ADOPTION DOSSIER CHECKLIST read the header on the document. Below that followed a lengthy list of documents that would be required to process our international adoption application.
- Original Birth Certificate-Parent 1
- Original Birth Certificate-Parent 2
- Original Marriage Certificate
- Original Divorce Decrees/Death Cert, if applicable
A little girl in a bright pink swimsuit splashes in the water in front of me. She looks to be about five years old - the same age as my daughter - if she were alive. My daughter played in this pool too. I had stuffed her steroid-injected sausage-legs into the holes of a baby float.
Two little letters are all that separate have from had but it is so easy to get lost in the distance between them.
Are you breathing? Is your heart beating? Are you conscious and answering my questions? Well, then you’re probably ok.
This is basically of how I parented Jackson while Adelaide was alive.… By no means was he neglected - but the mental load scales definitely tilted toward Adelaide. How could they not? The thing is that my parental concern barometer doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to resettle.
First of all, we are still trying to tie our feet to the ground following your response to our adoption announcement. Thank you. You all sure know how to make a family feel supported and loved… and thank goodness because we have a long way to go.
On another note, I am still wrapping my head around the fact that we could be a physical family of five less than one year from now…
Miguel will tell you that it took us more time to choose the tile for our new master bathroom than it did to decide to move forward with adoption. But that’s not entirely true. If you’ve been following our family’s journey for awhile now you know that adding to our family has been a discussion in the background for years - long before Adelaide left us. I spent the last year trying to convince myself that our physical family of three was enough - but we all knew something was missing; and not just Adelaide.
“Did you fast before coming in today?” The phlebotomist asked.
“No, but I’m not getting a CMP so it should be fine.”
I felt a small rush as words came out of my mouth that I hadn’t uttered in over a year.
Learning this language and using it to care for and advocate for Adelaide, was one of my favorite parts of my job - and then I was forced into retirement.
“Do you have a disability placard for your car yet?” Adelaide’s neuro-muscular specialist asked.
My breath caught in my throat. I looked away.
“No, but…” I trailed off as I realized she hadn’t asked me if we needed it or if we qualified for one.
Recent efforts to normalize mental health and depression created the now popular phrase ‘its ok to not be ok’. This is a completely valid and important sentiment and one I’ve clung to as I’ve navigated life in recent years - especially during Adelaide’s life. Then, last week, I came across an Instagram post by psychotherapist, Seerut K. Chawla, in which she said, “it’s ok to be ok.” These five small words, eleven letters, hit me with the force of a wild pitch.
“Our new neighbors are moving in today.” Miguel announced.
“Do they have any kids?” Jackson asked.
“An 8-month-old and a two-year-old.”
“I love babies!”
Jackson has made no secret of his desire to add to our family and it is devastating as his mother, as the child-bearing family member, that I cannot in any simple way give him the one thing he wants more than anything in the world: a sibling.
This community is brave and strong, resilient and supportive. But the truths we face, the very ones that bind us together, can also be the ones that shatter us over and over again.
I’m at a loss. What in the world is there to say when we are being berated with incessant mass shootings, persistent murders of innocent black people, and disquieting displays of Asian hate - all amidst a pandemic that has taken more than half a million lives and counting. If we want to see lasting change we must continue to take uncomfortable steps outside of our regular life all while abandoning our tolerance.
On Sunday I turn 39. My 38th turn around the sun was a year of grieving, healing snd shifting. The once frenetic pace with which I had lived my entire life - seriously, there was a time where if my calendar wasn’t filled from dawn to dusk I felt wasteful - crawled to a sluggish stop. At first I thought being forced to grieve during a pandemic was the next cruel phase of my trauma. But now I’m able to see it as some sort of bizarre white elephant gift that has proven surprisingly quite useful.
