losing battle

It’s inoperable.

My mother is dying.

It may be a few months, or a few weeks. Or longer. I have no idea.

We had hoped with this surgery that she’d still have some years left in her. But it was not to be.

Just a few months ago she was a vibrant woman, enjoying life and love, her grandchildren, travel. She was only just showing signs of slowing down…

Now I fear she will have lost all hope.

There are no good options left. Maybe the doctors will be able to convince her that a certain treatment might enable some quality of life, in spite of the side effects. My guess is she will not buy it. She has seen too many people succumb to this awful disease and its toxic treatments.

She is tired and weak.

Yesterday, she had hope. Today I doubt there is any left.

She is my last surviving ancestor. My dad is long gone, nearly 24 years now. Died a week before his 50th birthday from kidney cancer. With him I also lost his parents, my grandparents. My mom’s mother, my grandmother, has been gone more than 11 years. Dead at 79 from breast cancer. Her husband died when I was just 5. Heart attack.

Now it looks like my mom won’t even live as long her mother. She is just 71 — last year, a very young 70; this year a very old 71.

Sometimes I think about how happy I am that I didn’t pass along my genes to Baby J.

I am depressed, and I am angry. Sometimes one more than the other.

I feel numb.

No one saw this coming.

Just this week, a few nights before my mom was scheduled for surgery, I was feeding Baby J in the middle of the night. It was quiet as I rocked her by the moonlight, alone with my thoughts. It was the first time I had allowed myself to really feel what was happening. I had a bad feeling about the surgery, that it wouldn’t go well. I realized in that moment that I would lose my mom far sooner than I ever expected. I started anticipating her death, life without her.

That’s what we do when we have warning, when we have done it before. When you know what it’s like to lose someone before they are even gone. Grieving is such a sorrowful business. Your body remembers how to do it. Your heart knows where it is headed. Already it is not the same person you once knew. You are already grieving the person you lost, even though they are not yet gone. You become angry at the randomness, the lack of control, the sheer devastation of it, the resignation to it. Your heart is heavy.

I will keep on losing her every day, until she really is gone.

Tonight I am ever grateful for my little girl, whose smile kept me grounded and sane amidst the worst news. And for M, who is as amazing as ever.

Tomorrow is another day. One step closer to losing her. One more day with her.

open adoption roundtable: on openness

The most recent prompt by Heather at the Open Adoption Roundtable asks open adoption bloggers whether they agree with some common critiques about openness in adoption. The views cited share one thing in common, “a certain point-of-view: that direct contact during early childhood between birth families and children placed for adoption may not be the best idea” and that adoptees, not their parents, should be able to decide if and when to initiate contact on their own timetable.

As a new adoptive mother in a fully open adoption, I obviously disagree with this view for many of the reasons discussed by other roundtable participants. (Go read the critiques and their responses.) I’m not going to reply to each point specifically, but rather discuss generally why I think early direct contact is important. Of course there is no one right way; each adoption will be different.

Adoption is, or should be, about the child. With truly child-centered adoption, we must consider what is right and best for the child — not what is right or best for the adoptive parents, or even the birth parents. Absolutely the decision whether to place a child rests solely with the expectant parents. But I think that once the parent decides to place the child, that child has a right to know and to access their family of origin.

In some states, closed adoption is still the norm. I realize that some birth parents have an expectation of privacy that conflicts with openness. Although I can appreciate this concern, it is my opinion that the child has a fundamental right to know. While open adoption is not for everyone (and a fully open adoption even more so), I think the ultimate goal should be ensuring the child’s access to birth family. Contact should be worked out on a case by case basis appropriate to the circumstances. Because the child is not yet in a position to determine what is right for him/her, it’s the responsibility of the parents — all of them — to ensure that access remains open until the child is mature enough to decide for him/herself what level of contact may be appropriate.

