aftershocks

The fingers of human stories entwine in unforeseen ways, irrevocable and complex.

On Thursday, May 22, we woke up late, but it was not a problem. We were quietly excited—in a few hours, we would travel to the Consulate for our oath-taking ceremony, the last phase in China of making our adoption complete!

As we got ready for breakfast, I checked the email, and suddenly everything stopped. Friend Rinda had written quickly to ask for prayer on her way to the hospital. Steven and MaryBeth Chapman’s daughter, Maria, had been hit by a car at home. She wasn’t breathing as they lifeflighted her to Vanderbilt.

We paused to pray, to ask for mercy, to fight the fog of unbelief. Surely this was a passing thing. But moments later, friend Tricia followed with a new email posting the saddest news of all, that Maria had died.

I reacted with denial, much as I did when I woke up to the hotel swaying that afternoon—it seems so long ago now. It couldn’t be true. There must be a mistake, a misinterpretation, a communication breakdown. We didn’t say anything to the others in our group as we boarded a bus to the Consulate, and my heart filled with the strangeness of it as we took our oath, one small family in a sea of adopting Americans, some already struggling fearfully with their children’s burdens.

How could one family’s happiest day be the same day another family would hope against ever happening? Where are these children going, and what is to become of them? The mingling of joy and grief throughout is too much for words, let alone imagination. How could one mother who encouraged and helped us so much more than we can repay-without whom we would not have our son, in truth-lose her daughter as our own hope’s fruit finally ripened?

“If he is buried in a landslide, who am I to say his story, our story, is wasted? The events thus far have been not a means to an end, as a prelude to a life of leadership or remarkable character, but instead have been their own fullness, fruit of the love of others.” My words from just days earlier throbbed in my aching head as I stared past endless anonymous crumbling concrete housing filled with numberless persons whose paths will never cross my own, save to say that they lived in the city through which I traveled that day my son became my own-but not my own, still. Do I believe those words I wrote? I cannot think of a time when what I’ve pondered has been challenged so quickly or profoundly, but I think that what I was trying to say that day is all that I have even now. In an earlier time, I would have sought justification, a deitific purpose behind such sadness, or perhaps condemned some ethereal spiritual attack. But those thoughts scar the mind, marring the receipt of love. That season of joy in that lovely family was its own season, and its end does not mean the end of joy, else what can we hope for? I cannot ask what the meaning of this is, any more than I can ask what great work my son must be destined for, seeing the number of people and weight of sacrifice required to bring him this far. It is its own time, and it is full, growing fuller still, whether we will it or not.

Even as the Chapmans ushered their daughter onward, we bundled our son home. Near and far, to and fro. Even as we flew homeward over Canada Saturday, the funeral commenced, and when we arrived safely, wearily, home, we were met at the airport by friends, sweet faithful friends, who came straight from that funeral to our homecoming. Near and far, to and fro. Joy, when it is sombered, is a deepening thing, slow to blossom and hard to hold. A rose in a vase is enjoyed in the fullness of scent and color, even as it dies of its severance.

I’m reminded of when I read “The Grapes of Wrath” in high school. I was so angry at Steinbeck that I barely finished the book. The moment in which one family member passes even as another is conceived in the same vehicle was too much to bear. I couldn’t explain why, then, but it nagged at me, kept me awake, drove me to beg the teacher for an alternate book, any alternate book. Looking back, I think it was, perhaps, the self-consciousness of the construct, the idea that this near and far, to and fro, happens in the same breath in this life, but it is truer than what he writes. Somehow, his telling of this thing which truly unfolds was a lie. Perhaps the lie was hopelessness, or maybe it was that such a moment had to be invented, as though it does not naturally happen.

I’m reminded, too, of Peter, the disciple I would name “Most Likely to Have Americans Compare Themselves to in Hopes They Were So Cool.” In a moment of sifting, scores of followers suddenly found Jesus’ words incompatible with their expectations of Messiah, and they left. Jesus turned to “the 12” and asked if they were prepared to leave, as well. Peter replied, “Where would we go?”—some texts interpret it as, “To whom would we go?” I’m beginning to think, more and more, that his words were unhindered by ambition or personality—it sounds like the query from a man at the end of himself.

