The Two Worst Days
It is April 2015, and I will attempt to mitigate my desire to keep track of our family journey with the need to be somewhat concise. This is, after all, the Internet, and I do intend for others to read our story... and if I intend for others to read our story, then I should probably keep each blog entry to less one zillion pages. Right?
Since my last post of July 2014, life has taken a few drastic turns, in regards to both my personal life and our journey to start a family. First of all, Tom and I fully immersed ourselves in a Home Study through Catholic Charities, jumped through every required hoop by compiling all kinds of personal data and even installed a new pool fence, per Arizona state regulations. That, my friends, is what we call investing in the future: dropping a chunk of change and a large stack of paperwork into the waiting arms of our friendly caseworker... and praying the Arizona courts will smile upon our blood, sweat and tears and declare us officially CERTIFIED TO ADOPT. We completed our home study in October, and celebrated when, almost 2 weeks later, we received the letter that we had been accepted and certified. Tears! Champagne! I have to mention that our caseworker was astonished that the process had happened so quickly. Typical wait time for certifications is 6-10 weeks. Ours had gone through in TWO. Strange, but true.
So, what does a couple do, now that they have that precious piece of paper in hand, good for 18 months? Well, everyone goes about it a different way, but our first plan of attack, as it was recommended, was to get our names and faces "out there." The Internet. We were advised that potential birth mothers are more often seeking online connections to adoptive parents, rather than walking into brick & mortar establishments, so to speak. I am guessing this is due to the fact that our world is becoming increasingly social "media-zed" and prefers the anonymity and instant gratification offered by messaging and email, particularly when an expectant mother is still sorting through her options. After creating our profile on Adoptimist (which I had been working on several weeks prior to our actual certification), we still had to jump through a few more hoops even after the site admin to approved our certification.
On Saturday, December 6th, 2014, our profile finally "went live," I rejoiced! ....and shared it with the world via my Facebook account. Dozens of friends shared our profile that night, and by the time I woke up the next morning. We had already received a message via Adoptimist from an expectant mother in Florida, reportedly about 5 weeks pregnant. I cried. I read her message to Tom and cried some more. It felt like hope was finally entering our lives, something tangible- a human being reaching out to us that was pregnant with a precious life that could potentially become our child. She continued to ask questions and message us through the website but then decided she wanted to transition to a more personal form of communication by sharing email addresses. We have an email address specifically for all things adoption (tom.hannah.2010@gmail.com), so we gladly shared it, and the personal info started flying in. First and last name, a photo, details of her situation. We were becoming more connected.
Of course, my mind was already doing the math on her due date, and I was the one doing all the emailing (after I'd read it out loud to Tom, and we agreed on all the wording). She was sharing some pretty personal details regarding her pregnancy and admitting she had no support system where she lived. I'll admit there was a nagging thought in my mind that she may have been using us as her outlet for communication, since she could talk to no one else, but I didn't want to believe that was true. But maybe it was. I say this because we haven't heard from her since January. I've emailed her twice since then, and my most recent email left things open while simultaneously communicating that the ball was now in her court, and we wouldn't bother her any more unless she reached out to us, again.
Rewind to the beginning of January- January 10, 2015. It was a Saturday, and it was the worst day of my life. Tom received urgent text messages from my Dad telling me to call him. I was irritated that Dad was texting Tom, when he could have simply called me. Or texted me. Little did I know, my father's intention was to be sure that Tom was with me when Dad shared The Worst News: my brother had killed himself. And my parents found him. I clung to my husband and screamed in agony and disbelief. I was inconsolable. I felt guilty. I felt angry. I felt hollow and sad and lost and desperate. The weeks that followed were a terrible and anguished journey through which my entire family is still struggling, over 3 months later.
I share this because it is absolutely a critical piece of our path in growing our family. Everything has changed since losing Ben. Everything has become more simple, more precious. The unnecessary and superfluous is falling away as our vision focuses on the Work of Grief. Grief is work, and those who refuse to do it become stuck in their loss, unfinished, unresolved, sad bits and pieces of every emotion get stuffed into a box somewhere, but they will not be confined forever. I have seen people who push away grief and won't deal with it, won't talk about it. Years later, they have not only lost memories of their loved one, but they have built a wall around themselves that others find very difficult to penetrate. That cannot be me. That will not be me. The pangs of missing my brother are like an ever-present torture, often unseen. Like a knife permanently stuck in my chest, but I must learn to breathe while still pierced. I have toiled endlessly to build a support system for myself, composed of family, friends, medical interventions, counseling and support groups, and they are working, little by little.