Too often I think adoptive parents reject openness because of their own fears and insecurities. They agree to minimal contact out of obligation to the birth parents, rather than from a desire to share the exciting developments of the child, or a need to remain connected for the sake of the child. They may even be relieved when a birth parent doesn’t want a lot of contact. But they don’t realize how beneficial the contact can be for everyone. Sure it may (will) sometimes be difficult (for the parents and even the child). Yet many aspects of parenting are challenging. Adoptive parenting includes a whole other set of issues that we signed on for. We didn’t adopt our child from nowhere. She came from an existing family with a unique history and ongoing story, a genetic predisposition and physical traits that she inherited from her family of origin. As her parents, we have no right to deprive her of experiencing that connection. To the contrary, we have an obligation to embrace it.

Our adoption agency downplayed the potential for a fully open adoption, catering instead to prospective adoptive parents who were concerned about (read: fearful of) openness. Even their best social workers repeatedly assured prospective families that just having information about birth family is beneficial for the child. And while I can’t disagree — especially having known adoptees from closed adoptions who craved that information with a primal urgency — I really don’t think that is enough.

I don’t believe it is enough for our daughter to simply know about her birth family. I believe she has a right to have them in her life in whatever way she can. It’s our job to provide that access. We are not only the caretakers of her story until she is ready to carry it herself, but we are also the bridge to her birth family. We have to build that bridge — lay the foundation and maintain its integrity by establishing honest and open relationships, respecting her story and the people in it, providing information and doing our best to ensure access. We have to be that bridge, for now. Some day, she can decide for herself how and when she wishes to cross it.

To those who say that contact would be confusing for the child, I fail to see how spending time among family would be any more confusing than trying to understand later why your parents never made that option available, if it was possible. Moreover, kids are smarter than we give them credit for. They take things at face value. They deserve our honesty and our guidance to help them work through the complexities that come with being adopted.

Adoption is complicated; the relationships are complex and dynamic. As members of the triad I think we all have an obligation to our children first and foremost. As parents, you are always making decisions about what is best for your child — from what they eat to who they spend time with. Yet at some point those decisions become their own. It’s our job to help guide them to one day make good decisions for themselves. Until then, that responsibility lies with us.

creepy crawly web

~ Happy Halloween!~

… may you have more treats than tricks this year!

image courtesy of the Amazing M

sweet patch

So much to say, so little time… and not sure how much to share.

It’s been a busy week here and we are recovering from our weekend away. Another post will have to be forthcoming on that, as I am still processing. It was all good, really. It’s just that there is so much to ponder.

But now ’tis the season to think of spiders and witches and little goblins. And pumpkins.

This time last year, we were moving full steam ahead with our adoption outreach when I had a major setback one fall Sunday afternoon. We had gone to our local pumpkin patch for some harvest fun, yet it was anything but. The experience left me weepy and raw. I was depressed and feeling hopeless.

I was grieving the life we didn’t have, the life we would never have.

That day as I looked around at all the families and babies, I was feeling every loss so acutely that I could barely speak. The sight of all those kids in wheelbarrows and little wobbly legs learning to walk amidst the bright orange gourds waiting to be picked and carved was just too much.

On top of my grief, or perhaps underneath it all, I was doubting whether we would ever be “picked” or whether we’d lose ourselves in the wait.

What a difference a year makes, no?

Seriously, I feel like that should be the title of my blog this year.

A week ago we went back to our pumpkin patch with Baby J. We packed up the stroller and bundled up in layers and joined the masses who all had the same idea. We spent half an hour trying to get the perfect photo (never got it) before selecting the perfect pumpkin for each of us and checking out the petting zoo. There was way too much activity for the baby and she was rather overwhelmed by it all (ponies and hayrides and pumpkins, oh my!)

Yet what really stuck in my mind was the incredible contrast from last year.

Every day I am amazed by the path our lives have taken that has led us to this.

And I am filled with awe and gratitude.

grand contact

We’ve had lots of activity this past week with Baby J’s birth family that has left us feeling really positive.

Last weekend, M and I took a drive to K’s hometown, where Baby J was born, and had a wonderful lunch. We visited with K’s mom, Baby J’s first grandmother. She simply adores this baby, her first grandchild. We are closer with her than anyone next to K and our time together is easy and comfortable. We genuinely enjoy her as a person, as mom to K, and as Baby J’s first (and closest in proximity) grandparent. We keep in touch by email and phone, and we all look forward to our monthly visits.

