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Not Exactly As Planned

Page 11

by Linda Rosenbaum


  Besides feeling sorry for my little boy and tired of days filled with doctors’ appointments, hospitals and visits to our local pharmacy, I felt continually blessed by the Canadian medical system and taxpayer. We didn’t once pay extra for the medical care Michael received. We had no waits. The care was superb. Before he was one year old, Michael had seen seven specialists: a cardiologist, pediatrician, ear, nose and throat specialist, neonatologist, dermatologist, respirologist and endocrinologist.

  I often thought what this would have cost if we lived in the United States. We would be bankrupt. As it was, we were only emotionally overdrawn.

  And it was only the beginning.

  7.

  Sarah, the Jewish Christmas Miracle

  Toronto Island, 1989

  DESPITE ALL OUR PROBLEMS, I loved being a mother, loved Michael, loved Robin and being a family. So much so, by the time Michael was two, Robin and I began talking seriously about a second baby. We were as shocked as everyone else.

  Although I had gone back to work full-time when Michael was one, it soon became clear that I would need to work part-time if I was going to be Michael’s mother. It had also become evident that my career wouldn’t be going anywhere, and our family income, dependent on my salary as much as Robin’s, would be drastically cut. I had to make compromises because of Michael, and work was the biggest. We were lucky Robin had a solid job at the CBC. But now that I was working part-time, I could take care of two babies.

  It was one of those sunny, crisp, blue-skied autumn days in late September that made me think I loved fall as much as I did spring. It was a non-office day and I was at home looking after an active, two-and-a-half-year-old Michael and, at the same time, working alongside the once-a-week cleaning woman we hired to bring a modicum of order into our home.

  Let’s just say there was a lot of busyness going on. Maria had finished washing the kitchen’s wood floor and had just turned on the noisy vacuum cleaner in the living room when the phone rang. Both noises startled Michael so he began to cry. I picked him up in my arms, took my shoes off, jumped across the wet kitchen floor and hopped onto the kitchen table — all with Michael still attached to my hip.

  I picked up the phone and offered a distracted “Hello.”

  “Hi, I’m calling about the ad in the newspaper,” said the young woman on the other end.

  “Ad?” I thought to myself. What ad? Were we selling the fridge? The washing machine? The car? I continued to pause and said nothing. I had no idea what ad she was talking about.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally said, “we didn’t place any…” but before I could finish the sentence I was thunderstruck.

  “Oh, my god, THE AD! I had no idea it went into the paper.”

  “Yeah, it’s in this morning’s Sun,” she said, to her credit, laughing sweetly at my new mildly hysterical tone.

  She was waiting for me to talk, but in the last five seconds I had realized that this phone call could change my entire life. It began to sink in that I had to pull myself together immediately and act like a totally mature, responsible human being. Even though I was standing on a kitchen table.

  “Would you mind holding on for just a minute?” I beckoned to Maria who turned off the vacuum cleaner so I could hand Michael over to her, and then I hopped down from the table. Who cared about the floor anymore?

  “Sorry, I was a bit shocked by your call,” I said. “We sent in the ad to the paper ages ago. They said it would take months before it would actually go in.”

  Adoption ads had to be approved by the government to make sure they didn’t say or imply that money would exchange hands in return for a baby. So, there we were! The newspaper had received approval and had put the ad in today’s paper! Just a little thing they forgot to tell us when they ran it! Keep it together, Linda! Just be yourself.

  “You must be pregnant,” I said.

  “Yes, six months.” I quickly did the math. It was early September. Nine take away six. Three more months to go. A late November baby. Three months away. Yikes.

  “Would you like to tell me a little about yourself? Or,” I speedily added, “would you like me to tell you about myself?” It had to be as tough at her end as it was at mine.

  “Things haven’t been going well with my boyfriend,” she said, “and I decided it would be best to give the baby up for adoption. I didn’t know how to go about it, so when I looked in the classifieds this morning and saw your ad, I thought it was a miracle.”

  The miracle ad, which read: “Pregnant? Couple looking to adopt newborn. Can provide loving, caring home. Call.”

  “I’m glad you called,” I said.

  I liked Denise right away. I was touched by the honest, straight-talk about her life. What stood out most was her heartfelt desire to do what was best for her soon-to-be-born child. She was bright and tough, and had strong survivor instincts. Like other people I had known, she could have used a few breaks.

  Later, she told me she’d felt comfortable talking to me. I wasn’t judging or putting her through an inquisition, two things she was so worried about before the call, she almost didn’t.

  What was there to judge? How life dealt different hands? How fate sent me one way, her another?

  Denise’s heritage was mostly French Canadian and partly Métis. Born into a working-class family, she’d dropped out of school before Grade Twelve. She was twenty-three and in an unstable relationship with the father of the child.

  I told her about my background, so very different from hers. I was happily married with one child and came from a close-knit family I was in constant touch with. “This might sound idyllic,” I said, “but my life has been far from storybook.” It was just that by the time I hit forty-one, the age I was when she and I first spoke, a lot of basics had come together.