But allow me to return to my goal of being Mom. I have learned that recovering from the loss of a sibling to suicide is a unique grieving process that many won't understand. However, a significant motivation in even building my support system (as opposed to simply giving up), is that I want to become a mother. A strong, sensitive, caring mother who handles life's challenges with honesty and grace, even as an example to her children. This is why I am working to become healthy, to become open about my struggles. Ben would want this, and I believe he is helping me through.
Since losing my brother, Catholic Charities recommended an adoption attorney to us, and we decided to reach out to him, in an effort to pick up the pieces and continue to pursue our hope of adopting a child. After 2 weeks of playing phone tag, we were finally able to learn a bit about each other, and we shared our Adoptimist profile with him, per his request. Less than 2 weeks later (6 days ago, in fact), I received 2 voicemails urgently advising me to return his calls regarding an adoption opportunity. I, of course, anxiously returned his call as soon as possible and was told of a Marshallese baby girl available for adoption in Arkansas. Slightly premature, weighing only around 5lb, the attorney assured me that her parents were both on board with the adoption and would sign the paperwork as soon as his legal assistant was available for them to sign it. The catch: we fly to Arkansas immediately to pick up the baby and plan to stay there until the required ICPC (interstate adoption stuff) paperwork was completed- which could take up to 2 weeks.
Tom initially had some reservations, understandably, since I was the only one who had every spoken with the attorney, and we had not met in person. The attorney agreed to meet us, sign a contract, and we would fly out the following afternoon (Tuesday, April 7th). On Monday afternoon, I made a quick trip to Target and lovingly selected a few basic baby items just to get us through the first couple of days. I was absolutely thrilled. Excited. For the first time, I allowed myself to see me being a mother. The tiny onesies, little hats, muslin blankets- I was actually letting myself buy them with our daughter in mind. I had never been afforded that luxury before, and I was over the moon, to say the least.
Monday evening was a slightly different story. I had somehow failed to tell Tom that we were flying to Arkansas on Tuesday afternoon. I had already booked the flights and hotel (including a kitchenette, per attorney's instruction), and Tom was slightly blindsided. He thought we were meeting with the attorney, taking some time to decide and then possibly moving forward with the adoption plan. This miscommunication resulted in tears, apologies, lots and lots of feeling-sharing, a long walk for my husband while I washed the baby clothes and blankets I had just purchased and started packing. When Tom returned from his walk, we held each other and cried. He was crying because he didn't want to be the bad guy. I was crying because I didn't want him to feel like the bad guy. We were in this together, 100%. We had to be. We both took a deep breath, finished packing and collected the paperwork requested by the attorney for our morning meeting.
On the way to the meeting, I wrote this letter:
Dear Baby,
We just found out about you yesterday around 10:30am. The attorney had left me 2 urgent voicemails stating you needed immediate placement. I anxiously called him back, and, after many phone calls and text messages, your Dad and I are now on our way to meet with the attorney. Later today, we will fly to Fayetteville, Arkansas to meet you for the first time. We've seen your picture, and you are so beautiful. You have a lot of black hair and big lips, just like me when I was born.
Let me say- we are terrified. Nervous. Excited. Scared to let ourselves be hopeful. Things like this can go wrong, people change their minds- all kinds of possibilities for wonderful and for sadness.
Even if I never get to meet you, I'm still glad I knew about you. You are precious and special, and we even have a name in mind. But I won't share that until we meet.
We can't wait to hold you in our arms. I bought a few baby things at Target after work yesterday, just to get us through a couple of days. My mama-mind is full of questions that will hopefully soon be answered. I want to rock you and feed you and feel your soft little face. I've been praying, and I believe you are our baby girl.