Afterwards, we headed to K’s dad’s home for the first time to see him and meet his wife. We had met K’s dad T the day Baby J was born, but he had been somewhat slow to warm to us until then. Since then, we have left the door open. Finally, he and his wife agreed it was time and invited us to their home for a visit with Baby J.

I wasn’t nervous exactly, since we had met T once before. But it certainly would be a different kind of visit than those we’re used to with K or her mom. Would we be judged, or scrutinized as parents? Maybe. But it feels so natural to be this little girl’s Mama that surprisingly I wasn’t worried about that. Of course I wondered whether Baby J would cry the whole time because she is teething. But I couldn’t worry about that either. Babies cry, they sometimes fuss. Such is life, right?

After some initially awkward introductions (we went for hugs when they went for shakes; we won), we had a really good visit. Like any relationship, those in open adoption get to know one another by bonding over something in common. We spent about two hours admiring our little girl, talking about her development, marveling at her strength, beauty and good nature. When they complimented us, I said we couldn’t claim credit for that. But they disagreed and said she is such a happy baby and that’s because of us.

We saw some pictures and heard stories about Baby J’s ancestors. We answered questions about ourselves, and we talked about our philosophy of openness. We explained why it is good for Baby J to have access and ongoing contact with her family of origin, on all sides, and how we think this benefits everyone. They thought it was great that we were “willing” to do that for her. They thanked us profusely for making the time to see them. And they hugged us goodbye.

On our way home, M and I were both relieved and I think a little proud that we were able to navigate this particular meeting so well. We both felt really good about our visit and the potential for our future relationship with Baby J’s Grandpa T and his wife.

Then when we got home, I opened an email from K’s mom that deeply moved both of us. We have spoken with her at length about how lucky we all are to have found each other. But this still got me. She told us how much she loves us and our little girl and how wonderful we all are. She thanked us for allowing her to really feel like Baby J’s grandmother and said that if things had been different she’d be feeling such grief right now. Our relationship is a celebration of how “right” this situation is, she believes, and the universe unfolded just as it should have.

Now I’m not cuing any unicorns or rainbows here. Of course adoption is complicated. And no, it is not perfect.

But truly, openness in action reaps such benefits. It opens hearts. It alleviates some measure of the pain of loss. It creates community. Yes, it can be hard. But there is so much to be gained, for everyone involved.

That night, we sent some pictures and a quick email to Grandpa T, thanking him for the visit. The next day, we got an unusually emotional email from him. He said how wonderful it was to spend time with us and our beautiful daughter. He admitted this had been a very emotional situation for them, but said they were so pleased with us as Baby J’s parents. They were thrilled to see how happy she is. He said they want to play an active, positive role in her life.

These messages were both so affirming to us as parents, to me as Baby J’s mother. It’s hard to convey the impact such positive interaction has on me as an adoptive mama, but it is profound. I am also seeing firsthand how beneficial ongoing contact is for these grandparents, who would otherwise be grieving the loss of that unique role in this child’s life. I know some day Baby J will further reap the benefits of openness too (she already has).

This week will culminate in baby’s first road trip on Friday to visit with K (our visit was rescheduled from three weeks ago because K was sick). K will hear all about our visits with her parents and we’ll show her pictures. And take some more.

We might even get to meet Baby J’s biological father.

adoption book tour: the primal wound

In honor of National Adoption Month in November, Lori of Weebles Wobblog has launched an experiment over at the Open Adoption Examiner: a new adoption cross-triad book tour.

Beginning with the controversial landmark book The Primal Wound by Nancy Verrier, the tour promises to highlight the adoptee voice, often absent or marginalized from adoption discourse. Written by an adoptive mother interested in the psyche of the adoptee, the book was the first to explore in depth the adoptee perspective when it was published in 1993.

Truth be told, The Primal Wound is not an easy read. Nevertheless, it should provide for some compelling discussion about adoption with all members of the triad represented. So sign up for the book tour and draft some questions for discussion by November 30.

Lori asks that participants “come with equal parts openness to understand other viewpoints and eagerness to share one’s own.” Be prepared to engage in some thoughtful discussion.