But we are home, and we are HOME, and it is good that this time has come. Our little prince finally slept through a night last night, and the moments of his day are enormous. There is yet more to tell, as we settle in and begin something like a schedule...the homecoming, the emails, the help from doctors and nurses as we traveled, the stories and improbabilities, the mighty story of our son's origins, the weaving of the strands that for a time served as legend to us...to tell them as they unfolded would have allowed me to dwell in places that would have disabled me from moving forward, and we desparately needed to move forward each day there. There is more and still more, fuller and fuller.

Home Again

They are home, safe and sound! YoYo has many, many balloons now.

Hello and Goodbye

What a day! We just finished a whirlwind tour-in-an-evening of Hong Kong. Friend Phemie's sister Shelley and family were more than generous hosts, whisking us through the antique district, then to a tram (the oldest and cheapest transit in HK) for a brief ride, then to a fabulous restaurant where we feasted like we were hip and famous, showering us with precious gifts for YoYo, then across the stunning harbour on a ferry.

Of course, the evening could only start after we'd checked in to our hotel, tired from our high-speed train (think 160 mph) from Guangzhou to HK. Our agency had booked the hotel for us incorrectly (surprise!), so we had to pay $ 100 USD for a rollaway bed for tonight. It was the day's only flaw.

We began the morning at White Swan Hotel with breakfast (like good little parents), and of course we ran into Tam., one of our new friends through Tian Yo, whom we first met in Beijing. She was in Guangzhou for a shopping trip, staying at White Swan - don't try to calculate the odds. We had a great chat, and she snagged a few more pictures of us with YoYo before we left.

How did we meet her, you might ask? I can only say so many times that YoYo's story crosses borders and reaches far. BlueSky is supported richly by many volunteers, whose families live in the expatriate area of Beijing. Many of these folks took part specifically and deeply in YoYo's story. The day before we left BlueSky, they hosted a party for us, sans YoYo, to send us off with all their hope - it was incredible.

The guests had ridiculous stories. One woman had solicited help from United Airlines for Tian Yo's passage to the States last year for surgery. Two guests representing United had given her not one but two free flights to the States, one for YoYo and one for his ayi - they presented us with a beautiful model 747. The co-founder of our adoption agency was there, unaware of our struggles Stateside, only deeply happy for our son, passionate for the sake of China's children-she is even now in the earthquake's epicenter, sleeping in refugee tents as she tries to secure the future of as many newly orphaned little ones as possible - she presented us with very special chopsticks with jade rests in a pretty case. There was a woman from Great Britain who had taken part in a group run across a portion of the Great Wall to raise funds for YoYo's hospital stay in the States. There was the woman who hopes to adopt YoYo's best friend - she actually hosted the fete, and her chef (on loan from the Consulate--you heard me) prepared fajitas and salad and Coronas and salsa. There was no end to the people, and my memory could not hold them all. Some had created an elaborate and beautiful scrapbook for us of YoYo's life thus far.

We met Tam. at the party, and she sat with us and filled us in on so many of the others and their ties to our little prince. And of course, to see her this morning, just a few hours before our checkout at Guangzhou and the beginning of our journey home, brought our time here full circle. How gracious a time this has been, despite the viral outbreak and the strain of travel and natural disaster and oh so many agency gaffes. I feel as though I am in a tree which is coming to fruition, and it only gets fuller and fuller and riper and fuller - there is no end to its season, but only a richness of being. As I drift towards sleep these few hours before our flight home, I know that the awareness of this richness is a gift, and I can only hope to be awake to it and ready for it even when I am impatient and he is grumpy or is having a tantrum or I am tired. Can I receive it ever? It is at hand.

Tomorrow, it's off to the States! Yahoo!

Done Deal

from Anna, at end of quickie email:

"ps - he's ours! details forthcoming..."

