The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly

Well it's official. We are now and forevermore Daddy (Byron) and Papa (Jonathan). The last post discussed the "Zombie Period", and despite my melodramatic attempts at a comedic style of writing, I can accurately assert that the transition to parenthood was underestimated. So pardon me, dear reader, for not having updated you before now. What follows is an explanation of the good, bad, and ugly. Prospective adoptive parents read with the understanding that your experience will be unique.

The Good

Elle is beautiful. I was privileged enough to be there for her birth. I suppose I expected a knight on a white horse, each with several attendants standing on either side of the birth canal blowing long gold horns while a town-crier harkened, "HEAR YE, HEAR YE..." as she squished her way through the final passage into the world amid cheering crowds throwing confetti and streamers. While there wasn't nearly as much fanfare as expected, she was squished out.

There was a final push, a few inaudible mutterings of the physician and nurses and all of a sudden, what looked like a large, boiled, white haggis or bratwurst was flopped up on top of a hospital gown. When she began squirming I realized the doctor would not be slathering her with barbecue sauce and that we were dealing with parenthood instead of a picnic.

The hospital was a 5-hour drive from home. Since Elle was so tiny, I worried somewhat that I would lose her in the padding of the car seat. See, there is something quite magical that happens to you when you become a parent. You go insane. You become acutely aware of any and everything that poses even a modicum of risk to the wellbeing of your sausage.

Every bump in the road seemed twice as bumpy. Everybody was driving at ridiculous speeds. Birds were flying too close to the car (you know 100 ft. up or so). The sun was shining too brightly, and the Spousal Unit, who was driving, couldn't have paid close enough attention if his nose was scraping the pavement.

On occasion, the anxiety-inducing state of parenthood would overcome me. I'd become near frantic, fearful that the car seat would give her drain bamage. Thankfully, it didn't. No, Elle was fine. She woke up once during the trip home for a bottle, but was otherwise survived the trip in good humor. I thought I would collapse at home after the harrowing ordeal, but Elle had other plans.

The first night home was no less daunting. At one point, I held her while she slept and just flat out WEPT like I had a menstrual cycle at her stunning beauty. I kissed her forehead and my tears landed on her cheek. I kissed her hand, her tummy, and then her toes. It was that moment that she decided to fart in my face, as if to say with her tiny gluteus, "Cheer up, Daddy! We're home"! This is not surprising as we tend to do a lot of communication through flatulence in this house. Who knew she would be born a master of the musty Morse Code?!

Since then, we've adapted quite well. Many nights she'll sleep 5-6 hours at a time. She smiles a lot, but it is hard to tell if she smiled because she heard our voice, because she had a funny thought, or something tickled her little hiney. It's hard to tell much about her personality yet as she mostly eats, sleeps, poops, and pees.

Having consumed much of the established and vetted neuroscience regarding baby development, we've done our best to provide lots of face-time with her. We speak in parentese, which is characterized by drawn out vowel sounds and a pitch that requires a grown man to draw his testes up to his pelvis. She seems to respond to these and other efforts inquisitively. In fact, if I had to describe what I know of her personality so far in one word, I would say "curious".


When she's not sleeping or eating, she is studying. Intently. Her color-changing mysterious eyes become fixed and her brow furrows slightly while her head tilts to the side. Her little brain is mapping and memorizing the world around her. She has already learned the word hungry. She can't say it, but if asked (in parentese), "are you hungry", she hones directly in on the speaker stops crying and opens her eyes wide with a look on her face like someone just opened the arc of the covenant.

John Medina proposes five ingredients of intelligence in his book "Brain Rules for Baby". These include: self-control, inquisitiveness, creativity, verbal and nonverbal communication. I worry that self-control will be her challenge because it is the biggest challenge for her birth-mother, and there are times when she already has the bottle in her mouth and yet she uses her little hands as if she's trying to grab and pull the whole bottle into her throat. As with most things, I'm probably over-thinking it.

We've been swimming in the bath tub, toured her new house, and spent hours just gazing at each other, nibbling on her tummy and toes, giving her baby facials, back rubs and foot massage. We sing to her, tell her she's pretty everyday, and read stories together. Luca (the pup) and Kisho (the puss) both love her too. Luca seems watchful and protective, while Kisho likes to lay next to her.

Like a new issuance of common stock is to the assets of a publically traded firm, our love has been divided, but each piece is bigger than before making us all one big happy pie-chart.

The Bad

On a more serious note, Elle was born at least a month prematurely. The OB induced at a presumed 36 weeks because the mother had cholestasis of pregnancy, a fairly uncommon and largely benign complication affecting approximately 1 in 1000 women. The cause isn't really known and, assuming both mother and child are treated with medication throughout the pregnancy, there are no lasting effects after delivery. The caveat is that most babies born will need to be delivered by 38 weeks gestation as the risk of still-birth increases exponentially for these babies beyond that.

