frustration

I'm holding my breath, waiting. Of course, I'm waiting for Youyou, the Little Prince, our son. But I'm also holding my tongue, biding my time, until he is in my arms and his adoption is complete. And then a torrent of words will come forth in letters and conversations to express my frustration over this whole thing.

I knew that international adoption would be a long process requiring our flexibility. As a result, I don't mind it so much when unforseen things happen, like China's shift from manual files to electronic in the way that they offer Waiting Children (children with various "Special Needs") to agencies. The change means that we were the last under the old system. The new one is so much more efficient that, to my understanding, an adoptive parent who was approved by our agency for a child posted last week could send their child a package or communicate before we'll be able to. I don't mind that. The electronic process is a much-needed growth within the adoption system, and I'm stunned that the CCAA has been able to pull it off, because it's a massive endeavor.

What does frustrate me is that I have a new caseworker. The third, in fact, in the eleven months we've worked with our agency. The first layer of that irritation is about money. If I'm paying upwards of $22,000--a portion of which goes to the agency--then I'd feel safer with some consistency. It's not too much to ask for the same caseworker the whole way through. I know that pregnant women can expect to be attended to by any number of OB/GYNs during the course of their pregnancy, and more often than not, my friends have delivered their babies under the guidance of a different doctor than they expected. But it goes deeper than that. Imagine that you've tried for a decade to get pregnant, only to find that you have to go someplace else for it to happen. Once you get there, you don't speak the same language as any of the doctors at your clinic. Only one nurse speaks your language and can translate to you. This nurse screens you in advance to make sure you're worthy of being a parent--she records your medical history, education, finances, background, marriage, and asks for photos of your home before giving you the go-ahead. You're dependent on this nurse to walk you through your pregnancy, to translate the doctors' observations, diagnoses, and advice, even to run your insurance through and to handle your payments. She schedules your appointments, handles your neonatal education, walks you through the legal processes, everything. You know that when the time comes, she won't be in the delivery room, but you'll be ready, even though nobody in the hospital speaks your language or can tell you what's going on if an emergency arises during the birth, because she has prepared you.

You get through your first trimester. Suddenly your nurse transfers. In her place is a hopeful, dedicated new nurse, who earnestly wants to help you. She's given birth before under similar circumstances. But where your first nurse had many years of fluency in your language, this nurse is in her first year. She is still learning your language. She can't translate everything yet. She works hard, but she makes some beginner's mistakes-it's not unexpected-and she consistently seems unclear on what your first nurse prepared you for. When you ask her questions, she always has to contact someone higher up to get the answer. She asks you for information that you've already given the first nurse before she tries to find it in your file. You try to read as much as you can about pregnancy, with the help of a language dictionary to translate. Then it gets complicated. Not dangerous--just different than what you expected when you started out. Your baby has some pretty big medical needs that will affect his whole life. He's safe and healthy--and you can choose to go ahead with the pregnancy or not. You choose to go forward, but the nurse doesn't have any information about your baby's condition. You have to find it all and translate it for yourself. The doctors can see your ultrasound and know the baby's size and the exact supplies and medicine he'll need every day, but they can't tell the nurse yet, so she can't tell you. You're not allowed to ask the doctors this; one visited from your home country and you talked to him for 5 minutes, but you were informed that if the conversation lasted any longer, your pregnancy could be terminated. Then you find out that the first nurse forgot to give you a pregnancy book in your language. It has a lot of information that you've needed before now, stuff that you've been trying to find and translate. You read as much as you can, you ask the new nurse every question that you can think of, and you get into the last trimester. You're so afraid that you're going to make a mistake that will cause you to lose the child.

And you get another new nurse. This one is newer to the language than the last one. She can talk to either of the other nurses, but you can't. She doesn't know your baby's condition, what you've learned from the other nurses, or that you're in your last trimester. She, too, has given birth, but even as she adjusts to the new job, she has many patients who share your language to meet and translate for. She's eager to contact you, and then you get a call from the hospital saying that your due date was miscalculated and your pregnancy will be longer. The hospital is changing its procedures every day, and you keep getting letters from the nurse to tell you of these changes. You know that they won't apply to you, except to prolong your pregnancy. You wish you had someone to turn to.

You know that if you leave the country or try to find another clinic, your pregnancy will be terminated. How long before you're tempted to think that maybe God just didn't want you to become a parent?

This is what working with an agency is like.

destiny, child

Just for the heck of it, a list of Christmas presents for Youyou, given by friends & family--see if you can spot the trend:

1. A Carhartt jacket, XS (Who knew that they made child-sized clothes? Daddy did.)
2. Camoflage shirt, XS (love, Brandon & Erika)
3. Construction safety hat (love again, Brandon & Erika)
4. Plaid shirt & overalls (Hi Thomas)
5. Camoflage socks (because Craig doesn't DO outfits)
6. Work boots (Really, Andrea, did you have to beat Daddy to the punch?)

Let the nature vs. nurture begin!!

"Special Needs"

For the 100th time the other day, I was explaining our adoption, and I heard "Special Needs" come out of my mouth as I attempted to communicate.

In spite of teaching, I forget how words are received. To use "Special Needs" to describe the condition of our son is concise, accurate. Youyou has needs which require special planning and supplies every day. His physical needs will impact other areas of his life--casual conversations, friendships, play...

I think that everyone might have needs which are special--specific to the individual or the result of a specific combination of circumstances. Not everyone is aware of it, nor is everyone willing to admit it might be possible. It messes with being ok. Perhaps because of that, "special needs" becomes code for, "There's something wrong with that boy."

The official terms for Youyou's adoption include "Special Needs," but I don't want to use words which cloud any person's ability to see him without fear or pity. I don't want to handicap him. I don't want to reinforce the code. When we began the journey of adoption, I didn't want a child labeled "special needs." I didn't trust that we'd get accurate medical information. I didn't think I could handle it. I looked at the fear of an ugly or disabled child in the face and flinched--hard. I told Shane that God would really REALLY have to work some change in me for me to be willing to adopt a child with special needs, and as I said it, I defied Him to. It's to my shame that I couldn't resist my idols of perfect children and uncomplicated childhood. I felt entitled, as though I had earned the right to a pass because of the crushing sadness of infertility. No matter how much I love my best friend, that love will not (that we know) bear fruit in the form of a child in my womb. Isn't that enough, I wondered. Besides, there isn't enough money for us to take care of a child with special needs. It takes a special person. You have to mourn the death of a dream.

I don't see it that way now. The dream that died was, I think, an idol dressed like motherhood, and she still haunts the corners of my mind. Youyou has some big issues, but more than that, he needs a Mom and a Dad and maybe a dog. He doesn't need to know he's ok, he needs a family. We need a child. That works out pretty well, I think. I want to write that it is a relief to be free of that idolatry and entitlement, but I can't yet, because there is still so much I need to learn.

What brought all this on? A friend's grandmother said in passing, "You two are saints to be adopting a child like that." And I was overcome with inner laughter, thinking, "Like what?" because it sounded as though we're doomed, signing our lives away. Then I remembered that I'd thought the same thing about others before I was willing to adopt children with special needs, and then I remembered that sometimes even now I think we're pretty special for doing this. And I'd like it to stop. Because my boy certainly doesn't need that, and neither does anyone.

Who has special needs now?