by Erin Carson

Adoption, to me, was supposed to be a magical thing. Ever since I was a little girl I had hoped to have the chance to adopt a child. I don’t know if it was my little girl obsession with the movie, “Annie”, or if it was my mother’s incessant request for a “happy family” (which I therefore thought everyone in the universe deserved) but since I was young, I wanted to adopt.

I also had the dream of having biological children, and lucky for me I was able to do that. River was born and I was as happy as a clam to be the mommy of such a wonderful little boy. And since that dream finally came to fruition, I moved on to my next one of finding him a sibling through the process of adoption.

It was long and tedious, with paperwork, meetings, home studies, and a lot of ‘hurry up, then wait!’ periods. This was fine with me, and the magic was still alive knowing that I was doing all that I could to find my baby.

But then time went by. Like, LOTS of time.

Nepal

Not only time, but also rumors that my international adoption in Nepal might not happen.  Then, after all that time and effort (and telling myself if I just keep waiting and updating things it WILL eventually happen) the US State department closed the doors to Nepal, and said that no US citizen is allowed to adopt from that country any longer. This is even if your papers had been there for way over a year and you’d already given the country of Nepal thousands of dollars. It was done. It was over. That dream of ours was finished.

I mourned. Although we were never matched with a child, I lost Nepal and the dream of a beautiful Nepalese baby in my arms. I also lost so much time, money, energy and effort thinking, hoping, and praying about Nepal. The one thing about adoption that I truly believed was that if you kept persisting you would find your child. I never thought that something like the “US State Department” could come in and squash my dreams.

Yet, here we were.

Next Step

With the Nepal dream aside, I began looking for another one. I found one in Rwanda, but with that beginning to look a little sketchy I also decided to look closer to home. Just days after the failed Nepalese adoption, we began the process of adopting domestically. I was searching for something different — something that wouldn’t hurt so much, something where I could have a different form of control, something that the US state department couldn’t touch.

I charged forward. Everything was ready to go out to agencies around the country within a month and a half. With our new home study written, birth mother profile created, and mindset altered we began our wait to be matched… again.

It didn’t take long. A couple months into it we were picked by a birth mom. Everything seemed perfect. The agency we were working with was wonderful, the birth mom seemed sure, and everything was going beautifully. So I planned. I bought plane tickets, booked a hotel, I searched long and hard for a birth mother gift.

The day came when the baby girl was born, and the agency suggested that very soon after I speak with the birth mom on the phone. She told me more than once not to worry, and that she is going to go through with the adoption. In turn I tried to assure and thank her by saying, “Thank you for this gift. Thank you for trusting me with your daughter, I promise I will give her all that I have.”

The next day the birth mom signed the papers. I got pictures, BEAUTIFUL pictures of my baby. I was ecstatic, showing the pictures to everyone I knew. I had a baby shower two nights before we were to leave. All my friends were there- celebrating at my favorite Indian restaurant with food, laughs, and lots of pink. I was on top of the world.

Failure

At work the next day as I was preparing to leave, I got the call. My husband told me to sit down, and for about 10 seconds I had no idea why. Even after he said the words, “she changed her mind”, I just didn’t believe it; I was in shock.

I ran. I left work, and I cried. I felt like someone I loved so much just unexpectedly died. I felt like my world, as I knew it, was over.

And honestly, it was.

I could tell you the rest, each detail, each feeling, each thought and question that ran through my head after that moment.  How I felt that it was so unfair since I had been waiting for so long, and now, again, I was not just starting over, but grieving for a baby I saw, I loved, and in my heart was mine.

But I won’t. Instead, I want you to know how I got through it. During this time of what felt like I was dying/going nuts/diving into depression, I personally found solace in my loved ones.

I know everyone is different. Some people look to a higher power, some people look to other not-so-healthy options, and some people look inward, which is what I typically do. But this time, in utter sadness, I looked to friends and family. And boy… did they come through.

One left work to come and be with me, one brought me a case of beer and her time, and a few days later many friends surprised me by all coming over to be with me and let me talk. I had an outpouring of support at work, on Facebook, through email and letters. My mom even flew out from Colorado to be with me.

I could never have done this alone.

