Editor’s Pick
AUGUST 6, 2011 9:40AM


Rate: 8 Flag

            After every appointment at the fertility clinic, I would have a nightmare.  It didn’t matter if the appointment had gone well (New medicine to try! Your ovaries are huge!) or if the appointment had been torturous (Internal ultrasound! Ooops! The doctor was just called out to deliver a baby. You’ll have to come back.) The dreams that followed that night were never good.

            I would toss and turn, trying all my tricks to get to sleep. I laid my hands flat, open, underneath my pillow. I smoothed my hair behind my ears, I bent my legs slightly, and I swept my foot back and forth, caressing the sheet. I stilled my breathing, then matched it to the motion of my foot. I willed myself to breathe deeper, to let go...

            * * *

            I wasn't surprised, but clearly everyone else was. I looked again at the bundle in my arms. I felt joyful and tender as I rearranged the tiny blanket around her. I cooed to her, my little sweetheart. She didn't stir, still exhausted from the delivery.

            I said quietly to the room, "You could be happy for me."

            The nurse said, "It's a kitten. You delivered a kitten."

            "She's beautiful," I said. Then more firmly, "We're going to be fine."

            I heard clucking tongues, spilling pity. Two nurses stood by me, trying to take her from me. I petted her cheek, turning over names in my mind. Could I call her the same name I had chosen for a human baby - Emily? Maybe just Emmy. I whispered it, and she sighed softly. "Then Emmy it is," I said. I looked up, ready to confront them," I want you to treat her like any other baby on this unit, or you will hear from my lawyer. She's my baby, and I love her."

            "But she's not a real baby," the charge nurse said.

            "This isn't right, Honey," said the plump nurse. "Let us take her, and you can try again."

            "I have been trying for seven years!" I screamed. "This is my baby. She's beautiful, and she's mine, and I will not give her back. "

            When I woke up, I had a sore throat.

            * * *

            When we first met Daria, the birthmother, at Big Boy's, I thought she looked like Mariah Carey. She had blond, streaked hair, big, aqua-colored eyes (they had to be contact-enhanced), and high cheekbones. She smiled at us as though she knew us. Well, of course she did. We had sent her our adoption portfolio, full of pictures and personal history. She knew the colleges we attended, the size of our home, our family history, our medical history, even our dog's name, for Christ's sake. We knew only her first name, a few vital statistics, and that she was pregnant.

            "There she is," I whispered, and we both rose to greet her. I noted the slight drag of her right foot, but I tried not to look at it. I remembered that on her medical sheet, she said she had had a slight stroke after her last pregnancy.

            I smiled at her and extended my hand. "I'm Lydia," I said, and then shoved Sean forward, eager for him to take the lead for me. He shook her hand and looked at me. He never had accepted responsibility easily. What was I thinking?

            I grabbed the flowers we had bought on the way up, trying to cover my embarrassment for him. "These are for you."

            Daria looked surprised.

            "You said your favorite color was purple, I said, pointing to the Delphinium and Iris.

            "And you remembered that?" Daria asked, referring to our previous phone conversations, where we had asked everything from, "What's your favorite color?" to "Do you have any communicable diseases?"  I had remembered every answer; obviously, she had not even remembered the phone call.

            "Thank you. They're pretty," she said. I had been hoping for more.

            She was pretty too. Sean pulled out a chair for her, and Daria sat down, oblivious to my stares. She was wearing a tan sundress that ballooned away from her. She wore heavy 80's make-up, foundation that had been carefully tinted, blue eyeliner that matched her stunning eyes, blush striped to her hairline, and lipstick with a glossy finish. It wasn't garish, but it was practiced and perfect.  She wore little jewelry, except for a blue topaz ring that was boldly expensive. I hoped the father of the baby had given it to her. I wanted the baby to have been conceived in love.

* * *

            On the day that we were to give Emma back, James and I went down to the lake. It was about 85 degrees, and the sun was just starting to warm up. I took care to shield Emma from the sun, making a tent of sorts with her blankets. James was playing in the sand, "Making tracks" he called it, cutting tributaries down to the water. He asked me to play with him, but I said no rather sharply, and he got the message.

            I looked down at Emma and at the lake. Both were still. I knew I should pray. I knew I should cry.  I knew I should clasp her to me and rock and cherish her and memorize her every bone. I couldn't do any of it.

            I felt movement before I heard it, and turned to the swamp to my left. Seven blue heron rose from the reeds, perfectly spaced. They called and crackled; I know of no other word for it, maybe it was their wings beating or maybe it was the wind vibrating, but as they rose, the weather, the wind, the cloud, the bird, and my hope gathered as one, and flew.

            James was already staring, and I lifted Emma’s blankets, and this I swear: she opened her eyes and saw her first miracle. It was the first of many in her young life.

Your tags:


Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Recipient's email address:
Personal message (optional):

Your email address:


Type your comment below:
So glad you posted this lovely piece!
This is gorgeous. ~r
Kristina, the levels within this are so very gripping. After trying for a little while to conceive my first child I can understand just a smidgeon what a nightmare it must be for those who are unable to conceive.

The surfaces you touch upon here are artfully rendered. So well done.
Really beautiful piece.
Very nice, but adopting a kitten is great too! Put a kitten in my arms, and it's the farthest thing from a nightmare.
I've read this multiple times and am at a loss for words. It's beautiful but so excruciatingly painful, too. Very well done.
Incredible. Left me breathless.
I don't know why, but for a long time I thought I would adopt a child. I dated a couple of women who had been adopted, and my wife's Dad is not her biological Dad. With so many b'zillions of people on Earth, I didn't think I needed to add a whole bunch more of mine for the simple reason of propagating my genetic code. Or so it seemed to me.

We didn't have fertility issues; I think we conceived Maggie within a week of Sami saying, "I want to have a baby!" But after Maggie, we began the adoption process. But one thing we did not pursue was a domestic adoption. Why? For the very reasons Kristina mentions; a Mom might want her child back. At the time we were researching adoption, the law in California allowed the birth mother a full year to rescind her decision. Maybe it's hard for non-parents to understand, but we would look at the 3 month old Maggie, or the 6 or 9 month old Maggie, and imagine someone demanding her back, and the state sanctioning that. Just thinking about it was heartbreaking; to actually have to go through what KL did here . . . it was unimaginable.

So we adopted Joseph from Taiwan, accepting the cultural and racial differences, accepting the fact that he (and we!) would be viewed as odd pretty much as long as he lived. Because once we had our child, we wanted there to be no doubts, no worries, no concerns that he would be taken from us.

As I listen to the 13 year-0ld Joseph producing his "movies" behind me, using Legos, Bionicles, building blocks, and innumerable Hot Wheels, I can't imagine what KL went through. Adoption is difficult enough; making parents go through this kind of thing is simply unpardonable. I am so sorry, KL.