Originally posted May 24 2014

read Part I

I felt stupid, embarrassed. Ashamed to witness the mother, the Brave One’s  “shame”.

Horrified that my children were seeing this, first hand, for the first time.

Yes, they’ve heard us talking, they’ve seen the presentation, and seen the pictures. I have overheard their make-believe games…

“and I was an orphan, but my mom was alive, she just couldn’t keep me because I was a girl”…

I held my own baby in a baby carrier, and clung to the hand of my two year old. My perfectly healthy 5 and 8 year old were ahead of me, dancing along behind their daddy.

I was aware, oh so aware.

Of my privilege

My wealth

My options

My freedom

My choices

These things are only mine by birth. I did nothing. They are just there. My birthright.

My husband knocked on the door.

A voice hollered back, before opening

“are you the fostering people?”

Their home is so humble.

Dominated by a blue, towering tank of oxygen.

A child at peace, sleeping underneath a white, dreamy mosquito net.

Like the one that decorated the alter when I married my friend.

The Brave One trying to smile, happy to see all my kids, their cheer, distracting her from the pain of the moment.

My foster son’s minor disability surprised her. His missing fingers, not a problem for people like us, who do not take our living from the land, from working with our bodies.

She was expecting us to walk to say goodbye forever, to walk out of that room with her treasure.

We said all the right words. We thanked her husband for letting the child live. We thanked them for loving her enough to let her go. Her shame hung over her like a cloud, regardless.

And I didn’t have the words to explain, only to tell her we did NOT judge her.

The were surprised, and eager, when we asked if they wanted to go with us to the child’s new home. They were surprised, and tears finally came, when they were told they could visit any time they want.

We loaded that enormous tank into our car, and drove for an hour, across town.

The foster family greeted our little troop with smiles, with gentleness, with love.

His love.

No other kind of love could be so willing to sacrifice, so without agenda.

Our job was done.

We said hello to the other children in the house.

Thanked the new foster mother.

Smiled at the Brave One.

Thanked her husband again.

Took the hand of my son.

Closed the door behind us.

 

Originally posted May 21 2014

* This story is based on facts. I have adjusted here and, there, for the sake of privacy and clarity. The heart of the story is 100% real. It’s something that happens every day in this land, and our co-workers see all the time. It is a story that I rarely witness first-hand. But I did this week.

She lay on her side, staring at her sleeping child.

The mosquito net rippled in the morning breeze, and her baby’s breath was

slow, even, priceless.

 

The oxygen tube  that connected her baby to a gigantic, industrial tank next to her bed had slipped loose after her last feeding.  Now she couldn’t fall asleep again. She anxiously fiddled with the tube, where it went into the child’s nose, making sure her baby was getting enough.

Her husband slept beside her… she couldn’t believe he could sleep, at a time like this.

She breathed deeply, and propped herself up on her elbows, pulling her favorite Book out from under her pillow, and flipped to the book in the middle. Prayers, from a desperate heart, to a loving Father. The sun was coming up, and it was light enough to read without waking her husband. Her heart begged for comfort. Her mind screamed for an explanation. Her emotions were raw, and there were no tears left. She pleaded with Him to give her an option, to send an answer. Her friends were trying, calls were being made.

Would someone, anyone, finally call her back today?

The call came. At 10 am. On that warm Sunday morning.

Someone would come around 4 that afternoon, and her baby would live.

Her baby would be safe. She knew nothing more than that.

She sent her husband to the market for the lunch things, and asked him to bring home peaches.

They were in season, and maybe she could offer some to the guests later.

Usually she went to the market, but she dared not leave him alone with the baby. Not after what happened last week. Tears sprang to her eyes, which surprised her, because she thought she had none left. She set about methodicly washing the rice for lunch, willing herself to stop crying, before he got home.

Just forget everything that had happened. She couldn’t afford to make him angry again.

They were so, so close to an answer.

But she couldn’t forget. She would never forget.

Walking in the door after being away an hour. Bag of fresh vegetables in hand. Her mother-in-law glaring at her, defiantly, from the couch in their tiny studio apartment. Her husband, cowering in the corner, tv blaring. She dropped the bags, and ran to the baby. Her baby. Her princess, miracle baby. Where was the oxygen tube? The doctor had told her the baby would die without it. WHERE WAS IT? Her baby’s face color looked off… where was the medicine? Not on the desk, where she had left it. She asked her husband, she turned to his mother. They were going to let her die, they said. If she wouldn’t do it, they would.

Pleading, screaming, crying, she was locked out of the room.

That was the worst day of her life.

Worse than the day she was told her baby’s heart had a hole, and would die.

Worse than the day she went into labor,

1 month early.

Worse than the moment she looked in her baby’s face and knew it was true,

she had Downs Syndrome.

Worse than the days, and nights, of the entire family screaming,

yelling, insisting she could not keep her child. It was HER fault, HER responsibility.

Worse than looking to her husband for hope, for comfort, for a pledge of commitment,

only to see that it wasn’t there.

She had come back the next day, weary, resigned. They let her in.  Slowly, she walked to the bed, the bed where her child was conceived, the bed where she and her husband had whispered and laughed over their hopes, and dreams for the little one to come… 

And there she was, breathing, roughly. But breathing. She was ALIVE!

Her will to live was stronger than their will to let her die.

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU she breathed, as her mother-in-law handed her the tube, and the medicine. Moving quickly now, she inserted it into her child’s nose, carefully taped the tube the her head, and administered the medicine.

She held her treasure close, as the color slowly returned to her cheeks,  her hands, her feet.

 Stomping her tears down, she had, promised, SWORE to them.  

She would find someone to take the baby. This week. This weekend.

Just don’t try to let her die. Please, please.

Please.

Her husband returned with the groceries. She prepared the meal. She served him his rice.

She sat next to him, picked up a notebook, and a pen, and wrote the words they had asked her to write.

“I_______ cannot take care of my baby. I release ________ into the care of foster parents.

They have sole right to make decisions about her life and health… “

She signed her name.

He signed his.

She bathed her baby one last time.

Put on fresh clothes.

Wrapped her in the bunting, and tied it with twine.

She washed the dishes.

She sat again.

And waited.

4 o’clock

The door buzzer rang.

Her body tensed. The time had come.

read Part II