Book Tour Instructions:

- Sign up for the book tour by November 30 (earlier is better!)

- Read The Primal Wound by Nancy Verrier (get it from your library or buy it)

- By November 30, draft 1-2 discussion questions and send them to Lori (bestlightlori at gmail dot com)

- By December 5, all participants will receive a list of questions.  Select 3 questions to answer.

- On December 12, post answers to your 3 questions on your blog OR in the comments of the Open Adoption Examiner page that day.  Note you don’t need a blog to participate!

- Tour day: On December 12, link to participant responses on the Open Adoption Examiner page. Then you can read, comment and discuss The Primal Wound. And remember, “the purpose here is to shed light rather than make heat.”

All perspectives are welcome, so join in and sign up!

cancer sucks (updated)

Back in mid-August, I asked for some virtual wishes for my mom, who up until a few months ago appeared to be a healthy vibrant woman enjoying retirement with her soul mate.

That day she was undergoing surgery to remove two tumors at a world class facility in the Lonestar State. During the procedure to remove the smaller one from the primary site, the doctors discovered that she suffered from some unusual clotting factor that had gone undetected after two days of testing. In short, she started to bleed out and they had to get the hell out of there, or she would have died.

Thankfully, they were able to manage the hemorrhage and safely remove the tumor from the primary site. But they never got to the bigger tumor and the more complicated part of the procedure. Even under the best scenario, operating on the liver is a dicey proposition.

An extremely rare type of tumor apparently found its way to my mother’s liver some years ago, making itself at home, silently taking over critical space in her abdomen, spewing toxins into her bloodstream affecting her heart, and impeding her liver’s ability to function normally. Making her really sick in a matter of months.

My mother has never been one to show weakness or vulnerability, or fear for that matter. She has always been a bundle of energy, a strong force to be reckoned with. Truth be told, I’ve had a hard time keeping up with her on many occasions.

Now that energy has been sapped by the toxic mess in her liver. She is tired and sick, weak and scared. She is anxious. She feels way beyond her 71 years. She is thinking of her own mother, my nana, who died just 11 years ago at age 79. My mother doesn’t look or feel that old. And yet suddenly she is facing her mortality.

This week my mom traveled back to the Lonestar State to the best facility in the world for this type of cancer. They have a team of specialists studying her case. (With her rare tumor and clotting factor, she may end up in a medical review journal.) She met again with her top surgeon. After two days of diagnostics, they determined they cannot operate because she is in such bad shape that her liver would probably fail during the procedure.

This morning they will meet again to re-evaluate whether there is any scenario that could result in a positive outcome. It certainly does not look good right now.

I have been down this road before, and it’s hard. I lost my dad and my nana to cancer, among others. I know my mom is getting the best care possible. I encourage her to express her frustration, sadness, and rage, to breathe through her anxiety, to ask questions and question the answers. Yet aside from talking with her often and simply abiding with her, there is nothing more I can do.

There’s a certain helplessness in watching your loved ones suffer.

Yet I feel a strange sense of detachment from the whole awful situation. People ask me how I am, and what am I supposed to say? It fucking sucks, that’s how I am. Yet I’ve allowed some kind of buffer to exist between my heart and the sad reality of losing my last parent. As if not thinking too hard about it will somehow protect me when the bad news just keeps on coming.

Updated: Cancer still sucks. But the news this morning is that they will put her on a two week protocol of drugs and try surgery again in early-mid November. So maybe there still is some hope to be had.

remembering, still

Since it is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day, I am taking a moment to remember our lost babies. It’s not like I need a special day to remember, but there is some small comfort in honoring our children with our collective memory, and the ritual lighting of a candle tonight at 7pm.

Last year I remembered by sharing the words of another dead baby mama. This year I’m just thinking about all that could have been. Remembering mine and yours.

open adoption roundtable: privacy

For Open Adoption Roundtable #7, Heather at Production Not Reproduction asks open adoption bloggers: “Where is the line between your own experience and other people’s personal lives? What information is yours to share and what rightfully belongs to someone else? … Where do you draw the lines—on your blog and in your personal life—and why? What, if anything, don’t you tell?”