  We chatted away like two motherly souls, both moved that the finger of fate was bringing us together. Was it possible to give each other what we longed for? For Robin and me that meant another child. For her, a loving home for her child and a family she could maintain contact with after the child was born. We talked and laughed and cried. No specifics had yet been mentioned.

  I knew Denise would soon want to know what kind of people Robin and I were, and, therefore, what kind of home her child would be brought up in. Up until the call, I hadn’t given a thought to how I would make us look good. Soon Denise would start asking questions. How would I answer?

  I decided to be completely honest right from the get-go. It sounds strange that I decided to be honest, but the world of adoption is trickier than most people realize.

  First off, babies just aren’t there to be had. I had one chance, and knew I was lucky to get that. If I wanted her baby, I had one chance to convince her that she wanted to give me her child, the most important thing in the whole world to her. I needed to make the most out of every second.

  It’s a seller’s market in adoption land. We had to look good, because there were a lot of other families to compare us with. Though I knew we would provide a wonderful, loving home for the child, what if Denise had different values, a different religion or worldview? What if she wanted all kinds of things for a kid we were convinced had nothing to do with a good and loving home? And, of course, what if I didn’t like her and didn’t want her baby? A lot to figure out.

  Denise and I had been talking for ten minutes and had already established some warmth. The questions we each had for the other were going to come soon. I was already thinking through four areas that had popped into my mind where my family might not look ideal.

  The first was religion. From what Denise told me about her background, I knew she was Christian. How would she feel about her child being raised Jewish? I knew religion could be a thorny issue. It wasn’t exactly like the whole world loved Jews. What did I know about the way she was raised, whether she’d known Jewish people in her life, or how open a person she really was? Besides, why would she necessarily want to put her child into a minority religion, culture or race wh
en the child could lead a much easier life in the majority religion, culture or race?

  The second was family income. Though Robin and I lived comfortably and had few material wants, we were far from flush. I was working part-time, Robin’s job was steady, but we didn’t have cash to spare. I had read that birth moms often look for homes where children have financial opportunities they hadn’t had. Who could blame them? Denise had had to struggle hard for her next dollar. All other things being equal, why wouldn’t she want a family for her child who could provide more “things” than Robin and I could.

  The third area of concern was age. I was forty-one and Robin, forty-six. We were both young at heart, ready for our next child, and were, in our opinion, just the right age to have another child. But would Denise agree? All things being equal, if you were comparing us to other potential parents, would you want “old-timers” like us to parent your child?

  The fourth was Michael. We already knew he was “different.” We still didn’t know what that meant exactly, but we were beginning to put a few things together. Even at two and a half, he hardly stopped moving, twisting or being what seemed agitated. He never stuck with anything he was playing with. He constantly went from one thing to another. He didn’t make eye contact with people, and he didn’t like to be touched except by Robin and me. He was playful and delightful in many ways, but he was more than just a “handful.” He only seemed to do what he wanted to do. Might Denise think this was because we were lousy parents? If she felt something was “wrong” with Michael, was he the brother she wanted for her child?

  So wouldn’t you try, at least a little, to make your family sound like the Partridge Family? Wouldn’t you want your prospective birth mother to think everything in your life was coming up roses in as many departments as possible?

  No, I decided I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I was all for painting a pretty picture, and a pretty picture was exactly what I believed our family to be. With all the flaws and difficulties in our lives related to Michael, Robin and I remained devoted to family. Our home was a good place to be. I would tell the truth about everything and explain, as best I could.

  Then it happened.

  “What religion are you?” Denise asked.

  “I don’t know if you have met many Jewish people in your life, but I am Jewish. Robin is not.” I could have left it there, but wanted to be clear. I needed to give her an idea of who I really was beyond the labels.

  “My religion is important to me and we are raising Michael Jewish. We would hope to raise your child Jewish too. Though I am not highly observant,” I added, worrying she was already picturing men in black coats with big fur hats dancing on tables. “I think it’s important to raise children with some religion. Who knows what they’ll decide to do when they’re adults? But I think it’s a good way to teach values and give a strong moral foundation and rootedness to a family.”

  She paused and thought. “I’m fine with that. How old are you?”

  I gave the numbers. “Robin and I waited a long time to have a family. We’re what you call ‘mature’ parents. Both of us had a lot of living, learning and growing up to do. Also, it took me a long time, a lot longer than most people, to find the right man.”

  Like two girlfriends at a pyjama party, we started talking openly about “finding the right man,” and about making mistakes along the way. “Do you have any other children?”

  I told her about Michael, our love for him, our concern for him. I let her know we were dedicated to our family and would be as loving to her child as we were to Michael.

  She was happy to know her child would have a sibling. She was sympathetic about our difficulties with Michael, but his problems did not confound her. I was beginning to see that Denise travelled life without a script or any sense of grand entitlement. We both knew that life held no promises or guarantees. You try to make good things happen, and give all you’ve got to the rest. Fortunately for us, Denise said she could tell that what Robin and I had was a lot of love to give.