More precisely, Shane says on his facebook page that "Shane Caudill is officially the father of a US citizen."

--Susan, Official Typist

The good, the bad, & the ugly

We’re on Shamian Island in Guangzhou. It is a containment island for families on the last leg of their adoption journey. The Island was severed from the mainland more than a century ago and filled with the banks and embassies of many countries—it was the first city allowed to bring in trade from outside. The atmosphere of those now-derelict buildings is “empire left to moulder.” We are here, shielded somehow from traveling street vendors and beggars. There are only a handful of stalls hawking cheap souvenirs across the street from our hotel, the White Swan, and they do not chase us down—they only call out as we pass.

What is good, so good, is that we’re almost finished. Our little prince plays with us, clings to us, snuggles with us each morning. He chatters during dinner, and he tries so hard to teach us Chinese. One morning, as he told me that he wanted to go downstairs, I tried his patience. The words in Mandarin for “small” and “down” sound similar to me. Each time I answered his “down” with “small,” he said, “No!” and gently corrected me. Finally, he took my face in his tiny brown hands and said, “Mama, ni shodo bu how” (“Mama, you speak poorly”). I laughed so hard!

Today was bad in many ways. We walked as a group of 10 families to a clinic on the Island for physical examinations of all the children. For most families, it was an in and out affair, with some tears and cries of anguish on the children’s part, but mostly painless.

Then there was us. We were early in line, but as soon as the examining physician pulled off Tian Yo’s clothing, we knew there was a problem. She asked about his bowel movements and his urine. We said they were good. She looked at his medical notes, then at him again. She pressed his colostomy pouch. “What is this?” she asked. I explained carefully, without too many words-her English was poor. Her hands were bare, unwashed throughout the last dozen children examined. Only the small square of disposable paperlike fabric had been changed on the examining table. She began to press his genitals, actually pulling at some parts as he cried out. “Elsie!” I called for our agency’s guide, frantic. The doctor pulled another doctor in, and the two of them began pressing YoYo’s flesh while he screamed. Elsie came in, took one look at Tian Yo, and draped a comforting arm across my shoulder. “How sad! How hard!” Her voice was thick with tears of pity for my son, and I felt my anger choke me. “Tell them that it is all in his medical notes—in Chinese,” I urged her. She translated, and the first doctor paused in her exam to speak. “She wants to know how he urinates,” Elsie explained, as both doctors pulled on him for what must have been the tenth time. My head spun, and I thought I would faint. I could not see these three as people at all, only as objects of my anger in their incompetence. I yanked a catheter from YoYo’s emergency kit in Shane’s backpack. Shane was tightlipped with anger. The doctor pulled the guaze back from YoYo’s stoma with her bare unwashed hand and TOUCHED IT (I can’t explain here how bad that is without launching in a completely different direction, but that is so very unhealthy, exposing his bladder directly and instantly to a profound amount of bacteria). They pressed him one or two last times, and the second doctor left. As I tugged his clothes back onto his sobbing body, she asked if we had any record of his surgeries. This was totally unexpected. We had given our guide copies of every piece of medical information that they were supposed to have. But now they wanted more. Out came my notebook, and within seconds, I covered her in letters and records from Shanghai, Singapore, and Johns Hopkins which I had carried in my notebook “just in case.” She stared at the English papers, uncomprehending, then ordered an assistant to make copies.

A sick feeling hit me. What if all this just led up to, “No, you cannot have this boy?” Did they have the power to try that? What would we do if that happened? I tried not to let my imagination run wild as this doctor sat staring at words which held no meaning for her in Chinese, much less English. YoYo was clinging to Shane, his tears abated, his face a picture of a child overwhelmed. The color of his face was terrible, pale and tearsoaked, exhausted. Our useless guide was back in the main waiting area, sorting the paperwork from all the other families in our group, who had long since finished their examinations.

When the assistant returned, I took my papers back and restored them to the notebook, and we fled. The examination was over. Back at the hotel, I doused his stoma in Betadine and gave him extra antibiotic. He was asleep the minute I picked him up from catheterizing him.