All our love,
Mom and Dad
Tuesday's meeting could not have gone better. We were assured the adoption was a "done deal," even after we asked our "what if" questions- he told us that it would be made right if the worst were to take place- the birth mother changed her mind, or if we changed our minds for some crazy reason. We left his office on cloud nine, ready to wrap up a few details with Catholic Charities (information releases for the attorney) and notify Tom's office that he would be gone for several days. Our stops at both places resulted in congratulations and smiles, advice and joy like I'd never felt before. We were having a baby, and she was just waiting for us, a plane ride away. Tom's manager even sent out and office-wide email with a picture of her, congratulating him on his baby girl.
We practically skipped all the way to the plane. We were high as a kite. Never before had we felt this kind of hope, this all-consuming joy, this sense that starting our family was so incredibly close, we could almost touch it. The plan was for us to fly into Arkansas, pick up baby girl from our attorney's adoption consultant that evening, and head back to our hotel, settling in for several days of new parent bliss and a mountain of paperwork until we got the green light to return to Arizona with our pride and joy.
It didn't happen that way. In fact, in didn't happen at all. The only part of the plan that DID happen, actually, was the flight and the hotel. We were contacted by the adoption consultant shortly after deplaning, asking us when we would arrive at her home to pick up the baby. We gave her an ETA and rented a car as quickly as possible. About 5 minutes from her home, she called us and said to go on to the hotel, that the baby's birth mother wanted to spend the night with her, and we would all meet in the morning around 11am.
My heart sank. I knew this was a bad sign. The attorney had previously informed us that the birth parents were in agreement for the adoption to take place, and they had both left the child at the hospital in the care of the adoption consultant because "they didn't want to bond with the baby." Call me crazy, but hearing that the birth mother wanted to spend the night with her child sounded a lot like "bonding" to me.
That night was torture. We were still keeping our hope alive to a degree, even asking the front desk to deliver a crib to our room the next day, but sleeping was impossible. I woke up early the next morning, made coffee in our suite, and wrote our baby another letter:
Dear Baby,
We flew into Arkansas last night. The plan was for us to pick you up at the adoption consultant's house after our flight, but your tummy mummy wanted to spend another night with you at the consultant's house. She loves you so much. And so do we.
The adoption consultant called us and said we will meet you today around 11:00am to get to know your birth parents and hopefully bring you back "home" with us. "Home" is our hotel right now and will be for several days until all the papers are signed, and we can legally take you with us back to Arizona.
I am praying and hoping and longing to meet you today. I hope there aren't any more plan changes because I'm not sure my heart and mind could take it if we never get to meet.
I am clinging to your photo and my that God will bring us together. Last night, after the disappointing phone call, a song from my childhood almost instantly popped into my head. The first 2 lines are, "He did not bring us out this far to take us back again. He brought us out to take us into the promised land."
That is my hope this early morning as I am sipping coffee, and your Dad is still sleeping.
Love you so much.
Yours,
Mom
Then, I went downstairs to the hotel lobby for breakfast and started researching how to take care of a preemie, the closest pharmacy, counting down the hours until I could reasonable ask the adoption consultant where we would be meeting at 11. I finally texted her around 9am, asking where would be meeting. No response. And again, around 10-ish... "Just want to make sure we have time to drive," I said. No response. I dressed, put on makeup, did my hair and willed myself to wait until exactly 11 to contact the attorney with my growing concerns. At 11:02, the attorney texted me with our worst fears- the birth mother was having second thoughts. He included some lame consolation that she hadn't made her final decision and that her boyfriend still wanted to do the adoption, but the first blow had been struck, and I was devastated.
Tom and I curled up on the bed and cried. Not long after the text came the dreaded phone call from the attorney- the birth mother was unresponsive to the adoption consultant and had taken the baby home. Not answering phone calls. Done. There was a lot of "blah, blah, blah" on the part of the attorney and apologies and anger on his part, but the fact of the matter was that we weren't going home with a baby. In fact, we weren't even meeting the baby. The attorney held out the option for a match meeting with a different couple that evening, but we were in no condition to even think about it. I told him we would get back to him later. We proceeded to cry and cry and cry.
