn’t too ill to miss time with my delightful son. With my husband Rick, a teacher, and Macy at school for the day, I had time alone with Caleb to play and treasure those fleeting moments of a child’s infancy. Sitting on my bed with him in my lap, his head at my feet, I talked to him and cuddled him as we studied each other to our hearts’ content.

When Macy and Rick eventually came in from school, I was immediately captured by Macy’s excitement over what she described as the best day of her life. As part of fire safety week at school, she had climbed onto a fire truck and embraced that occasion with the unbridled zest for life she brought to every experience. She went on to tell us about a sweet little boy named Mcguire who wasn’t in her class but had made her feel special by knowing her name. As I watched her trademark red curls dancing around her jovial face, she ran off to draw a picture of herself and Mcguire each wearing a crown, poised in a whimsical carriage.

Meanwhile, Rick and I discussed whether some of the symptoms I was having warranted a visit to the emergency room. Deciding I should go—better safe than sorry—we agreed that we didn’t want Caleb exposed to any potentially harmful germs lurking in an ER waiting area. Rick would take him, Macy, and our two nieces, Madelyn and Maryl, to an open gym while I sought medical attention. I kissed Caleb and then Macy. I walked over to Rick standing behind our counter and kissed him, then went out to the car. Darting out from the house, Macy ran toward me as I was about to leave. From the car I called out, “Baby girl, you have got to get back in the house. You cannot just run out of the house!”

She replied, “I just wanted one more hug.”

And then she stood in front of the car, wrapped her arms around herself, hugged herself, and said, “I love you!” I watched that exceptional child run back into the house, then pulled out of the driveway.

I’m at the emergency room and of course there’s a long line. My name has been on the waiting list for almost an hour. I determine that my family—my life—headed in the opposite direction on their fun outing together, have surely arrived by now. I call Rick to check in and to my surprise he doesn’t pick up. Weird. He always answers his phone. I call back. It rings and rings and rings. Voice mail. I call again. It rings and rings and rings. Voice mail. I know that more than enough time has passed for him to have arrived at the open gym, so I place a call to my ex-sister-in-law’s house, where Rick was to pick up our nieces. I get right to the point. “What time did Rick pick up the girls?”

“He hasn’t picked them up. I just went ahead and took Madelyn and Maryl.”

And the feeling that something is horribly wrong begins to rise up from the pit of my stomach. Every fiber of my being knows that there’s been a wreck. What I don’t know is how bad it is.

I’m not completely conscious of my legs as they carry me to the front desk of the emergency room to explain that something has happened to my family. But somehow my body successfully reaches my car and I’m driving—fast. I’m driving and crying and praying out loud. “Please put angels all around my family. Please. All around them.”

Five miles past our house, on the two-lane highway we’ve traveled so many times as a family, the sun begins to go down in the sky and a barrage of flashing lights comes into view.

Please put angels all around my family.

The onslaught of lights is almost too much, as I recognize the telltale signs that something truly terrible has occurred. I watch as uniformed officers redirect traffic around the blockades they have positioned, but I will not be redirected.

Please. All around them.

I pull over to an open space and get out of the car, standing there with my emergency room bracelet on. The frantic words escape my mouth. “I need to know if there’s a white van!” I hear the “Yes” in reply. But my life is in that van. My life is in that van. Panic-stricken, I turn to the man beside me and ask, “Is it bad?” No one will make eye contact with me as the lights continue to flash and engulf my senses. The curt answer I am met with barely registers.

“Well, both of the cars caught on fire.”

WHAT?! And I see the fire trucks, but no one will tell me anything. I call my mother who is on a trip with my father in Florida with the Trinity Valley College board of directors. I cry out with a torrent of incomprehensible explanations of the events unfolding before my eyes.

Approaching me from a distance, two stone-faced officers are coming with the news. I am vaguely aware of the phone still at my ear when each officer takes one of my arms. And from the mouth of a wonderful man named Officer Clint Pirtle—the only man to make eye contact with me—came the most horrific statement ever to reach my ears: “I’m so sorry. We found no survivors.”

I drop to my knees, only to get right back up and plead, “Well, I need you to keep looking!” Surely they just haven’t found everybody yet. And then I remember the phone in my hand. “Mother, he said they’re all gone. He said they’re all gone.”

As Officer Pirtle takes the phone from my hands, I am left with the wave of numbness that has begun to infiltrate my body and mind. I instantly know Officer Pirtle’s words are true; I know that they are gone. I know that I will never see them again. Without the benefit of denial, I’m left on the side of the road with only myself—truly broken, violently severed from the life I’d known only hours earlier. And just as if a limb has been severed from my body, shock takes over quickly, and I don’t feel the pain right away. As I absorb that everything precious to me is gone, my mind becomes flooded with the knowledge that I have nowhere to go, no one to call, and nowhere to be.