Tonight, we sailed a brightly lit cruise boat up the Pearl River. YoYo was grumpy, unwilling to touch his food, still breathing roughly from the cold he has had the entire time we have had him. I tasted my own food, something unidentifiable from a large and cold partially cooked buffet. It was awful, and instantly, I felt like an ugly American inside. “Pizza,” I said to Shane, and when we returned for the evening to our comfortable room with uncomfortable beds, we feasted on Papa John’s pepperoni pizza, and I didn’t care what message it sent YoYo as long as he had food in his belly and a smile on his face-finally.

Shalom

We left Zhengzhou for Guangzhou today. On Wednesday, we had returned to Zhengzhou from Jiaozuo along the flats of the Yellow River. We saw so many tiny towns dotting the dusty rutted road. The economic bloom of Beijing has not yet pollinated here. Traffic was wild, with donkey cars, transfer trucks, buses, private cars, bicycles, motorized scooters, pedestrians, and police all competing for right of way. We saw the inevitable result just before lunch: a woman on a motorbike has collided with doom, and she lay spread flat, facedown across the roadside, her lifeblood puddling around her head. Shane turned YoYo's face close in to us, his gentle voice singing "Big car big car big car" in my ear as I saw her outstretched arm. At once this land seems so hard, with its earthquakes and control and battering snows and poor roads and undrinkable water and dirty hospitals and teeming life and fleeing monks and desperate disparate people. What would her mother think, seeing that hand flat on the pavement, remembering her birth? It is more than I can bear, yet just hours away are galaxies, it seems, of mothers' children dead in the rubble of cities which shook down to the ground.

I think of Tian Yo growing up, and of all of the persons whose love has carried him to this moment, and of all the sheer persistence and effort it has taken, and the miracle of it. I know only One who could author such a tale. And I know that this little boy cannot carry alone the weight of this love--it must remain effortless, he cannot possibly pay it all back, he can only maybe partly receive its sum and be aware of it. How much effort, how much love, was I unaware of as a child, and how much painstaking time on my behalf was squandered at any point when my child's mind was not ready to receive or to comprehend? There is no guilt in this, only wonder. I cannot as of yet draw conclusions, or I will render myself unteachable. I can only hope to love without expectations attached. This boy, this prince, has reached the sum of three years with a story larger than I can imagine, but he will do stupid things and wise things. If he is buried in a landslide, who am I to say his story, our story, is wasted? The events thus far have been not a means to an end, as a prelude to a life of leadership or remarkable character, but instead have been their own fullness, fruit of the love of others.

We are all tired, and we are all heartsick a little. But we are hopeful.

Photo, Too?

“Mr. and Mrs. Lo Kee”

At least in China’s eyes, we are at last a family. We journeyed to Jiaozuo city today, a two hour drive from Zhengzhou, the capital city of Henan province.

Hours after arrival, we traveled to the Notary, who would put the city seal on our adoption certificate. The director of Jiaozuo Social Welfare Institute was there, as she had been in Zhengzhou. On the way in, a woman clung to our guide, barraging her with talk. Not wanting to invite risk, I kept walking in and up the stairs, just ahead of our guide. The woman finally left, and our guide turned, laughing, towards us to identify her as a journalist. In the building’s basement was an emergency China Red Cross donation center for earthquake relief. If we’d make a donation, they would take our photo for the next day’s newspaper.

We agreed for several reasons, not least of which was peacemaking. The notarization ran long; there was a mistake in the translation, and money had to be taken to the bank for counting. We pressed our red-inked fingertips over our signatures and then drank hot water in paper cups and took photos with officials. Our gifts to the officials were not warmly received, but our presence afterwards in the Red Cross office was.

We walked in and made our donation, pausing over the clear acrylic collection box with our money suspended midway through the slot, each of us with a hand visible on the bills as they spread fanlike to reveal their sum. Cameras clicked from every corner of the room, and then in a special ceremony, we were presented with a card of thanks by a gin-scented representative who made a small red-faced speech. More cameras clicked, and the journalist re-emerged to tell our guide that the newspaper was not available to the general public, only state officials, but she would get us a copy for YoYo.

