by Heather Avis
But she didn’t invite me, and I never asked. We were strangers after all, and her support system was mighty. She did not need me to be my son’s first mother. I imagine she needed that for herself. I imagine she needed him to know that her love for him was fierce and endless. He could soak it in as he sat, slippery and swollen, on her chest, listening to the heartbeat of that love. I imagine she prayed that the love she could offer him during those first moments of his life would seep deep into his veins, saturating every cell in his body so she would forever be a part of him.
I read and reread the text from Sami’s sister. I quickly texted Lucy, letting her know my phone had been in silent mode. I asked her what Sami wanted us to do. As I waited for her reply, I grabbed a suitcase and starting throwing clothes into it. I hoped to get in the car as soon as possible and head to the hospital, which was two hours away.
My phone dinged.
Lucy: I’m not sure what Sami wants just yet. She hasn’t really said. But he’s perfect, Heather. Do you want me to send a picture of him, or do you want to wait and see him yourself?
Me: A picture please! I don’t think I can wait any longer.
Then my phone gave another ding, and there he was, August Ryker, my majestic and vulnerable son. I gasped at his perfection. He was more adorable than I could have dreamed up. He had a head full of hair, and it was spiked into a perfect little mohawk. His almond-shaped eyes, turned-down mouth, and button nose were those of a child with Down syndrome, no doubt. He was wrapped in a muslin blanket the color of the sea and sky. I later found out Sami had lovingly made it for him. I held my phone, staring at this perfect human, God’s intention, and laughed and cried and shouted right there in my bedroom, “Thank you, Jesus, for the gift of this child. Thank you, Jesus, for my son.”
We finally got the thumbs-up from Lucy to head to the hospital. We dropped off the girls at my dad’s office, the same office where we had prayed about adopting Macyn. My dad, “the crier” as he’s known, could hardly speak, he was so choked up. We pulled out of the parking lot waving to Macyn and Truly, who were each holding one of his hands.
We arrived in the late afternoon, and my arms were beginning to feel the void. I texted Lucy to let her know we were there. She told us to make our way to the sixth floor and gave us the room number.
It was a beautiful Southern California December day. The sun was shining with just the right amount of chill in the air. Josh and I parked our car on the third level of the hospital’s parking garage and made our way hand in hand down the steps. We approached the sliding glass doors of the entrance, and they opened as though to usher us into a magical land. I squeezed Josh’s hand, and we walked in.
We found Sami’s room and gently knocked on the door. The door opened, and Josh and I were greeted by a warm smile and kind blue eyes. “Hi, I’m Tandy, Sami’s mom. So good to finally meet you both.” Tandy was as tall as I am, with blonde hair and a warmth that instantly eased the tension that might have been present in such a situation.
“Congratulations, Grandma,” Josh replied as he wrapped his arms around her and gave her a big hug.
I too found myself in her embrace. Then she said, “Come in and meet your son.”
We walked around the privacy curtain hanging from the ceiling. My eyes scanned the room and fell on the tiny, perfect human wrapped in his blue muslin blanket, cradled in Sami’s arms. I wanted to hurry over to him, scoop him up, and kiss him a thousand times. I wanted him on my chest, hearing and feeling the heartbeat of my love. I wanted to spend the next hours, days, lifetime, looking at his face and whispering in his ear, “Hey, sweet guy, it’s your mama. I love you so.”
But this was not our room, and on this day, I was not his only mama. We walked through the doors as guests in our own story. So I controlled my urge to grab him, and instead I made my way to the hospital bed and wrapped my arms tightly around Sami.
“I was doing so well, but now I’m going to cry,” she said as we held on to each other. Both of us shed tears.
“You doing okay?” I asked her as we loosened our embrace and I sat back a bit to look her in the eyes. She nodded and then looked down at the baby in her arms. I followed her gaze and exhaled a bit. “Oh Sami, he’s beyond perfect. I can’t believe he’s here.”
“Wanna hold him?” she asked.
“Yes!” I nearly shouted. “Let me wash my hands.” I stood to walk to the bathroom, which was no more than three feet from the foot of Sami’s bed. The whole room was a small square, no more than ten feet by ten feet. The bed took up most of the room. To the right of her bed was a bassinet for August. A large window overlooked the freeway, and under the window was a padded bench that could be folded down into a small bed. Sitting on the bench were Sami’s two sisters and her daughter.
Josh had been chatting with the sisters, Lucy and Brittany, while Sami and I cried in each other’s arms. Before I made my way to the bathroom, I stopped to give each of them a hug. They shared their mother’s blonde hair and kind blue eyes.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you both,” I said. Then I sat on the bench next to Sami’s daughter, Joy, and put my arm around her. “Congratulations, big sister. What do you think of your baby brother?”
“He’s cute,” she sweetly replied.
As Josh and I washed our hands, Tandy pulled up two chairs near the foot of the bed, and when I walked out of the bathroom, she handed me my son. As soon as I felt his tiny body in my arms, my whole being flooded with adoration and love. My son! He was the definition of perfection. I’m sure every mother has ideas and visions of what their unborn child will look like. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew no image had ever entered my mind that was as beautiful as the baby in my arms was.