We didn't know what to do. The tiniest sliver of hope remained that the birth mother would see the light and change her mind again, would make a good choice for her child to grow up with life and health and opportunities instead of living in an overcrowded apartment with jobless parents. Does that sound cold? Maybe it does. I truly believe that children belong with their parents, but only if those parents are doing right by them, loving them and providing for them and putting their needs first. I honestly felt like the wrong decision had taken place, and that made the loss even worse. I was absolutely overwhelmed with grief. Tom was pacing and emotional. We had lost a baby. And we were broken.
Time went by, and we finally decided we had to break the news to our waiting families, families that were excited to add a granddaughter, a niece, a cousin. It was awful. The phone calls were full of tears and disappointment. My mom and sister had even planned to drive down to Arkansas to meet the baby. My phone call with my Dad was not tearful (except on my end). He was very matter-of-fact with a hint of "I told you so" and a few racist remarks thrown in regarding the Marshallese people. Overall, however, I will concede that he apologized for our loss and offered to help pay for plane tickets. What can I say? That's my Dad.
Between emotional breakdowns, Tom and I decided to grab some lunch and started feeling like we could breathe again. We decided to give the evening's match meeting a try and contacted the attorney again, who was very excited to hear our decision and directed us to speak with the adoption consultant to get the details. By the time we'd eaten, taken a quick trip to Wal-Mart for essentials and incidentally seen what felt like 100 newborn babies, we were sinking quickly back into sadness. Exhausted from little sleep and the enormous letdown were really starting to hit us, and we decided to cancel the match meeting. We just weren't ready to fake smiles and act interested in another adoption situation that could very possibly end the same way.
We both cried some more and fell asleep for almost 2 hours. I awoke to discover a missed call from our attorney and a couple of irate text messages indicating we needed to reconsider the evening's match meeting if we wanted to continue working with him. Whaa???? I called him back immediately but got no answer, so I left a message stating we were broken and needed time but weren't interested in severing ties with him at all. No call back that day. Or the next day. Or the next day.
We tearfully packed our bags early the next morning, drove to Tulsa, OK and flew home to Phoenix. Getting on the first flight was an emotional challenge. I cried and cried. It felt so final to be leaving our little girl behind. We connected with our next flight in Dallas, and I cried again when we got off the plane in Phoenix. Now, it was really final. No baby for us. Still not parents after all these years of praying and hoping and yearning.
My mom and sister had planned to fly in for my birthday (April 10th) weeks ago and hadn't cancelled their flights, so they actually decided to keep their flights and flew into Phoenix about an hour after we did. We all drove home together, but I was in a funk. I even cried in the truck on the way home. I couldn't stop thinking about what might have been. What should have been. That I should be staring into my baby girl's eyes, feeling her warmth against my body, telling her all the ways I loved her and would be there for her for the rest of her precious life. Instead, I felt cold and alone.
Suffering a loss so close to the loss of my brother has set me back a little in my grief journey, I think. The depression that had started to lift seems to have drifted downward, placing me in a fog. My psychiatrist has actually texted me a couple of times to see how I'm doing, giving me permission to take extra medication if I need to take it.
Yesterday morning (my birthday), I brought out the basket of baby things to show my Mom and sister. I felt like I needed to share my grief with them. We all cried, and my sister blessed each item in the basket for our future child, "even if it's a boy." There is a tiny part of me that knows a child is coming, and losing a baby does not negate the feelings I've had recently or the prayers people are praying for us. Tom's cousin even shared with me a few weeks ago, that God had given her the very strong impression that a baby was coming soon.
I am tired of struggling. I feel sad and empty. This is what I imagine the despair of a miscarriage would feel like. But the smallest seed of hope is still in my heart. And we will wait, yet again.
Precious baby, wherever you are- we love you and want the best for you.
Yours,
Mom and Dad
Rewind to the beginning of January- January 10, 2015. It was a Saturday, and it was the worst day of my life. Tom received urgent text messages from my Dad telling me to call him. I was irritated that Dad was texting Tom, when he could have simply called me. Or texted me. Little did I know, my father's intention was to be sure that Tom was with me when Dad shared The Worst News: my brother had killed himself. And my parents found him. I clung to my husband and screamed in agony and disbelief. I was inconsolable. I felt guilty. I felt angry. I felt hollow and sad and lost and desperate. The weeks that followed were a terrible and anguished journey through which my entire family is still struggling, over 3 months later.
