The Lucky Few

by Heather Avis

  “I’m so nervous,” Sami blurted out.

  Her honesty calmed my nerves a bit. “Me too!” I shared.

  We stood there awkwardly for what felt like an eternity.

  “We should go inside,” she said. “It’s a bit of a trek to the section of the hospital where the echos are done.”

  I followed Sami through the automatic sliding doors. As we zigzagged through hallways, climbed stairs, and rode elevators, the moments of silence were plentiful.

  Sami was tall, like me. She had blonde hair and striking blue eyes. She was slender, except for her bulging belly. And she was an introvert.

  As we made our way through the hospital and to the waiting area, I reminded myself that her quiet and shy demeanor was not a reflection of her bravery. The extrovert in me had at least one million things to talk about. I wanted to know how she was feeling and every detail of the pregnancy so far. I wanted to know the ins and outs of her decision-making process. I wanted her to pour out her heart to me and for us to hold one another and cry and become lifelong friends. I wanted to touch her belly and feel the baby move. But I followed her lead and kept it all to myself.

  We arrived at the waiting area, a small square room with rows of colorful chairs. I sat down as Sami checked in. She joined me and began to fill out forms on a clipboard. We sat there in a deafening quiet.

  “So you have two older kids?” I asked questions I already knew the answers to as a way to break the silence trying to suffocate me.

  “Yes.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Eight and twelve.”

  Awkward silence. I just couldn’t stand it.

  “And what about this baby’s birth father? Are you comfortable with telling me more about him?”

  She shrugged. “We’ve been dating for a while. But when he found out the baby has a heart defect, it was too much for him. He decided he wasn’t going to parent even before the Down syndrome diagnosis.” The quiver in her voice and pain in her eyes told me not to push more on the subject.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Sami. So, how have you been feeling? I mean physically?”

  “I’m feeling okay.”

  Silence. I gave up. I thought about my desire for her to open up to me and remembered that we were not there as friends. We sat together as something so much more. Mothers. Mothers who love the same baby. Mothers willing to sacrifice everything for an unborn child. Mothers with very different roles.

  I sat in that waiting room with my hands folded tightly on my lap because I did not trust them to stay away from Sami’s belly. Yet I knew I needed to keep my hands to myself. I needed to respect her role as this baby’s mother right now. I needed to wait my turn, for it would last a lifetime. She would have the sole title of mother for these short nine months. This day, the day when I would get to hear my unborn baby’s heartbeat, was not about me at all. So while we waited and I held my hands on my lap, I opened my clenched fists as a way of remembering to let go of my need to control this situation.

  A technician came in. “Sami?”

  We both stood up and followed him to a dimly lit room. In the middle of the room was an exam table lined with white paper. Next to it was the same kind of machine used to show us pictures of Macyn’s heart. Next to the big machine were two small black chairs. I set my purse on one and sat in the other, as close as I could get to the screen that would be displaying the images of my son’s broken heart.

  Sami excused herself to use the restroom. As I settled in, the technician asked, “So are you family or a friend?”

  This one innocent question was almost too complicated to answer.

  I never thought to ask Sami if this adoption was public knowledge. I sat there looking at the technician, unsure if it was my place to answer such an innocent question.

  We looked at each other for a few awkward moments before I answered, “Both I guess. I actually just met Sami today because I’m going to be adopting her baby.”

  The technician’s stunned silence was enough to communicate how out of left field my answer was. As we continued with the day’s theme of awkward silence, Sami came back in the room, and I blurted out, “I told him I’m adopting your baby. I hope that’s okay.”

  She gave a small smile. “Oh, of course.” Then she lay on the paper-lined bed and lifted her sweater to reveal her belly.

  Hearing and seeing my son’s heartbeat was a beautiful experience. For more than an hour, I sat and watched this tiny heart beating while the technician took hundreds of pictures for the cardiologist. When he had gathered all the images he needed, we waited, in silence, for the cardiologist to come in and go over the findings with us.