As I stared at the features on his perfectly formed face, I thought about the previous weeks and how terrified I was of the idea of him. As I held him close and felt his heartbeat next to mine, every fear I had seemed to melt away. I knew the tiny heart was sick and fragile, and the baby in my arms had an extra chromosome, but I could not remember what I had been so afraid of. The baby in my arms was a dreamboat. As I inhaled the scent of him, I could hardly believe my luck.
Josh and I knew our place that day in that room. The situation at hand was unique, and the complex emotions that were present touched each of us in different and at times confusing ways. There, in this tiny hospital room, resided two adoring aunties, a grinning grandma, a proud big sister, a brave and selfless birth mom, excited adoptive parents, and the one who brought us together—this perfect little boy, August Ryker.
We spent the rest of that evening taking turns holding him. Commenting on his amazing hair and perfect complexion. Oohing and aahing over every lovely finger and wrinkle. We talked and told stories and got to know one another. We tiptoed around a bit, knowing how delicate the situation was, how many full hearts were involved. We respected each other and formed an instant love for each other.
I often found myself staring at Sami and wishing I could read her mind. Sitting in a hospital room with a birth mother and her family is an uncomfortable situation for any adoptive parent. But I knew my discomfort would be temporary. I knew if all went well the next day, Sami would be discharged, and I would be able to step fully into my role as mother.
The sky turned dark, and people began to yawn, so around nine o’clock, we felt it was time for us to leave. Everyone was ready for some much-needed sleep.
I didn’t want to leave my son in that room. I wanted to be with him during his first night of life. I wanted to cuddle him and smell him, wrap his tiny fingers around mine. I wanted to sing him soft lullabies. When he would wake up, hungry and afraid in this new world, I wanted to be the one to comfort him. I wanted the sound of my heartbeat and the smell of my skin to be the very things to ease the cries and soften the fears. But I looked at Sami holding him and knew she wanted all those things as well. And this was the only night she would have them.
Josh seemed to sense my reticence, the physical
pain I felt in my heart. He grabbed my hand and held on tight as we made our way down the elevator, through the sliding glass doors, and into the cold night air.
I woke up early after a restless night. I didn’t mind the lack of sleep, for every minute I was awake I had been thinking about August, and when I did drift off, he met me in my dreams.
I sat up in the hotel bed at the first sign of light. Beyond the window, another beautiful day began to unfold. Yet as the sun began to rise and the world stretched out to receive its warmth, a strange fog consumed me. It wasn’t thick enough to block out the sun, just thick enough to make me aware of its gloom. I didn’t try to ignore it, nor did I try to pray it away. It was an appropriate fog, and wise in its timing.
This was the day on which birth mom, sister, aunts, and grandma would say good-bye to the baby they loved. So while I could hardly stand being away from my son for one more second, I embraced this fog and let it wrap itself around me, because, really, what else was I to do?
Josh and I spent the morning in our hotel room waiting for Lucy to let us know it was okay to come back to the hospital. While Josh went to get us Americanos with an extra shot of espresso, I called my parents and sisters to give them an update. I sent out mass text messages to the army of friends who had supported us and prayed us to this point.
The minutes on the clock passed slowly, and then around ten o’clock, my phone finally dinged with a message from Lucy, letting us know it was okay to come. She also told us the doctor had expressed concern that August was a little jaundiced, so a decision had been made to give him phototherapy. He would need to stay at the hospital for at least one more night.
We were so disappointed to learn this new bit of information. We had let all our family and friends know we would be coming home that day. On our way to the hospital, I called my mom.
“We won’t be coming home today after all.”
“What happened? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything is fine. He has some jaundice, so the doctors want to give him a day of light therapy. Are you and Dad okay with the girls for another night?”
“Of course!”
“I wish you guys could be here with us.” I was missing my girls and wanted them to meet their brother.
“Heather, we’re doing great. Don’t worry about us. Just do what you need to do and know that your girls are being taken care of.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Tears welled in my eyes. My lack of sleep and the emotional weight of the situation had finally made its way to the forefront of my mind. “I have to go. I’ll keep you posted, though. Thank you for loving my girls. Give them a huge kiss from me.”
“Of course, sweetheart. We are praying for all of you. I love you.”
“I love you too.” I hung up the phone just as Josh parked the car in the hospital parking lot.
As we went up to August’s room, the lingering fog that had wrapped itself around me that morning thickened. Yesterday had been full of celebration, laughter, and joy as we passed August around, taking turns holding him, feeding him, and changing his diaper. But today would be different.
When we opened the door of the hospital room, we were met by an obnoxious blue glow. August lay in his hospital bassinet under a giant blue light in nothing but a diaper. A mask covered his eyes. We politely greeted the aunties, grandma, Joy, and Sami, and then I noticed it: this blue light was laying claim to everyone in the room, as though its glow had the power to expose the many thoughts and emotions bouncing off the walls. We all stared at the baby under the light that illuminated all of our faces and revealed the weight of grief. By the end of the day, Sami would be discharged. Once again, I was slapped with the truth that my gain would be another’s loss.