I share this because it is absolutely a critical piece of our path in growing our family. Everything has changed since losing Ben. Everything has become more simple, more precious. The unnecessary and superfluous is falling away as our vision focuses on the Work of Grief. Grief is work, and those who refuse to do it become stuck in their loss, unfinished, unresolved, sad bits and pieces of every emotion get stuffed into a box somewhere, but they will not be confined forever. I have seen people who push away grief and won't deal with it, won't talk about it. Years later, they have not only lost memories of their loved one, but they have built a wall around themselves that others find very difficult to penetrate. That cannot be me. That will not be me. The pangs of missing my brother are like an ever-present torture, often unseen. Like a knife permanently stuck in my chest, but I must learn to breathe while still pierced. I have toiled endlessly to build a support system for myself, composed of family, friends, medical interventions, counseling and support groups, and they are working, little by little.
But allow me to return to my goal of being Mom. I have learned that recovering from the loss of a sibling to suicide is a unique grieving process that many won't understand. However, a significant motivation in even building my support system (as opposed to simply giving up), is that I want to become a mother. A strong, sensitive, caring mother who handles life's challenges with honesty and grace, even as an example to her children. This is why I am working to become healthy, to become open about my struggles. Ben would want this, and I believe he is helping me through.
Since losing my brother, Catholic Charities recommended an adoption attorney to us, and we decided to reach out to him, in an effort to pick up the pieces and continue to pursue our hope of adopting a child. After 2 weeks of playing phone tag, we were finally able to learn a bit about each other, and we shared our Adoptimist profile with him, per his request. Less than 2 weeks later (6 days ago, in fact), I received 2 voicemails urgently advising me to return his calls regarding an adoption opportunity. I, of course, anxiously returned his call as soon as possible and was told of a Marshallese baby girl available for adoption in Arkansas. Slightly premature, weighing only around 5lb, the attorney assured me that her parents were both on board with the adoption and would sign the paperwork as soon as his legal assistant was available for them to sign it. The catch: we fly to Arkansas immediately to pick up the baby and plan to stay there until the required ICPC (interstate adoption stuff) paperwork was completed- which could take up to 2 weeks.
Tom initially had some reservations, understandably, since I was the only one who had every spoken with the attorney, and we had not met in person. The attorney agreed to meet us, sign a contract, and we would fly out the following afternoon (Tuesday, April 7th). On Monday afternoon, I made a quick trip to Target and lovingly selected a few basic baby items just to get us through the first couple of days. I was absolutely thrilled. Excited. For the first time, I allowed myself to see me being a mother. The tiny onesies, little hats, muslin blankets- I was actually letting myself buy them with our daughter in mind. I had never been afforded that luxury before, and I was over the moon, to say the least.
Monday evening was a slightly different story. I had somehow failed to tell Tom that we were flying to Arkansas on Tuesday afternoon. I had already booked the flights and hotel (including a kitchenette, per attorney's instruction), and Tom was slightly blindsided. He thought we were meeting with the attorney, taking some time to decide and then possibly moving forward with the adoption plan. This miscommunication resulted in tears, apologies, lots and lots of feeling-sharing, a long walk for my husband while I washed the baby clothes and blankets I had just purchased and started packing. When Tom returned from his walk, we held each other and cried. He was crying because he didn't want to be the bad guy. I was crying because I didn't want him to feel like the bad guy. We were in this together, 100%. We had to be. We both took a deep breath, finished packing and collected the paperwork requested by the attorney for our morning meeting.
On the way to the meeting, I wrote this letter:
Dear Baby,
We just found out about you yesterday around 10:30am. The attorney had left me 2 urgent voicemails stating you needed immediate placement. I anxiously called him back, and, after many phone calls and text messages, your Dad and I are now on our way to meet with the attorney. Later today, we will fly to Fayetteville, Arkansas to meet you for the first time. We've seen your picture, and you are so beautiful. You have a lot of black hair and big lips, just like me when I was born.
Let me say- we are terrified. Nervous. Excited. Scared to let ourselves be hopeful. Things like this can go wrong, people change their minds- all kinds of possibilities for wonderful and for sadness.