For those of you who have been through one, two, or five failed adoptions you know how painful it can be. It still hurts me to think of that time. I still pray for that baby girl that I lost, along with my Nepalese baby and the next baby boy match that failed a month later. Those children will always have a special place in my heart. It’s not a place I visit often, because the hurt can still be too much, but it’s a place that I never want to forget, either.

For those of you who may someday experience this, please know that you are not alone. The pain you will feel will turn your heart upside down. But please, please know that if you are persistent, that pain will eventually be replaced with the love of your child that was meant to be with you. Even in those dark days, with the support of your friends, your family, your God, have them remind you that things, even horrible and painful things can have meaning. You just have to believe.

Today’s guest post is by Erin Carson, who adopted Autumn domestically after two failed matches. She blogs about her life and family at The Carsons’ World.

My little piece of magic

 

This is (finally, officially) the first post in a series called {Honestly}. These posts, by other adoptive parents and myself, explore the darker emotions, the questions and the struggles in any adoption — what happens outside the highlight reel. Please join the conversation by leaving a comment with your experience. If you’re interested in guest posting, please contact me.

First moments

I used to cry over other adoptive families’ “gotcha day” videos.

These slideshows, posted by families who had finally reached the pinnacle of the adoption process — finally meeting their child face-to-face — are a series of photos and video capturing the emotions of the momentous day, set to stirring music. I knew, intimately, the anticipation on the parents’ faces. I could taste their joy when they caught the first glimpse of their longed-for child, which is what usually started my own tears flowing. I could almost see our own moment, our own child, in our arms at last. I nodded, choked up, knowing. Our moment was coming soon.

My tears were the surface of a deep, unquestioning belief in the story each video presented, because it looked so much like our story and so much like I imagined our ending, too. All those months of paper chasing, all the money spent to process every piece of paper, the nights I’d awoken at 2 a.m. to check my email for news, the weeks that would tick by in agonizing silence … for me, those gotcha day videos represented a shining hope that one day, we’d have our happy ending, too.

I couldn’t have known how wrong I was. Not about the “ending” part, though that wasn’t accurate either — but more glaringly, the “happy” part.

The reality

At first, our gotcha day looked every bit as much like the first half of the videos I watched. My husband and I arrived in Africa late one night in late February, the humidity sticking to our stretched-out travel clothes as we smelled the dust and diesel and peered out into the continent, shrouded in darkness, for the first time. I couldn’t stop tapping my foot and fidgeting in the tourist visa line. We practically ran to baggage claim where our suitcases were waiting, and then started the 50-foot walk to the doors where we saw the crowd of people waiting for arrivals. We knew our son was in that crowd, with his foster parents, looking for us.

We stopped no less than four times in that short walk, hands shaking, knees buckling, laughing nervously as we rearranged the luggage so we could both pull our bags, my husband could hold his phone up to take a video, and we could both have an arm free to hold our son for the first time. Finally ready (were we?), we walked breathlessly though the sliding doors, as my husband started to say, his voice choked with emotion, “I see him…. I see him!”

Are you starting to tear up?

Because I wasn’t.

My main emotion? Fear. Heart-pounding-through-my-shirt crazy fear.

Then my fears were realized when I finally held our son for the first time and felt… nothing.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I felt disoriented. I felt odd, like I wasn’t in the right place. I felt too close to the moment, because it couldn’t be happening to me, not like this. It felt wrong. I looked in his face, a moment I’d imagined so many times, and I didn’t have the feeling, that one I was sure would come: Where was the love-at-first-sight? I didn’t feel warmth or light and I didn’t hear a small voice inside saying, “yes, this is my son.” It wasn’t magical. I couldn’t hear the soundtrack. I was looking into the face of a child I didn’t know, and he was looking at me like the stranger I was to him. I remember a desperate feeling, trying to conjure tears, emotion, relief, anything, trying to feel what I was supposed to be feeling, according to all the videos.

This is the moment I was waiting for?

What then?

I hadn’t felt it when I saw his photo for the first time, so I thought surely I’d feel it when I held him. Then, I thought surely I’d feel it after jet lag wore off and we got into a good rhythm. Then, I thought surely I would feel it after our first court appearance when the judge reassured us that our case would end positively. Then, I started to feel panicky.

