Sunday Night With John: It Was The Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times...

“Are you ready for this?” the nurse asked.

“Nope, all we have is a pack and play,” I replied.

This was the first exchange this past Tuesday with our nurse in our room. My wife and I were awaiting the arrival of our adopted baby. For numerous reasons my wife and I decided to begin the adoption process to expand our family nine months ago. Tuesday, we both tingled with nerves, excitement, and anticipation as we watched them wheel in this tiny little guy that was to be our son. Thirty-six hours later my wife and I drove home without a baby, disappointed, heartbroken, and soul-searching about when our little family will get its start. What follows is the story of our failed adoption. I tried all week to think of another topic to write about but I kept coming back to the this experience. Parents for 36 hours, jubilation, love and joy, combined with loss, sadness, and confusion, so I turned to my old friend of writing to make sense of it all.

 Before I proceed you should know two things.

Using this space to work out my feelings could not be the only point of this blog. The professional social worker in me will not allow this blog to be just about me, we must tie in a larger lesson.

I do not write this to get a bunch of "hang in there" comments on my social media. That is not who my wife and I are. I write this to connect with others who have suffered a loss, whatever that loss is, and to highlight the point that even as some of the worst things happen to us, we can focus on the great moments it showed us.

Let’s proceed. Tuesday, December 12th, was one of the best days of my life. No one or no words can accurately describe the feeling of becoming a parent.  Holding the little guy in my arms felt unbelievably warm. I promised myself I would not hold back in this moment. I know the birth parents have 72 hours to change their minds and some people would have kept it quiet and watched the clock for those 72 hours before sharing the news. My thought was that I felt this little guy deserved the whole new life treatment: the love and jubilation from family and friends. So the texts and phone calls went out. The first one was to my mom in Ohio because I was supposed to fly home this week for a visit. I had to call and cancel. When I delivered the reasons for my canceling, she began shopping for baby stuff and packing to come to Iowa.

The love poured in from Anne’s co-workers as they knew we didn’t own much in the way of baby stuff. Immediately, they agreed to cover her classes, and started a list of stuff we would need. Then, people signed up to donate. My friends, who know the struggles Anne and I went through to get to this point, sent long text messages, called, and jumped at the chance to take care of our dog while we tried to wrap our heads around this whirlwind moment. Anne’s family face-timed and we talked about how different Christmas would be. Next, we had offers for donated breast milk and someone willing to overnight it from Fargo, North Dakota. We got text pictures of gifts that were in the mail.

At first, I thought people had lost their minds, but then I realized this is humanity at its best. Because what happened next blew my mind, as texts came in from moms and dads that said, in discussing our adoption, they had talked with their son, daughter, daughter-in-law more today than they had in a long time. Our story and this baby was bringing people together and you do not get days like this too often. I needed to savour it. I had to file away how great it was to touch pure happiness.

As our first night with our little guy wore down, I was feeding him at 3 a.m. My wife was sleeping as I laid him back in his crib to hopefully sleep and I just sat there thinking about what’s next for all of us. I stayed up to four to make sure he kept breathing before falling asleep from exhaustion. Every time his arm moved, I relaxed a little more.  Little did I know that what was next was heartbreak. But to be fully engaged in life, you must be willing take the risk to wrap your arms around all the emotions, all the potential pitfalls, and the chance it could end in heartbreak. This takes guts. But if we want to lie on our deathbed with no regrets, we must take that risk and have the guts to be bold.

There is no reason to go into all the details about how we lost the little guy other than to inform you that the bio-parents changed their minds.  As we packed our bags and walked out of the hospital without the little guy we had  cared for for 36 hours, we felt the stomach punch of loss and what could have been. The ride home was spent in silence and tears as we tried to make sense of getting so close and yet, now, feeling so far away from our dream. As we exited I-380, we began to talk. I told Anne that Tuesday was one of the best days of my life and I want that again. She agreed. She praised her support system for mobilizing so quickly because we started with just a pack and play. We now had a car seat, clothes, a stroller, and breast milk on the way. We decided that while we were going to be sad and to grieve this loss, we would hold onto every ounce of joy, love, and celebration we experienced on the 12th.

Anne’s parents were at our house when we arrived and we called my mom and put her on speaker. Anne and I informed our parents about our loss, through tears and sometimes not in audible words. This will not crush us and we want to be parents more now than ever because of how great the 12th was. As a human being, to feel great sorrow, means you once felt unbridled joy. That's where we found ourselves, in the fall from joy to sorrow. Even through tears on the night of the 13th, I knew that if someone had asked, "would you do it all over again for only a one percent chance that the outcome would go your way", my answer would be, "I would do it all again".

 Now came the hard part, spreading the news to everyone. This lead to Anne and I authoring this text message:  “Unfortunately, late last night the bio parents changed their mind and we lost our little guy. While we type this through tears, I know we can only feel this horrible because Tuesday felt so amazing. The outpouring of love from all our family and friends was a wave of amazing! Life is messy and sometimes you lose and lose big. What we do know from this experience is that Anne and I are deeply loved because we have the world’s most amazing support system. We got to be parents for 36 hours and, holy cow, was it awesome. That’s what we are trying to focus on as we lick our wounds today. We are not giving up. Both of us want to be parents and start our family now more than ever. So while we mend our broken hearts we say thank you to all of you for everything and we will not give up. And the next time we get a baby, we will celebrate the same way with all of you wonderful people!”

 And, once again our family and friends responded with love, care and compassion. They, in one of the worst moments of my life, rose to the occasion and responded with texts, visits, or offers to care for us with open hearts and minds. I knew Anne and I must be living life the correct way because so many people cried with us. I know when we receive our baby, it will not ever suffer for people to love and care for it. So Anne and I carry on. We grieve, and, we booked tickets to New Orleans for New Years so we don't fall into a funk. We gave each other our Christmas gifts early to have something to celebrate. We have accepted the offers of help from family and friends because we know we can not go this alone.

This long roller coaster reminded me of the greatness of humanity. When the ones we love hurt, we drop everything and do what we can. Anne and I know we are not the only ones who have gone through this experience. Adoption is not for the faint of heart. But again, this experience has reaffirmed my lifelong goal of showing people that suffering is suffering. And the only way to respond is with resilience.  Yes, Anne and I suffered a loss and Christmas will be a little less, but it also will be a little less in Houston, Puerto Rico and parts of Florida, where some people are still displaced by a hurricane and have lost loved ones and their homes.  So we prepare to try again and wait for our family. We are not jaded and we will find meaning in this loss. And, we will find joy the next chance we get to have our baby.

So the next time I’m asked, “Are you ready for this?”, I’ll smile and think of the breast milk in the freezer. I will think about the fact that we were once going to adopt a kid, while only owning a pack and play. I will think of all the love my family and friends will pour into our family and say, “Yes I’m ready”.