Sitting on the back of an ambulance beside a young paramedic, I think back to that frantic drive toward the unimaginable place in which I now find myself. I prayed that God would put angels all around my family. I just didn’t mean this way. I turn to the unassuming paramedic and am overcome with the urge to tell him our story. I tell him, with an eerie calmness, as though I haven’t just been told that every member of my family is dead, “I have to tell you how wonderful my family was.”

And as I explain that I’d had the most perfect husband, and the most perfect five-year-old daughter, and the most perfect two-week-old son, that precious man stands there and listens. I wonder aloud, “How could this be real when they were just going to open gym?”

And that wonderful man, a complete stranger, stands there and listens. A female paramedic joins us only to leave minutes later, unable to handle the words I feel compelled to share. But he never leaves; he stands quietly, offering no inane platitudes meant to comfort me.

As my ex-sister-in-law arrives on the scene and I get into her car, I am starkly aware of my complete solitude. I recognize the face of Ronnie Daniel, justice of the peace and the man here to fulfill the unimaginable duty of declaring my family dead. He comes to me and says, “Abby, I’m so sorry. If I could take their place I would.” And he means it. He truly means it. “Is there anyone I can call?”

No, I think. I don’t have anybody to call. It’s just me. My parents are on their trip in Florida; my brother is at a football game in Georgia; and my husband’s not answering.

I leave the scene with my ex-sister-in-law and head to my house—our home—to pack some things. I have no reservations about returning to the house we shared as a family. It is truly a home in every sense of the word: a place of safety, love, and comfort. It is the happiest place on earth to me. As I enter the house, I am greeted by balloons saying “It’s a Boy!” I pass Caleb’s stroller in the living room and walk into our bedroom, robotically filling a bag. My face is strangely dry; I am without tears. I walk out the door into an existence I cannot comprehend. Just like that, at one fell swoop, I know that I’m no longer a wife to the most amazing man I’d ever met. No longer a mother to the two most precious children in the world. Where do I go? What now?

CHAPTER 2

A Light in the Dark

By His light I walked through darkness.

—Job 29:3

In the days following the wreck, no one could understand how I was doing so well. No one could understand why I was not crazy. No one really knew what to expect, but they came anyway. The amount of support from the people of our community was extremely comforting, and to see the multitude of lives Rick and my family had touched brought consolation. But as my mind digested the reality of the wreck, I knew all eyes were on me. I decided very early on that I would never be anyone’s stumbling block. I was going to be an example to our beloved students. After the accident, I had to take an immediate assessment of my beliefs and ask, Do I really believe what I think I believe? And the answer I always came back to was a definite Yes. I do.

Those who came to sit beside me that night said that I looked different, that I was almost glowing. It was as if God had laid a blanket of peace over my shattered heart. And I knew that this was a pivotal point in my life. It is easy to have faith and proclaim your love for the Lord when you have a perfect life—very easy. And people will sometimes dismiss you. But it’s an entirely different thing when those beliefs remain the same through a tragedy beyond anything people can imagine. I had always been very grounded in my faith, but never had God’s love for me been so tangible. I was a living example of the concept of a peace that passes all understanding. I should have been catatonic; I should have been prostrate in despair and never gotten up after this. But because of God’s grace I did. God’s grace was and is sufficient.

A few days after I buried my husband and two children, the humanness of grief hit. I went for a walk outside, attempting to clear my head of the overwhelming emptiness I felt. I was completely alone and heartbroken as I walked around my parents’ backyard under the shade of an oak tree. The Glad Oak (as my mother had always called it) was the site where Rick and I vowed to love each other forever—where our two lives were ceremonially joined as one. Three years earlier Rick, Macy, and I stood beneath that very oak and promised that only death would ever separate us. With silent tears I paced the acres of my parents’ land, calling out to God. “Lord, what do I do? What do You want me to do with my life? I’m open. I’m willing. What do I do? Help me.”

Suddenly, two little yellow butterflies caught my eye. They emerged seemingly out of nowhere, and I watched as they flew, playing and dancing around each other, fluttering freely in the air with a childlike grace. Struck by their beauty, I looked on as a huge orange monarch butterfly lovingly swooped down over them. It soared directly toward me and flew in a circle around my body, swaddling me in a blanket of warmth, then coming to land inches from my feet. The ethereal creatures stayed only moments, but they left me with a powerful, overwhelming sense of peace. And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I’d been given the gift I so desperately needed. My family was together, their souls transcending death, and they were okay. Just as I will also be okay again one day. And I expressed my gratitude to God. Thank You for caring enough to send a broken soul a little glimmer of hope.

The people that made me a better me are gone. What now? What do I do now?

What plan does God have for me? If I have to suffer like this, then I want my life to matter. I want to know what I’m supposed to do. I want to know my plan. I am shattered and I’m trusting with childlike faith that God will put me back together again. This loss cannot be for naught.

—Abby Rike, written December 3, 2006, 1:00 a.m.