As I held him on my lap in the paradise of Uganda and he gave me those big beautiful smiles, I just felt guilty. I didn’t deserve them. When he grieved in the middle of the night for the first week, screaming and pushing us away, I had to retreat and ask Nathan to just handle it. Even though I knew that might happen, when it came down to it at 2 a.m. in Africa with dogs barking outside the window and the fan moving the humid air around the room — I could not cope with those cries. Not then. Not when I didn’t even like him yet.

My initial fears about the process — that our case would be denied and we’d return home without our son — started to reverse.  I started fearing that he would come home with us and be stuck with a mother who couldn’t love him. How was that fair to him? My heart broke as I realized he deserved better than me. (I now look back and see that I was starting to love him. I wanted better for him.)

After finally confessing my fears to myself, God and my husband, I could let them go little by little. I got good advice from a friend who said that the actions of love need to start now, but the feelings sometimes come later. I decided to love with every feeding, every kiss, every time I laid him down to sleep. And little by little, we grew that love out of nothing. Months later, it finally felt like it had been there all along.

Letting go of the fairy tale

Like most hard lessons that are terrifying and agonizing at the time, now I can thank God for our gotcha day. Because now, when I see a seeming fairy tale, I find myself wondering what’s on the other side. Like when a friend’s new marriage seems perfect. Or when a woman with no children listens politely in a room full of women talking about their labor and delivery stories. Or when a family with the American Dream smiles like everything is fine. I know now that it can’t be that simple.

We’re all engaged in our own great struggle. You have to know that you know it’s true in any adoption — even if it’s gorgeous and carefree and perfect in the beginning, the challenges always come. This is the messy, life work of relationship, parenting is a humbling, heart-on-your-sleeve endeavor, and sometimes it’s hard to see the grace.

While we were still in Africa, I couldn’t watch the gotcha day videos anymore. I’d see them posted and had to move on, not seeing my reality in them. And now that we’re home, I’ve watched a few and I could feel happy for the families. But I don’t cry anymore.

Maybe because I don’t have to imagine our gotcha day. Maybe it’s a post-traumatic response and I don’t want to feel that fear again. And maybe it’s because I’m looking beyond the smiling faces and tears of joy and wondering what’s behind them. But each time, I whisper a prayer for strength and love that cannot come from ourselves alone. Because no matter how long the paper chase and the Long Wait seemed, gotcha day is not the ending. It’s a single step on a thousand-mile journey.

Of course the full color isn’t going to be complete on day 1. On our next gotcha day, I will loosen my grip on expectations and look to the Source of light and life to guide me into love. Eventually.

Linking with Emily.

Peek.

You guys. I am getting some submissions for the {Honestly} adoption series, and honestly? You are going to LOVE them. I love them. These women (and one man, maybe!) are strong, intelligent and open, vulnerable and beautiful. They aren’t perfect. No adoptive parent is. But I think their thoughts are going to encourage you, help you think, and let you know you’re not alone.

I just have one more thing to say before we jump in.

I don’t intend to scare you.

Being honest and showing the ugly, broken and heartbreaking with the beautiful and redemptive can sometimes be taken the wrong way. You get reactions like, “wow, that seems hard. but hopefully it’s worth it?”

It is, of course, but not in the way you might think. Here’s the thing: I want to stop qualifying the hard stuff. I want to stop sticking a bow on the struggles, bringing them up briefly but quickly saying that in the end it’s going to be one of the biggest blessings of my life.

Because in the darkest moments, you can’t see how. And it’s not helpful to tie up the messy ends when you’re in the middle of it.

A friend told me that reading my more starkly honest posts scare her, then challenge her, then inspire her, then scare her again. “What if I’m not strong enough, what if I can’t do this?” she asked. “What if it’s too much for me?”

But here’s the beautiful truth: I’m NOT strong enough. I CAN’T do this on my own, and it IS too much for me. Adoption has brought me to the end of myself more times than every other experience in my life combined. It’s a gorgeous, painful, broken, beautiful thing. And I’ve never seen God more clearly. He is there, in the midst of it. He doesn’t always make it better or ease up on the challenges. Adoption has shown me that whatever the situation, I need to drop the illusion of being somehow able, strong, or capable. I’m woefully inadequate. That’s why I need Him.

We don’t have to be strong, because He is. We don’t have to be enough, because He is. We don’t have to be afraid, because He’s in it, and He’s with us.