Both the routine OB and a High-risk OB were monitoring Elle three times a week for any signs indicating it was time to deliver. Despite the physicians' warnings about the serious risks of pulmonary and cardiac complications resulting from delivering unnecessarily, the birth-parents insisted.

As a result, Elle was unable to breathe when she was born. They rushed her immediately to the NICU where they worked fervently to save her life. After a couple of hours, one physician came to tell us that they feared bilateral bronchial dysplasia and pulmonary hypertension (PH). She said that babies with PH are usually very sick babies that don't do very well, and that the next several hours were very critical.

When we were finally allowed to see her briefly, we returned first to the maternity wing to see if the birth-mother wanted to come down with us. She laughed and said she hadn't had anything to eat since the day before and since the cafeteria was closing she thought it was more important that she get something to eat. So we went without her to see our baby with machines doing the work her body should be doing and tubes coming out everywhere. It was the hardest thing of my life.

Eventually, we had to return to our hotel not knowing if she would live the night. She did. She's strong.

Over the next 18 days, we watched her improve day by day. She grew stronger and stronger as she got closer to her due date. PH was eventually ruled out, along with every other major problem or disease. Obviously, we did not anticipate spending 18 days away from home in a hotel 5 hours away. We never anticipated how hard it would be to watch our child suffer. I can honestly say that had it not been for each other, the grannies, the NICU staff, and money, we couldn't have made it.

One day, in the wee hours of the morning, I sat awake in our hotel room, with my mind still in the NICU. And although I probably haven't written poetry since I was a confused teenager romanced by Poe and all things bleak, I wrote the following poem for Elle. It seems to sum up the experience well:

"Heroine" - Byron

 

Laying here apart from you another winters night,
Feigning sleep I dream your monsters are my battles to fight.
You are my heroine.
Your breath is quick, tugging against the stringent air,
And while I wish it was my burden to bear,
You are my heroine.
Your never-ending day under burn of artificial sun,
Must incite your appetite for night, my little one.
But you do not cry, you are my heroine.
What... is touch? What is dry? Who are they? Who am I, to you with the flashing dark eyes?
I fear you are afraid.

I'd die with courage to be your strength and leave the war behind,
I wish I could be your hero, little girl, but as it happens, you are mine.

 

 

The Ugly

 

Our experience will probably be different from most, but the story, the truth, is worth telling. I wish I could say that our adoption went smoothly like those you see on popular television programs like "I'm Having Their Baby", but it didn't. It was nothing like that.

 

Our match seemed fairly innocuous, but it wasn't long before a trend emerged. The birth-mother would call almost daily with some sort of crisis. Usually, it was a knock-down drag-out fight between her and the birth-father. I'd fall back on my leadership training and encourage self-reflection through rephrasing, validation, and empathy, but for some reason that never seemed to be enough. It wasn't long before we realized something was seriously wrong.

 

The first time we met was full of its own positives, but there was also the darker side. On numerous occasions the birth-mother would have tantrums. She'd scream obscenities, throw things, slam doors etc. On one occasion, we allowed them to stay in our guest room while they were visiting Fort Worth. In hindsight, this was a mistake. We'd been to Wal-Mart because she was shopping for a new prepaid phone. When they didn't have the one she wanted, she began to get visibly upset.

 

When the birth-dad tried to calm her down she blew up in front of god and everyone yelling "fuck this" and "screw that". When we returned to the house she ran down the hallway to the guest room, threw herself on the floor with her head in the corner and sobbed dramatically screaming like a kid throwing a fit. The next morning, another display because breakfast wasn't ready for her when she awoke and she didn't want to have to ask.

 

For labor day, we met them on the River Walk in San Antonio. Of the several tantrums she threw while there, one was particularly memorable. She was ready to eat. Being a holiday, everything on the River Walk had at least an hour wait. She didn't want to wait an hour, so we suggested getting off the River Walk and heading to the outskirts of town, but she wanted to eat on the River Walk. Since no one was able to reconcile her desires with reality, she began screaming amid the sardine cans of people travelling up and down the sidewalks.

 

Eventually she worked herself into such a state that she threw herself down on the concrete, cast out the entire contents of her purse while literally screaming, "F--K YOU, TOM, F--K YOU" (name of the birth-dad changed for privacy of course)!

 

Although the vast majority of our experience of these tantrums occurred by phone rather than in person, they occurred over the entire 6 months at least weekly. They pale in comparison, however, to her attempts at manipulating the men around her, namely, the Spousal Unit, myself, and the birth-dad.

