This National Writing Project institute is intensive.  It is amazing but intense.  I haven’t written creatively for a very long time.  It is certainly what I enjoy writing the most but it is something I haven’t written in a long while.  Who has the time to write for oneself in an honest and true way when you are also writing research articles and papers?  I certainly didn’t.  I never thought much about how my writing was not longer what I needed it to be.  What it use to be.  I also didn’t now I had so much I needed to say and needed to write about my children’s adoptions.  I didn’t know I had unresolved feelings.  I didn’t know I wasn’t done with that.  Not that I am ever done with adoption.  It is part of my life daily.  We write everyday at the institute.  We write almost all day.  We write many different ways and many things have come out that I didn’t realize I wanted to write about.  I am enjoying it–but it is emotionally exhausting.  It is scary.

Here is a draft:  Please be kind…(it has not been proofread or edited in any way) Just a first draft

P2 Draft

America

For a moment I knew what they felt.  Just a fleeting moment compared to the lifetime they will carry that feeling deep in their heart.  A feeling that must overtake them at moments when they see others with their children.  A feeling that paralyzes.  A feeling that overtakes.  A feeling that cannot be run from.  A feeling that defines.

There are experiences and moments that happen to each of us.  Experiences that shape us and help to define who we are.  Experiences that we carry in battered old suitcases and transport from one phase of our lives to another.  Experiences that inform our perceptions—perceptions that become our reality.

The phone rang, happily distracting me from my last minute preparations.  I looked at the caller id and my heart stopped.  Literally stopped beating life into me.  I couldn’t move.  I was frozen and my thoughts flew rampant in my head.  It was our adoption agency.  We were scheduled to leave for Ethiopia in 24 hours.  There is nothing about this phone call that could be good.  Nothing.  My thoughts quickly conjure up Allison and her family.  They received a call less than a week before they were to travel.  A call that no parent ever wants to get—least of all a family who had never gotten to hold their baby.  Their son had died in his sleep.  He had died alone—never feeling the love of his American family.  They had lost their son alone—never touching his sweet face.

“Hello.”

“Dawn?”

“Yes…” I said tentatively not wanting to admit it was me.  If it wasn’t me there could be no bad news.

“This is Susan from AAI.”

“Hi Susan.”

“We’re calling because Hojawaka was taken to the hospital last night and won’t be ready for travel home for another week.”

My heart started to beat and pump life and fear back into me.  He was in a hospital.  In Ethiopia.  He wasn’t at Children’s Hospital or even a modern hospital—no he was in a hospital in one of the poorest nations in the world and one where many children don’t live to see their 5^th birthday.  How sick was he?  Why was he there?  When would he be released?  These were questions that Susan couldn’t answer—it was now night in Ethiopia and power, phone and internet connections were not reliable.  She told me all that she new.  He was sick and in the hospital.  I was scared.

We couldn’t postpone our trip—my brother was already in route and my mother-in-law was leaving the next day.  We were leaving the next day—I could not wait.  My baby needed me and I need him.  I needed to see and hold him, even if only just once.

Ethiopia

It is dark when we arrived, but the poverty and developing nature of the country is visible even at 2 in the morning.  We are tired from travelling but too excited to go to bed.  I’ve been up and traveling for 24 hours but sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. I am anxious—I am hoping to meet my son in a matter of hours.  I do not know if he is back from the hospital or when I’ll get to see him.  I don’t know his condition.  I try not to think of these things.  I think happy thoughts.  I talk about feeding him and dressing him as I unpack his things and get everything ready for him.  I have to think positively.  It is the only option.

Waiting for Gail to come pick us up is scary.  I don’t know what to bring.  I don’t have any information.  I just know that Gail is coming and will be taking us to Layla.  There are two other families there with us who are also meeting their babies. It is clear when Gail comes that she is not expecting all of us.  She knows more than I do.  I wish I would not have been ready to go.  I wish I would have stayed at the hotel.

We arrive at Layla.  Hojawaka isn’t there.  He is still in the hospital.  My heart sinks.  The pain is overwhelming.  I try to be happy for the other families as they receive their babies and hold them.  I am crying on the inside, but don’t want to mar their beautiful moment.  We wait for what seems an eternity.  I am lonely.  I feel empty.  Is this how she felt when she walked away from him?  Is this how she felt when she left her in the middle of the street?  I can feel their emptiness.  It’s just a flash.  But it is the same even though it comes from two very different places.

He finally comes.  I get a glimpse of him and he is whisked away.  He needs to be changed.  They want to give him to me clean—I don’t care.  I just want him now.  I scream on the inside.  But I respect them—these women who have cared for him and loved him for the past 3 months.  Is this how they feel—helpless?  Powerless? As someone else cares for their babies?  It must be.  I know if only for a moment—I will never forget.  It is a moment in time that we share.  It brings us together—if only for an instant.

I hold him.  I look at him.  I worry.  I am happy and sad at the same time.  He won’t eat.  He is sick.  So sick.  He is despondent.  He is…Is he going to make it?  Is this the last time I will hold him?  Is this the only chance I’ll have to show him I love him?  How those women must feel giving up their babies after they have held them.  What a horrible feeling.  What a courageous thing to do.  Surrendering your child.  Surrendering your love.  Surrendering yourself.

Mine is a happy story.  One of joy.  He recovered and with the love of his parents has flourished.  Theirs is a sad story.  One of loss and what ifs.  One of holes and emptiness.   A story of wonder.  A story of courage. A story of bravery.  A story that must live.  A story I must tell my children.

A story I can tell because it is also mine.  For a moment—a split second—I felt what I imagine they must have. In the end, I have to be three mothers.  In the end, I must honor them.  I must honor us all.