The ground beneath their feet

from Anna:

On Monday, China saw its worst earthquake in 30 years. The number of persons lost climbs alongside rescuers pressing their way north and west through rubble that just last year was the road we traveled from t*b*t to Chengdu.

We were asleep: the little prince in his stroller and his grateful parents beside him. We awoke to the building swaying steadily, smoothly, like a tree. Realization dawned slowly, and I looked out the window to see if it was real. The swaying grew, and suddenly people streamed like ants below our 11th floor, fleeing their buildings with hands covering mouths, on cellphones and crying, looking back or slowing down as their curiosity outstripped terror. With weird calmness, we grabbed our backpacks, took the prince-laden stoller, and ran. We took a staircase and hauled the stroller between us those many flights. I have no idea how we did it, but by the time we made the ground floor, we joined hotel staff who were hastily discarding filthy kitchen aprons and clinging without thought to hangers and shouting as they ran.

One could only assess the situation minute by minute. We began the registration process that morning and were supposed to meet our guide in the afternoon to return to the offices for our certificate of adoption. It didn’t occur to me that we might have come this far and yet not make it. Our crying guide found us, and we sat in chairs that hotel staff were made to bring to the parking lot for guests. They brought water, as well, and I wondered quietly where the epicenter was. I also remembered joking with Shane about earthquakes as we checked in. Last year, as we arrived in Kunming, China, a sign in our hotel room warned of earthquakes. We looked at the “earthquake kit,” a flashlight, and were amused and sobered at once. Our arrival in this new hotel, with our soon-to-be officially pronounced son, brought another flashlight with no instructions. “An earthquake kit,” I laughed. Now it seemed like a stunt in a poorly written novel.

When the all-clear was given, we were well past YoYo’s catheter schedule, so he and I were among the first allowed to return to the lobby washroom. What choices can a mother make when her son can’t empty himself? I could only pray that the building was stable, that I wouldn’t have to jerk the bathroom door open and rush out with his pants down, catheter intact, away from crumbling walls. We made it, and I emptied him into a trashbag while he sat on a disposable changing pad I had packed “just in case.”

Our driver sped us to the registry office on schedule for our certificate. To my surprise, it was open, filled with six adopting families. Usually, only one family comes through in a week. This time, one family brought all four children and their new son. There were six guides, representatives from each of the provincial orphanages, a translator, the office staff of four, computers, chairs. The 16’ x 20’ space was not up to the task, the children were tired, and the earthquake siren was wailing again outside. After waiting an hour, we were evacuated from that building, too, as an aftershock was on its way. We were told to return the following day for the certificate. Our guide told us we would head for the hotel, where we should pack what we would most need—if we were allowed to return inside.

By the time we got there, everyone was back inside, and we rushed upstairs. I packed while Shane took YoYo for bottled water and food—just enough to carry. Packing was an ordeal—we might be made to stay out until very late. I tried to keep in mind what we might need if stranded in a devastated city for a week. Adoption papers, passports, medical supplies, every antibacterial wipe or cleaner we had, clothes for YoYo, cellphones, money…how should I divide things so we could still survive if the city was crippled and one pack got stolen? How long would YoYo last? How should we leave things in the room in case it was looted before we returned from an evacuation? Was there a way to protect anything? So many contingency plans…where is that darn flashlight?

Then Shane and Tian Yo returned, and their supplies—water, nuts, cookies, dried fruit—brought courage. He played unawares while we planned. In fact, he had slept through the whole event that afternoon.


Before my mess could be cleared, there was a knock at the door. It was our guide and two officials from the registration office. They had come to present us with our certificate of adoption because of the uncertainty of events to come. It was, as it happens, the first time they had ever done this in a hotel room. They apologized for the earthquake and for how we would miss out on the official ceremony because of it. We smiled and were apologetic for our room, forgetting to offer them seats, taking photos, giving them our gift, receiving the certificate. Their visit was brief—there were five families remaining. It was already six in the evening; who knows how long their day lasted.