  There was a light knock on the door, and he walked in, head down, studying the results of the echo.

  “Sami. It is good to see you again.” He looked up. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m feeling okay.”

  “The results are the same, which is to be expected.” He glanced at me and then back at Sami. “But it does not mean the baby has Down syndrome.”

  “He does,” she answered plainly. “I had the blood test done, and it came back positive.”

  “Oh, I see.” The cardiologist looked back and forth between us.

  I simply smiled at him, silently praying that Sami would take the reins and introduce me.

  “I’m choosing an adoption plan.” Sami motioned toward me. “This is Heather. She’s going to be adopting the baby.”

  “Hi.” I gave a little wave.

  “Oh, hi. It’s nice to meet you. Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Yes.” I pulled out a notebook I’d become accustomed to bringing with me to appointments. “I have quite a few, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course.” The cardiologist sat in the chair next to mine.

  I opened the notebook and began to go through my dozen or so questions. The cardiologist answered each one in frank detail as I diligently took notes. I got to the end of my list knowing one fact clearly: this baby had a serious heart defect that would require open-heart surgery at least.

  I closed my notebook, and we all sat there for a minute in the heaviness of the situation. Then the cardiologist looked at Sami and with grand hope declared, “I do believe you could not have found a more wonderful mother for your son.”

  Sami and I looked at one another and smiled.

  The words offered so much more than I’m sure he intended. As we walked this adoption path together, both Sami and I knew that every word of affirmation along the way was pure gold.

  I tucked my notebook into my purse, gave Sami a big squeeze, and left the hospital. As my wheels hit the freeway, I had an overwhelming urge to throw up. Meeting Sami and talking to the doctor left me with a heavy load of fear and anxiety. I spent the next couple of hours in the car, trying to wrap my head around it all.

  I felt like a crazy person. Crazy for feeling so much fear and anxiety. Crazy for saying yes to this adoption. Crazy for feeling so nauseated all the time. It was as if with each adoption, I was having my own unique kind of morning sickness! I was overwhelmed with the need to make it all go away. I wanted to call Sami and tell her it was too much for me. I wanted to wake up tomorrow with my two beautiful daughters and make breakfast, and do dishes and sit comfortably in the world I knew so well.

  I sat in traffic on my way to see my friends for the women’s retreat sobbing and trying to catch my breath. There I was again, flailing around and trying to grab hold of something—anything that would tell me for sure that this baby would be okay. While I groped around for some kind of control, God slapped me in the face with a flood of memories about Macyn.

  I started thinking back to when we said yes to adopting Macyn. I remembered that it was this same month, five years ago. I remembered having a similar conversation with a cardiologist. I remembered feeling as though I was going to puke all the time from nerves and anxiety. As I sobbed in my car, I remembered clearly what it was like to walk in faith during that se
ason. I remembered knowing God in a way I never had before. I remembered his favor being poured out on me in ways I could never have imagined. I remembered the joy and peace he lavished on me as I stepped into her adoption. And when I looked back, searching for it, I couldn’t even find a glimpse of tragedy, because it had been covered and enveloped by beauty.

  Then I heard God say again to me, “Don’t forget who I am. I’ve got this. This is what I do. Now you do what I’ve designed you to do.”

  Two hours later, I pulled up to the hotel where the women’s retreat was being held. I drove past the entrance and saw my friends Erika and Laura waiting for me by the automatic door. I got out of the car and stepped into the chilly night air, pulling my coat tighter around my body.

  Laura and Erika are two of the women in my village. I had known them during the months leading up to our bringing Macyn home. They sat with me in hospital rooms, praying over my fragile daughter and bringing me coffee and no-bake cookies to help keep me awake through the nights. They showed up at my house on December 15, 2008, the day we took Macyn off her oxygen, and jumped and screamed and shouted and praised God with us over the work of his hands and the healing of our daughter. They were the first friends to get a text message with that first photo of our Truly Star, and once she came home, they were the people who brought me trays of homemade lasagna and big pots of creamy soup.