We spent much of the day just looking at the precious masked baby. I wanted to hold him. My arms craved the six-pound eleven-ounce weight of his body. My lips craved the roundness of his cheeks. But that light owned him for most of the time. Once every two hours he could come out to eat and get a fresh diaper. We all watched the clock, and as soon as the two hours were up, Sami or one of her sisters would turn off the light, take off the mask, and scoop him up.
I so badly wanted to be the one to rescue him from the ugly lights, but it was not my turn yet. By day’s end, I would be the only mother in the room. For every ounce Sami fed him, I would get to feed him a thousand more. For every diaper she changed, I would get to change a thousand more. For every word of love she whispered in his ears, I would get to whisper a thousand more. So I sat in the discomfort of a mother who could do nothing more than observe her child. God gently reminded me that Sami would be an observing mother for the rest of her life. I could do it for that one day.
Around noon, I got word that a social worker from the adoption agency was on her way to the hospital. Sami would sign her relinquishment of rights today, but legally this couldn’t happen until she was discharged from the hospital.
As soon as the social worker walked into the blue-tinted room, I felt two simultaneous urges. I wanted to run out and avoid the pain those relinquishment papers would cause, and I wanted to jump in front of Sami, this new person whom I felt deep love for, and protect her from the unspeakable and inevitable pain of being severed from her child. Instead, I sat there waiting for someone to tell me what to do.
“Do you mind if I have some time alone with Sami?” She looked at each face in the room, gently asking us to leave.
“Of course not,” Josh said.
“How about lunch?” I offered. “Sami, can we bring you anything?”
“No, I’m good. Thank you.” There was sorrow in her voice.
“We’ll join you,” Sami’s sister Brittany said.
Sami looked at her sister Lucy. “Will you stay with me?”
“Of course.”
Josh, Brittany, Tandy, Joy, and I all headed to the hospital cafeteria.
Years ago, if I had found myself leaving my son and his birth mother behind so she could hold him in one hand and sign away her rights to him with the other—or change her mind and decide not to—I would have been a terrified wreck. I would have flailed around looking for something, anything, I could control. And I would have come up empty and exhausted. Yes, I felt extremely uncomfortable in that moment, and yes, I still longed for control over the situation, but more than that, I felt God’s peace. I heard him whisper, “Look at all I’ve done so far. Heather, I’ve got this.”
I knew it to be true. I’d lived in that truth. I couldn’t imagine the pain I would feel if Sami refused to sign. I couldn’t think of the agony that would grip me if I wasn’t allowed to become August’s mother. But I also knew that God’s goodness is good no matter what.
When we returned from lunch, the social worker was waiting for us in the lobby. Josh and I sat down with her, and she let us know that Sami had signed the necessary papers. As she told us, I smiled, but the fog that had greeted me earlier that morning and lingered throughout the day suddenly felt thicker than ever. To sit in the lobby rejoicing while Sami mourned in her hospital room did not seem appropriate. This day was messy and complicated. While part of me wanted to make everything feel good, I knew the best and most appropriate thing to do was sit in the mess and let all the emotions unfold. We needed to feel it all: the good, the difficult, the joy, the pain. So when I signed my name on the adoption papers that day, claiming August as my own, I let the reality of adoption, of my joy being another’s sadness, rest on me.
Signing the papers made Josh and me August’s legal guardians. Now we had the rights to care for August in the hospital. For a nominal fee we would be allowed to stay with August in our own hospital room. We also found out that Sami’s final discharge papers were complete and that she, along with her family, would be leaving soon.
Back in August’s blue room, we all waited for the two-hour mark when he could come out from under the light to be fed and have his diaper changed. Sami’s bags were packed and waiting by the door. At the appointed time, Sami went over to h
er sweet baby boy, clicked off the blue light, and gently picked him up.
She removed the mask and cradled him in her arms as she softly ran the back of her hand across his fresh cheeks. With tears streaming from her eyes, she whispered, “I love you” into his ear. Time stood still, and everyone in the room wept with her and poured out our love on this perfect baby boy. Lucy handed her a fresh bottle, and we all watched as she sat on the bed to feed him one last time.
By the time he finished his bottle, it was almost time for him to go back under the blue light. Sami handed him to Lucy, and for the next few minutes, he was passed around the room as aunties, grandma, and sister said good-bye. Then Sami held him close one more time, closing her eyes and pressing her face against his head. After one more “I love you,” he was back under the obnoxious blue light.
Everyone gave Josh a quick and teary hug, and he stayed with August as I walked out with them.
No one said a word. We did what had to be done and put one foot in front of the other as we headed to the elevator. One foot in front of the other into the elevator, tear-filled eyes glued to the floor. The door opened, and we put one foot in front of the other out of the hospital and into the cool evening air and all the way to their car.
Saying good-bye to Sami and her family was brutal. The loss they were experiencing weighed on me in a way I didn’t expect. I embraced her sisters and mom.
“Thank you for everything! For the gifts and the love. Thank you!” I said through tears.
“Take good care of him. We know you will,” Lucy said as she wept on my shoulder.
“I will. I promise I will.”
I gave Joy a long, tight hug, “You can see your brother any time you want. You just have your mommy call me, okay?”