Our guide advised us to sleep lightly, perhaps taking turns, in the event of another evacuation. She was calmer this time, as there had already been two aftershocks reported that we had not felt. I called family to say all was well, and they were breathless with relief. We made it through the night and somehow, we managed to sleep, although my head was spinning. We did not wander for hours, waiting.

It sounds like a skewed fairy tale, I wrote someone later. “When the prince found his family, they were joined by officials, and dragons shook the whole land of China in farewell.” Now that seems too terrible to have said.

Earthquake Story #1

from Shane:

For those who wake up to hear on CNN that China had an Earthquake, it was true! We were taking a nap, with YoYo sleeping in his stroller waiting for our next appointment when the whole building started shaking. Eventually they set up chairs outside for the VIP's to sit and wait it out. We got VIP seats. The woman with me is our guide who raced in to the hotel past security up six flights of stairs to find us. Unfortunately, we had already come down 11 flights of stairs (carrying the stroller full of baby) and were waiting on the curb looking for her. Anna will send details, but here are some pics.

Safe!

All is well - yes, they did feel the earthquake, they had to evacuate the hotel temporarily, but they are safe. More news and pictures to come!

--Susan, Official Typist

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/1949097/China-earthquake-death-toll-to-hit-5,000.html

Well, it's like this.

The mystery of Yo-Yo's origin grows deeper even as we find more information. I would have never known a great deal, had I not asked the Doctor one day about the finding ad. This is an ad placed in the local paper in a child's town by officials when that child is found abandoned at a hospital or elsewhere. His is irrelevant, because it happened several weeks after he arrived at the "home" of nuns. They received him with a note containing only his birthdate and they opened his wrappings to find the shock of their lives.

They called our friend the Doctor, who knew that the little boy must travel far and wide to survive and eventually make a new home. But the nature of things here is that he would not be able to leave because of where he was left at birth. Bringing him to the nuns' "home" made him non-existant in the eyes of officials, and therefore he was ineligible for international adoption.

So, in these first few incredible days, as back in America we grieved over the realization of not being able to enjoy both adopted and biological children together, his good Doctor found another region which would give him the status and identity he needed so that he could someday leave. We're traipsing about the country on my first Mother's Day with a boy who was not our son but is our son, the little Prince who did not exist, but whose plight moved men to run the Great Wall, and women to move secret mountains. His story is in Sweden, Holland, Singapore, Scotland, the US, and Australia... and I awaken every day to discovery of new connections between him and persons I have yet to meet. Will I ever get to meet all his courtiers?

Just now, he has come back from a much smaller expedition to a supermarket in Zhengzhou with his Baba. They brought back Mother's Day tributes, pistachios and cookies and milk (oh blessed for black tea with milk! no Yorkshire Gold here) and he was so proud to struggle across the floor of the room dragging the bag to me by himself, thank you very much! Happy Mother's Day, indeed.

(ps - I got a "Wo ai ni" (I love you) today. Just three little words to carry a heart forever.)

Transition

We got to the hotel today after a brief outing at a much smaller park than the original plan. Tears when everyone left the park but us, and then we traveled to the hotel with one nurse, one volunteer, and Lynn, our able and tireless guide. They gave us a fold-up umbrella stroller! Kathy M gave us a beautiful stroller, but we found after a few changes to luggage restrictions on inner-China flights that it might be a problem, so we left it home to avoid losing it entirely.

Our entourage made a pit stop for lunch before the hotel-and that little boy must have eaten his weight in noodles, watermelon, dragon fruit, sweet and sour pork, bean shoots, and cucumber. Wow! We settled in to our room nicely, and the care routine went well for the first time without training wheels.

Just so overwhelmed that I can't really journal yet. It seems presumptious to think that we can step in and make the claim of parenthood on this little boy when so so many have worked and given unfathomably to get him to this point. We are only two people, and small at that. But as Gunilla (the incredible nurse who helped teach us this week) reminded us today over coffee, we aren't given anything that will overtake us. There is just as large a family to which this prince comes as that he has left behind. And even then, the cord has not been severed between him and them; they are we.