This series of posts isn’t meant to scare anyone — quite the opposite. I want prospective adoptive parents, adoptive parents and those just interested or curious about adoption to see that others have gone before you. They’ve thought those thoughts and felt those same scary emotions. They’ve struggled in the dark and now they want to shine a light for others.

You are not alone.

linked up with Heather and Kristina.

Have you ever written a blog post fairly quickly, after a sudden burst of inspiration, hit publish, and then get the biggest response you’ve ever received?

Yes, that.

After writing my Honestly? post last week, I got several thoughtful comments, but even more e-mails, Facebook messages and even a blog post by another adoptive mom, who said my post gave her the courage to speak out.

Funny what happens when you commit to being honest, publicly: Readers want to return the favor. And in turn, I’ve been inspired like never before by your comments, questions and stories. I have a list a mile long of adoption topics I want to explore. I think we’re onto something, and I’d love for  you to come along for the ride.

I’m going to set up this series of honesty-themed adoption posts by telling you that things won’t progress like an adoption checklist. Because that’s not how adoption works, either.

photo credit: spiral by browndresswithwhitedots.tumblr.com on pinterest

Adoption is circular

A friend and fellow adoptive mama once wrote these words:

“In the beginning, many families think adoption is a linear process, from Beginning Point A to Step 1 to Step 2 to End Point and Completion. But the adoption process is rarely linear. Once home, the journey of attachment has no finite end …it is the never-ending story, always unfolding. Rarely linear, more circular or spiral.”

Julie Jones and Vanessa Johnson, Collaboration in Overseas Programs, USAID

That is exactly where I began, looking at adoption as a step-wise process. The agency and dossier process included a checklist and everything, and I am a girl who loves a checklist. Give me instructions and a stack of paperwork to fill out, and I will show you a happy and occupied woman.

The myth persists throughout an adoption’s paper chase, waiting period and time in country, because you are completing a linear, finite-on-paper process that starts at our hearts saying yes and ends with our child in our arms.

But any adoptive parent will tell you that the journey only begins there. and it’s nothing like an organized, predictable progression once your child is home.

You work through phases of attachment and make progress, and then things regress and you have to address a new insecurity. Your child grows and changes, gaining weight making up for delays, but then you notice he’s behind his peers in speech and you wonder if it’s related to his later exposure to English. When he’s in school and struggles with group learning or math or reading, you wonder if it’s personality/heredity or if you’re seeing echoes of institutional care. She may make friends quickly and instantly draw a crowd in a room, but while others think it’s charming, you wonder about latent attachment disorder.

A new behavior manifests, like hitting or biting, and you know the conventional discipline you used with your biological children, but you second-guess this advice when it comes to your new child, wondering if attaching and connection is what he needs. She grows up and struggles to find her way, and you wonder whether the common questions about identity have a deeper layer in her — you wonder if she carries a fundamental belief of rejection from her birth parents.

You realize that your mind will always go back there, to the adoption question.

For the rest of my life and my son’s, I’ll keep in mind themes of attachment and identity. I’ll see fingerprints of the loss he endured in the first months of his life and watch for how they might shape his future. The enduring effects of his multiple primary caregiver losses, the days and weeks following gotcha day, our time in country, or our other kids’ adjustments to his needs, are themes we’ll return to again and again and again.

I’m not planning for the fact that our son was adopted to play a dominant role in his life and identity, because we love him just as we love all our children. He is equal, but that doesn’t mean he’s the same. The fact of his adoption remains, even if all else is equal.

{Honestly} themes

Adoption isn’t linear. So the themes of the “Honestly” series won’t be, either. We’re going to explore some deeply personal issues that not many people speak about publicly, such as the unique challenges of non-infant adoption, the grief of a referral loss, the shock of a country or program closing after you’ve waited so long, post-adoption depression, dealing with extended family misunderstandings, gotcha day expectations versus reality, and more.

They won’t be in any specific order, but all of them — my posts and the ones I’m lining up with some pretty fabulous guest posters — will be honest. We’re not going to pull any punches when we explore the realities of those experiences or the fallout afterward.

Adopting our son was one of the most amazing experiences of my life, but it was also the most terrifying. And though we’re done with the checklist, it’s not over.

I hope you’ll join us on a journey to an honest, authentic exploration of adoption and everything it means: the broken and the beautiful.

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