 

Frequently she would have separate conversations with which she later tried to use to pit people against one another. She told such fantastic versions of the truth so often that she couldn't keep track of what she'd said, and worse, appeared unconcerned by anything she'd ever said prior to the present moment's lie. She used the pregnancy and the adoption as a source of power over the people in her life, and an excuse for everything she didn't want to deal with, like vacuuming, dishes, laundry or bathing. However, despite being utterly crippled by her pregnancy Monday through Friday, she usually made miraculous recoveries just in time for any sort of recreational activity.

 

She would call us after her doctor appointments to tell us that something was horribly wrong, but would then refuse to tell us what or to allow us to speak with the doctor. She'd cite such reasons as, "No, they won't let you speak with the doctor because I'm too far along and it is against their policy. Trust me, I've spoken to the head of Medicaid and it's some new law because of Obama."

 

At one point, when she slapped her stomach and shouted, "STOP IT YOU F---ING IGNORANT IDIOT", I mistook her message as being meant for me. When I questioned, she said, "No, not you. I was talking to Elizabeth. She won't quit moving in there!"

 

Eventually we questioned whether it was a good idea to continue with the adoption. We worried about what effect the birth-mom's genetic material would have on our daughter and dove head-long into extensive research on the subject. During that time, the cholestasis was diagnosed which became a new subject of study. Interestingly, one of the more rare effects of the complication is temporary psychosis in the mother.

 

AH HA! We thought surely that was the problem, but unfortunately, it wasn't. After Elle was born we took the birth-mom to the mall to pick out Elle's going-home outfit at the Baby Gap. We thought it would provide her with some emotional comfort and closure. While browsing the shelves, she suddenly screamed out, "OH SHIT, I LOST MY WALLET!"

 

The theatrics that ensued thereafter dwarfed any prior. She stormed through the mall yelling at cashiers saying things like, "You don't understand! If I set my wallet down and some f--cking n-gg-r walked off with it, I'm going to be so pissed, I'm going to sue everyone!"

 

This went on for a couple of hours. Eventually she became tired and we left. These examples are but a few of the relentless behaviors we dealt with. Usually, we were quiet and just stood back observing in disbelief. I mean, what do you do? For Elle's sake, we kept quiet.

 

So fast forward. Drama, drama, drama, then, finally, all the papers are signed. We are home. At one point, she had called once and texted once, and because we hadn't responded in timely fashion (since we were at the doctors office), she left the following message:

 

 

Later, it was time to have our post-placement home study. We told the Social Worker about everything we'd experienced and about the fact that both the birth-mom, and the hospital Social Worker (with birth-mom's permission and in her presence) told us that Child Protective Services had removed children from her before and terminated her parental rights to her two previous children forever.

 

In response to this, the Social Worker recommended in the verbiage of the home study and to us, that if we decided to allow visitation, it should be outside of the home in a neutral location and always with our supervision. She has called each week wanting to come and spend several nights in our home. We've explained politely, that we are not open to that, much less anything other than sleeping a few hours at a time and tending Elle's needs 24 hours a day. When she persisted,  I came right out and told her that we would not be comfortable having her stay over night and that when we feel ready we might be able to meet up somewhere, but that she would need to stay in a hotel.

 

Well of course she didn't like that answer and began screaming over the phone because the Social Worker was a "lying bitch for saying I can't ever visit her". I reiterated that no one said she'd never be able to visit her, but rather that we weren't open to it right now (we can barely hold our eyes open), and that when we deem visits appropriate, it would be outside of our home.

 

She then began threatening me. She said, that if we didn't let her in within three months, she and her lawyer would be taking us to court. At that point, I hung up the phone. Rarely do I assert what I have a "right" to, but in this instance I felt comfortable exercising my right not to be yelled at or threatened. I unfriended her on facebook. If it was her intent to take us to court, then she can communicate with our lawyer.

Shortly thereafter, she called back and left the following message:

Suffice it to say, we feel obligated to protect our daughter from exposure to people who behave the way her birth-mom has. Right now we've chosen to ignore the situation and focus on the incredible blessing that has become part of our life. We will always honor and respect the birth-mom's choice to place Elle with us for adoption. We can feel for and empathize with her struggles and the difficult emotions she deals with. We will always appreciate and care for her for that if nothing else, but we will not expose ourselves or our daughter to that.

Hopefully, she will get some assistance. Hopefully, she'll discover what it takes to make her life better once and for all. Hopefully she will find peace and happiness, but helping her achieve happiness and balance is beyond the scope of our abilities and know-how. It is regrettable.

In the meantime, we're living in the good and learning to be Daddy and Papa to one beautiful, special, little princess, and standing in her amazing glow, nothing else matters but her. Now and forevermore.