  As soon as I learned about the life growing in Sami’s womb, they were among the first ones I called to share the news of the opportunity at hand. They had been with me, both spiritually and literally, every step of the way.

  My friends had big, goofy smiles on their faces, excited to hear about how the appointment went.

  “Soooo?” they asked simultaneously, as though they had practiced. Their eyes were full of buckets of hope. As soon as our eyes met, buckets of tears began to fill mine. I fell into their arms and sobbed.

  “Oh no.” Laura looked at Erika. “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I mean everything happened.” I stood up straight. “I don’t know!” I put my head in my hands and continued to sob.

  Erika and Laura put their arms around me.

  “This is too hard,” I managed to say as I gulped air between sobs. “I wish it would all just go away.”

  “Did something go wrong? Is the baby okay?” Erika inquired.

  “It was fine. Sami was sweet and generous. The baby’s heart is not good, but it’s exactly what I expected. But I think I’m crazy for doing this. Who does this? Am I crazy?” I looked at Erika with pleading eyes, praying she held the answers I sought. Erika and her husband had four adopted children under the age of five. I had been with them for each and every one.

  “Of course you’re crazy.” Erika smiled at me. “But it’s the best kind of crazy!” Laura nodded in agreement.

  “Why do I feel like this? Why am I more terrified about bringing this baby home than I am excited?” I sniffed. “Does that mean I should say no?”

  “Well, I don’t think you should say no just because you feel scared,” Erika said.

  “I agree,” Laura chimed in. “Heather, adopting another child with Down syndrome is a big deal, and adopting a child with a heart defect is a big deal. I think feeling terrified is a normal feeling.”

  “Really?” That word normal brought me so much peace. I let the encouragement from my friends sink in.

  “So you don’t think I should say no?” I asked again, half hoping they’d tell me I should, half hoping they’d tell me I shouldn’t.

  “No!” they said at the exact same time. They put their arms around me again. “You should adopt this baby.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay then.” And the three of us walked through the sliding doors and joined the rest of the women.

  I’m so thankful for the timing of the retreat. I believe it was not a coincidence that I got to spend three days away from my hectic life at home in the midst of a difficult decision. These days were full of prayer and reflection and lots of life-giving conversations with women I love and respect. It was exactly what I needed, at exactly the right time.

  When I got home from the retreat, Josh and I set aside some rare alone time to talk about the heavy doubts I had after meeting Sami and talking with the cardiologist. He already knew how terrified I felt.

  “If you think so strongly that we’re supposed to adopt this baby, why am I so doubtful?” I sat on one end of our white couch and tucked my legs up under me.

  “We’ve been parents of a child with Down syndrome for five years. We’ve walked in the valley of the shadow of death as our sweet baby girl underwent a lifesaving open-heart surgery. We came out on the other side, with Macyn alive and well. We’ve watched and cheered as our almost three-year-old took her first step. We’ve spent the past five years knowing that what God has given us in Macyn is nothing less than a gift, and only the lucky few receive it.” I nodded, tears in my eyes, as Josh continued. “I believe that for this baby. You can’t let your feelings get in the way of the truth of God’s goodness.”

  This was exactly what I needed to hear. I kept nodding, speechless.

  Josh scooted closer to me and wrapped his arms around me.

  “God’s got this, babe.”

  “God’s got this.”

  My time at the retreat and my conversation with Josh were pivotal in how I continued to take steps toward our son’s adoption. Neither occurrence erased all of the fears I had, mostly fears of the unknown attached to this baby, but both became strong pillars of sorts. Assurance I could lean on when my knees went weak.