  We couldn’t believe our luck in finding one another. We had a long way to go in the bureaucratic adoption process before this materialized into anything other than talk, but we both knew we wanted to move forward — together.

  Denise was clear that she wanted an “open” adoption. Though she didn’t plan on meeting any time soon, she wanted to maintain telephone contact. She wanted to know how the baby was, to hear my voice again. She wanted to call when she needed to, and she would like it to be the same for us.

  This would be a completely different form of adoption than we had with Michael’s birth mother, but both Robin and I were open to this arrangement. More than open. The idea that we could make Denise happy the way she could make us happy was a dream.

  Still, I was scared. What if I gave her the contact info for the adoption counsellor to work out the adoption details and she never called him? What if we never heard from her again? On her part, she had to be worried that we would change our minds and she’d be back to square one, looking for another miracle.

  I knew enough not to get too excited. It wasn’t easy in Canada and the United States to find a second, let alone a first newborn baby to adopt. We had been counselled not to get our hopes up, even if things started to look good. There were so many steps and stages, something could easily go wrong. A natural wariness is smart in the adoption world. Strange and heartbreaking stories about adoptions that never get finalized because birth mothers change their minds are not hard to come by.

  In fact, many adoption counsellors recommend that if you put an ad in the paper to find a baby to adopt, as we had, not to give out your own phone number. Instead, have friends or family accept the calls first. They should test the callers to see if they are bogus or real. Only when sure that (l) there is a real baby being born, (2) the birth mother might honestly be interested in giving her child to you, and (3) there was no possibility of being asked for money, were they to give out your home number.

  If being cautious meant handing the phone to other people if someone called, I wasn’t willing to do it. I couldn’t put the chance of a lifetime into someone else’s hands. It wasn’t that I feared someone else couldn’t do it my way. I needed to hear the sound of the woman’s voice at the other end the first time she called. I knew it would tell me something.

  As it turned out, Denise did call Alan, the adoption counsellor. She met with him several times at his office, filled out forms, talked about her life and plans for her baby, and about the form of adoption she preferred — open. He answered questions, gave advice and actually hired her to work in his office when he learned how badly in need of money she was.

  Two days after they first met, Robin and I went to Alan’s office to fill out the bazillion forms required for the adoption, same as we did for Kira’s baby. Alan confirmed what I thought about Denise — life had been tough, she had a strong character, clearly wanted her child to have a life she could not yet provide. She did not think it fair to keep the baby to give her the love she needed — she had to find that elsewhere. She wanted her child to have a good home, and that home was ours.

  Eureka! Alan felt this would all unfold as it should. He sensed Denise could be trusted and that she would respect necessary boundaries after the baby was born. An open form of adoption, in which we stayed in contact with one another, could work really well. And best of all, Alan spoke to the boyfriend and got him to come in and sign the necessary papers.

  In the weeks that followed, Denise and I talked often on the phone. Her positive feelings about the adoption never wavered, and she worked out all the final details with Alan. He would go to the hospital with her for the delivery and spend time with her there until she felt ready to leave and go home.

  It was time to break the news to our two-and-a-half-year-old Michael. We had been reading baby books about adoption to him since he was an infant, so the concept wasn’t new, but having a sibling was.

  “Michael, you know how Mommy and Daddy adopted you wh
en you were born?” I asked. “Well, we’re going to adopt another baby. You’re going to have a little brother or sister.”

  “No baby.”

  “You know how Zorah has a new baby sister named Maeve? And how Noah has a new sister, Suzanne? Well, you’re going to have a new baby, too.”

  “No baby.”

  Right. No baby.

  “Well, Michael, your little pals love having a baby and we hope you will too.”

  He was pretty clear on the matter. He just needed a little time to get used to the idea, we thought. How could he know what it all meant until he actually saw some little creature taking residence in his house? We were plying him with as much attention as possible to minimize jealousy, but who knew what would happen when he actually saw his mom holding another baby that she didn’t hand back to someone else?

  Early in November, several weeks before Denise’s due date, Robin was sent to Stuttgart, Germany, to produce a documentary about the then developing European Market. On November ninth, his executive producer called from the Toronto office. “Take your crew and go immediately to Berlin,” he said. “The Wall’s come down.” After covering Berlin, Robin was then asked to continue the European Market story in Prague. It was mid-November by then.

  “It’s getting dicey,” Robin said, on the phone to me from Germany. “If I go to Prague, it’ll be hard to extricate myself if I have to.” I agreed. He told his boss the extension was a no go. “I’ve got to get back,” he said. “My wife and I may be having a baby any minute.” He said the producer just laughed, warmly.

  Three days after his return, Denise called. “The doctors say they miscalculated my due date. They now think it’s mid-December.” Aargh.

  More waiting. November came and went. Chanukah came and went. Christmas was fast approaching. We were nervous, excited and anxious. We continued on with our lives as best we could, even making plans with our neighbours Penny and Peter for a Christmas Day feast at their house. We never assumed we’d actually go.

 

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