This topic was suggested by Rebeccah at Chasing A Child, who wrote an excellent post on the subject after a New York Times parenting blog posed this question in “Protecting Your Child’s Privacy” (presumably directed at mommy bloggers):

“At what point do parents lose their right to their children’s tales? When do things stop being something that happened to ‘me’ and start being something that happened to ‘them,’ and therefore not ‘mine’ to tell?”

This is a really important question for those who write about our adoption experience, because our experience is intertwined with others in the triad. The story of how Baby J came to be with us cannot be told without telling her story, or talking about members of her family of origin and the circumstances that gave rise to her placement.

I feel the need to be authentic in telling my own story, but this must be balanced with the need to protect my family, including Baby J and her family of origin.

I view my role not just as caretaker of our precious daughter, but of her unique story as well. It is my job to safeguard her story until she is ready to carry it herself. Ultimately, I believe our child’s story is hers to tell. Yet try as I may to write only about my own personal journey, our stories are now inextricably linked and intertwined.

I have always struggled with how much to say and what not to say here. Sometimes it feels like part of my story is not even mine to tell. I often find myself asking “whose story is this” about a particular fact. Is it mine? Baby J’s? Someone else’s? I’ve tried hard to protect the privacy of everyone involved.

I blog under a pseudonym. This is to protect myself and my family, and to keep my personal and professional lives separate. (I don’t really want my colleagues googling my name and reading about my uterus, for example. If we’re close enough, they already know.) While a pseudonym in no way guarantees my privacy — and my blog could be found with a few key search terms if someone knew enough of my story — that is a risk I am willing to assume.

I don’t use real names. We’ve even talked about writing a book about our adoption experience and we’ve already chosen our pseudonyms. I use initials here, which I don’t really like doing. To be honest, I’d much rather share the beautiful name of my daughter, but I won’t. I just don’t want that record of her online since it is beyond her control. I don’t see any need to use real names to refer to Baby J’s family of origin.

I have posted a few photos of Baby J, because she is so incredibly adorable. I’ve considered removing them. I’ve considered protecting those posts. I’ve doubted whether I will continue to post photos or not as she gets bigger, and wondered whether I will use another more private space for that. I don’t really want our daughter finding pictures of herself on the internet. But I wanted to share a small piece of her here, so you could have a sense of the joy she brings to all who meet her.

I struggled with whether and how much to tell of the birth story. (It took me four months to get it written, after all.) We all think it is such a beautiful story that should be shared, yet it is so personal to our daughter and especially to K. It may be the best example of how all of our stories became inextricably linked. As many of you know, I recently told a version of the birth story here and decided to password protect those posts. We tell this story to friends and family, so it is not something we keep private, but because it is so intimate I didn’t want it plastered across the internet and popping up on search engines.

In telling our story, I have not shared much information about Baby J’s family of origin, especially the circumstances surrounding her placement. I’ve said only generally that K, her birth mom, was simply not ready to parent. I’ve taken great care not to compromise K’s identity or share personal information. I don’t write much about our ongoing relationships with anyone else. They don’t know about this blog and I wouldn’t want to betray their trust by sharing information here. I’ve written about some of the celebrations as well as some of our challenges within our extended family. But I’ve never shared details about anyone else.

I have to assume that whatever I say may be read by my child some day. There are things I would prefer to tell her myself rather than have her learn some other way. There are things she needs to know first.

Most importantly, there are parts of Baby J’s story that are only for her to know — not our friends and neighbors, not family, or you, dear internet. Some day it will be for her to decide whether she wants to share that information with anyone. I won’t do that for her.

examine this: birth of an open adoption

Our own Lori/Best Light of Weebles Wobblog has a side gig as the Open Adoption Examiner. There she writes brief columns covering issues of interest to members of the adoption triad, pointing readers to helpful resources culled from around the web. (Go Lori!)

Last week, Lori featured our adoption story as a case study. Check out “The Birth of an Open Adoption,” which highlights posts from this blog dating back to December 2008, when we first met K and she asked us to parent Baby J. While you’re there, be sure to check out Lori’s other columns too!