Even if I never get to meet you, I'm still glad I knew about you. You are precious and special, and we even have a name in mind. But I won't share that until we meet.
We can't wait to hold you in our arms. I bought a few baby things at Target after work yesterday, just to get us through a couple of days. My mama-mind is full of questions that will hopefully soon be answered. I want to rock you and feed you and feel your soft little face. I've been praying, and I believe you are our baby girl.
All our love,
Mom and Dad
Tuesday's meeting could not have gone better. We were assured the adoption was a "done deal," even after we asked our "what if" questions- he told us that it would be made right if the worst were to take place- the birth mother changed her mind, or if we changed our minds for some crazy reason. We left his office on cloud nine, ready to wrap up a few details with Catholic Charities (information releases for the attorney) and notify Tom's office that he would be gone for several days. Our stops at both places resulted in congratulations and smiles, advice and joy like I'd never felt before. We were having a baby, and she was just waiting for us, a plane ride away. Tom's manager even sent out and office-wide email with a picture of her, congratulating him on his baby girl.
We practically skipped all the way to the plane. We were high as a kite. Never before had we felt this kind of hope, this all-consuming joy, this sense that starting our family was so incredibly close, we could almost touch it. The plan was for us to fly into Arkansas, pick up baby girl from our attorney's adoption consultant that evening, and head back to our hotel, settling in for several days of new parent bliss and a mountain of paperwork until we got the green light to return to Arizona with our pride and joy.
It didn't happen that way. In fact, in didn't happen at all. The only part of the plan that DID happen, actually, was the flight and the hotel. We were contacted by the adoption consultant shortly after deplaning, asking us when we would arrive at her home to pick up the baby. We gave her an ETA and rented a car as quickly as possible. About 5 minutes from her home, she called us and said to go on to the hotel, that the baby's birth mother wanted to spend the night with her, and we would all meet in the morning around 11am.
My heart sank. I knew this was a bad sign. The attorney had previously informed us that the birth parents were in agreement for the adoption to take place, and they had both left the child at the hospital in the care of the adoption consultant because "they didn't want to bond with the baby." Call me crazy, but hearing that the birth mother wanted to spend the night with her child sounded a lot like "bonding" to me.
That night was torture. We were still keeping our hope alive to a degree, even asking the front desk to deliver a crib to our room the next day, but sleeping was impossible. I woke up early the next morning, made coffee in our suite, and wrote our baby another letter:
Dear Baby,
We flew into Arkansas last night. The plan was for us to pick you up at the adoption consultant's house after our flight, but your tummy mummy wanted to spend another night with you at the consultant's house. She loves you so much. And so do we.
The adoption consultant called us and said we will meet you today around 11:00am to get to know your birth parents and hopefully bring you back "home" with us. "Home" is our hotel right now and will be for several days until all the papers are signed, and we can legally take you with us back to Arizona.
I am praying and hoping and longing to meet you today. I hope there aren't any more plan changes because I'm not sure my heart and mind could take it if we never get to meet.
I am clinging to your photo and my that God will bring us together. Last night, after the disappointing phone call, a song from my childhood almost instantly popped into my head. The first 2 lines are, "He did not bring us out this far to take us back again. He brought us out to take us into the promised land."
That is my hope this early morning as I am sipping coffee, and your Dad is still sleeping.
Love you so much.
Yours,
Mom
Then, I went downstairs to the hotel lobby for breakfast and started researching how to take care of a preemie, the closest pharmacy, counting down the hours until I could reasonable ask the adoption consultant where we would be meeting at 11. I finally texted her around 9am, asking where would be meeting. No response. And again, around 10-ish... "Just want to make sure we have time to drive," I said. No response. I dressed, put on makeup, did my hair and willed myself to wait until exactly 11 to contact the attorney with my growing concerns. At 11:02, the attorney texted me with our worst fears- the birth mother was having second thoughts. He included some lame consolation that she hadn't made her final decision and that her boyfriend still wanted to do the adoption, but the first blow had been struck, and I was devastated.