  Honestly, during those two months, I felt doubtful more often than I felt confident. I seemed to have some sort of amnesia triggered by the potential difficulties of the whole situation. Day after day, I kept forgetting all that God had done. I had trouble remembering his calling over my life. Yet by his good, good, good grace, he continued to whisper into the dark corners of my heart: “Don’t forget who I am. I’ve got this. This is what I do. Now you do what I’ve designed you to do.”

  11

  Joy and Heartbreak

  Wake up.” Josh was gently pushing on my shoulder. “Babe, you need to wake up.”

  “What time is it?” I asked as I slowly opened my eyes and rolled over to look at Josh, who was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “It’s seven,” he said with a big, goofy grin. “He was born. August was born.”

  I jolted up in bed. “Are you kidding? You’re kidding. Tell me the truth.”

  “Heather, I wouldn’t joke about this.” Josh laughed. “August was born at two thirty this morning. No induction needed. There were a bunch of texts and missed calls on your phone.”

  “My phone was on silent?” I grabbed it out of Josh’s hands. “Is he okay? We need to go. I need him. Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine.” Josh gave me a reassuring squeeze. “He’s perfect.”

  “What did she say?” I began to read the text messages from Sami’s sister Lucy, announcing my son’s entrance into the world.

  “He’s here!” I shouted.

  “He’s here!” Josh echoed.

  I am a bit of a birth junkie. I love all things birth. I attribute this to being raised by a mother who went drug-free through three labors that each lasted more than twenty-four hours. She believes words such as epidural and Pitocin are worse than the F-word. My parents were Bradley Method birth instructors, and my childhood is sprinkled with memories of our living room full of dads holding on to their wives’ bulging bellies. The “hee whooo” of their breathing exercises often lulled me to sleep. And if you’ve been to my childhood home more than a few times, then my mom has asked you if you’d like to see Hana’s birth video.

  I will never forget feeding my sister Harmony ice chips, holding her leg and weeping as she suffered the inevitable pain of childbirth. Then I shed tears of celebration as my nephew, and later my niece, took first breaths and uttered first cries. There is simply nothing like it in the world.

&n
bsp; Truth be told, if you are pregnant or hoping to become pregnant, I’ll try to chat with you about your ovulation cycle, your birth plan, the baby’s name, and whether there is room for me in the hospital room. (I’m an excellent leg holder and ice-chip feeder.) I may ask all of this before I even know your name. I also recognize that my hope to one day deliver a baby on a plane, on a train, or on the middle of a busy sidewalk is, in fact, something every pregnant woman would like to avoid.

  There is just something spectacular about a human growing another human.

  Toward the beginning of my journey as a mother, my love of this creation miracle only increased the pain of my infertility. It was fuel on my fire. But the thing about fire is that it has the power and ability to burn away impurities, leaving us more refined. For me, this purification began with mourning the loss of my body’s ability to create new life. I also had to release an unhealthy jealousy of those who get to partake in the miracle. As the refining process burned up that jealousy, I found myself walking out of the fire with utter gratefulness for my perky boobs and stretch-mark-free midsection. Now that I find myself on the other side of the fire, my prayer involves a slight plea that I will never experience pregnancy. If Josh and I choose to continue to grow our family, my hope is that it will only be through adoption. Please, dear Jesus, not in my body. This is not vanity talking, but gratefulness—and an awareness that God has completely healed me. My desire to have a baby naturally holds no power over me any longer.

  Still, even refined, I will always wish I could have been present on the days my girls were born. Adoption creates longing within every person involved. For me, the longing to be my children’s mother from their first breath, to be the one whose heartbeat offered instant comfort in the strange world outside of the womb, will forever go unfilled. Yet when I held my girls at night as they peacefully slept in my arms, by God’s grace this action alone would melt away my sorrow over all that I had missed.

  When Sami entered my life and I learned she was still pregnant, I thought, This is my chance, and I prayed she would invite me to be at the birth. I wanted to catch the baby and hold his slippery, swollen, perfect little body in my arms. Maybe, when his eyes opened that first time for one brief second to take in the new world around him, I would be the first blurry face he would see.