I waited two and a half years to become a mother. My husband and I waited through hours of adoption trainings and invasive social worker interviews. We waited through a devastating failed adoption. And then finally (miraculously) a beautiful young mother gave us the honor of raising her equally beautiful son. The moment she placed him my arms, he looked at me and smiled, and I knew that the wait had been worth it.
But in the next moment, his huge, dark eyes rolled back in his head, as his heart beat erratically. My own heart stopped as I waited for him to breathe again…waited…waited…until he gasped like a fish out of water.
We soon learned that this was a normal breathing pattern for a baby born in heart failure. And while I got used to his gasping and panting, I never got used to the blinding terror of it. It burned my insides like dry ice and tasted like metal.
Nine years later, I am awaiting for my son again, as I look out over the vast steely-blue of the St. John’s River. The hospital’s architects gave this room floor-to-ceiling windows, the gorgeous view surely meant to distract parents while they wait for updates on their sick children. But the view stopped impressing me long ago. I’ve lost count of the number of hours I’ve spent in this room, staring at that endless water, waiting.
Today is my son’s third heart surgery to correct the heart defects he was born with. Since then, we have adopted three more children, and their various special needs have led me back into this room over and over, for countless scans and tests. And this is only one of many similar rooms I wait in. I wait for psychologists, nutritionists, therapists. I wait while hearing aids are fitted. I wait for special education programs to open space for us. I wait for my youngest son’s full-time therapist to arrive so that I can try to squeeze in a quick shower — before I have to rush another kid off to another appointment.
Because this is the reality of adoption when women have little or no prenatal care. Or when babies are born prematurely due to drug exposure. Or when a mother is homeless. Or when she tries to induce an abortion on her own, only to find out weeks later that it didn’t work.
The reality of adoption is that it was the right choice for me, and I hope it was the right choice for my (loved, adored, wanted) children and their amazing birth mothers. But when anti-abortion activists think of adoption as some magic cure-all, I want to show them my reality. They talk about how many hopeful adoptive parents are waiting right now — but the majority are not waiting for this. They are waiting for healthy, white newborns and birth families who won’t complicate their lives. If adoption was all they wanted, then they would adopt one of the 117,000 waiting children in the US foster care system who are legally available for adoption right now.
And even if they did want to adopt a special-needs child, that doesn’t mean that they have the support to raise one well. It doesn’t mean that they’re willing to love or honor birth families. It doesn’t mean that they can help to reverse the long history of shame and exploitation surrounding adoption. It doesn’t mean that they can deal with trauma (which can occur even from birth). It doesn’t mean that they are capable of endless parental training or advocacy. It doesn’t mean that they can give up their careers, their savings, or their other commitments.
And even if they are blessed to be able to make these sacrifices (as I have been so blessed), they just might not want to. And that’s absolutely valid. Because I consider myself to be the world’s luckiest mother, and yet, I wonder daily if I’m up to the task, if I’m the parent my children need, if I’m failing. The days I’ve spent in this waiting room have been my greatest tests, and I’m ashamed to say that I haven’t always passed. I look out over that dark river, and I feel like I’m drowning in it. And part of me wants to be dragged under, because at least then the brackish water would mute that metallic terror.
From my vantage point, it certainly doesn’t look like anti-abortion advocates really want to save anyone at all. Because there are already so many foster parents, social workers, teachers, mothers, and children begging for help. They need more. Hell, even I need more. But help just never seems to come, no matter how long we wait.
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