Tom and I curled up on the bed and cried. Not long after the text came the dreaded phone call from the attorney- the birth mother was unresponsive to the adoption consultant and had taken the baby home. Not answering phone calls. Done. There was a lot of "blah, blah, blah" on the part of the attorney and apologies and anger on his part, but the fact of the matter was that we weren't going home with a baby. In fact, we weren't even meeting the baby. The attorney held out the option for a match meeting with a different couple that evening, but we were in no condition to even think about it. I told him we would get back to him later. We proceeded to cry and cry and cry.
We didn't know what to do. The tiniest sliver of hope remained that the birth mother would see the light and change her mind again, would make a good choice for her child to grow up with life and health and opportunities instead of living in an overcrowded apartment with jobless parents. Does that sound cold? Maybe it does. I truly believe that children belong with their parents, but only if those parents are doing right by them, loving them and providing for them and putting their needs first. I honestly felt like the wrong decision had taken place, and that made the loss even worse. I was absolutely overwhelmed with grief. Tom was pacing and emotional. We had lost a baby. And we were broken.
Time went by, and we finally decided we had to break the news to our waiting families, families that were excited to add a granddaughter, a niece, a cousin. It was awful. The phone calls were full of tears and disappointment. My mom and sister had even planned to drive down to Arkansas to meet the baby. My phone call with my Dad was not tearful (except on my end). He was very matter-of-fact with a hint of "I told you so" and a few racist remarks thrown in regarding the Marshallese people. Overall, however, I will concede that he apologized for our loss and offered to help pay for plane tickets. What can I say? That's my Dad.
Between emotional breakdowns, Tom and I decided to grab some lunch and started feeling like we could breathe again. We decided to give the evening's match meeting a try and contacted the attorney again, who was very excited to hear our decision and directed us to speak with the adoption consultant to get the details. By the time we'd eaten, taken a quick trip to Wal-Mart for essentials and incidentally seen what felt like 100 newborn babies, we were sinking quickly back into sadness. Exhausted from little sleep and the enormous letdown were really starting to hit us, and we decided to cancel the match meeting. We just weren't ready to fake smiles and act interested in another adoption situation that could very possibly end the same way.
We both cried some more and fell asleep for almost 2 hours. I awoke to discover a missed call from our attorney and a couple of irate text messages indicating we needed to reconsider the evening's match meeting if we wanted to continue working with him. Whaa???? I called him back immediately but got no answer, so I left a message stating we were broken and needed time but weren't interested in severing ties with him at all. No call back that day. Or the next day. Or the next day.
We tearfully packed our bags early the next morning, drove to Tulsa, OK and flew home to Phoenix. Getting on the first flight was an emotional challenge. I cried and cried. It felt so final to be leaving our little girl behind. We connected with our next flight in Dallas, and I cried again when we got off the plane in Phoenix. Now, it was really final. No baby for us. Still not parents after all these years of praying and hoping and yearning.
My mom and sister had planned to fly in for my birthday (April 10th) weeks ago and hadn't cancelled their flights, so they actually decided to keep their flights and flew into Phoenix about an hour after we did. We all drove home together, but I was in a funk. I even cried in the truck on the way home. I couldn't stop thinking about what might have been. What should have been. That I should be staring into my baby girl's eyes, feeling her warmth against my body, telling her all the ways I loved her and would be there for her for the rest of her precious life. Instead, I felt cold and alone.
Suffering a loss so close to the loss of my brother has set me back a little in my grief journey, I think. The depression that had started to lift seems to have drifted downward, placing me in a fog. My psychiatrist has actually texted me a couple of times to see how I'm doing, giving me permission to take extra medication if I need to take it.
Yesterday morning (my birthday), I brought out the basket of baby things to show my Mom and sister. I felt like I needed to share my grief with them. We all cried, and my sister blessed each item in the basket for our future child, "even if it's a boy." There is a tiny part of me that knows a child is coming, and losing a baby does not negate the feelings I've had recently or the prayers people are praying for us. Tom's cousin even shared with me a few weeks ago, that God had given her the very strong impression that a baby was coming soon.
I am tired of struggling. I feel sad and empty. This is what I imagine the despair of a miscarriage would feel like. But the smallest seed of hope is still in my heart. And we will wait, yet again.
Precious baby, wherever you are- we love you and want the best for you.
Yours,
Mom and Dad
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