Thanks to Rinda, Lisa, Phemie, Lori, and Bridgette for the toys--the MagnaDoodle and Eric Carle lacing cards are an absolute hit. David and Tricia, the little cow from Christmas is endlessly fascinating. What joy this boy takes in life. For me, so afraid for so long of eternity and its endlessness, he is freedom. He is our little prince.

I can't wait til I'm stronger!

We have a watermelon boy on our hands. Like his PaPa (my Dad), he does not want to wear socks with his shoes, and he loves watermelon in large quantities. Shane and I prepared dinner for the children and ayis tonight - real southern cooking. We went to an international market in the expat village here and bought ingredients to make vegetable soup, pinto beans, and cornbread. Only one catch - no oven, so we had to make corn fritters. We served it with watermelon and rice (just in case) and it was an unequivocal hit. The ayis were scraping the fritter crumbs off the plate--literally--and no pinto beans or watermelon left. Hmmmmmm....

Keep us in your thoughts. I may or may not have said it, but there is a virus (hand foot & mouth) spreading rapidly through China, and it has led the Doctor to cancel our picnic outing for tomorrow--just too much risk. Also, Tian Yo had some blood in his colostomy pouch today. They tell me it happens from time to time... We are currently using care methods which have been compiled between 2 Dutch nurses, an American nurse, a Chinese doctor, an American urologist, etc. Every time we catheterize, it seems the process changes a little! They gave us what is a very spacious apartment by Beijing standards--about 10' x 16'--with a kitchenette and a toilet that is also a walk-in shower. Yes, we wear shower shoes. I just figured out today that the warmed milk (from the microwave) they've served us every morning is unpasteurized--how bout that!

YoYo has taken to us HUGELY. Singing solves tears. He loves to sing, he loves to say "car," and he absolutely adores dogs. Every time a dog barks outside, he stops everything to point to the nearest window and shout, "Gogo!" (dog) Baba (Shane) knows enough Mandarin to play "Where is Gogo?" and that has become a favorite, along with "Baba sleep--wake up wake up wake up!"

I think I told you about the incredible party yesterday. They have showered us with not only all of his medical files and x-rays, but also baby clothes that have been carefully saved, his favorite bedtime book, and some favorite toys. A couple from Singapore loved him so much, and he spent his first 2 birthdays with them. The wife flew to Beijing just to see him off last summer to the States. They sent beautiful little outfits for us to take with him.


His main ayi, who now works with the babies here, Qin Qin, talked to us a long time last night. She told us about how he best falls asleep, that he likes pizza, and that he falls asleep in the car. She had saved a bag of his baby clothes for 2 years, and in her office, his photos are plastered all over the walls. She made us 2 DVDs with photos of him set to several of his favorite little kid songs.

I am overwhelmed. This little guy has been loved so much, and we are so small. That we have such a loving circle of friends and family is, I think, the only way we can stand it. And he is a sweet boy, for all the attention and fuss he has garnered. Tonight, as I was changing him, I tried not to let him see how frightened I was by the sight of blood in his colostomy pouch. He touched my chin gently--I was so overwrought with nerves that a boil came up on my chin as we flew here, and by now it is scabbed over--and he said softly, "Ow." I agreed, "Ow," gently--and then he patted my cheek as if to console me. I have no words for that.

More soon - tomorrow we will travel to the hotel in Beijing, where we will meet up with 3 other CHI families. (and do some laundry! We only brought 3 shirts & 2 pants each--including what we wore here--and sink laundry with air drying needs a vacation, I think!)

Love to all and full hearts
anna & shane

Even Better than the Real Thing

from Anna:

I can hardly stand it. Here we are, Day 3 in China, and there are already too many firsts to count. First time he has run to me saying, “Mama!” with arms outstretched, first kiss, first time to dry him after a shower, first time to say, “Don’t hit,” first time to share a treat with Baba (Shane)…

Can a mere mortal stand it? YoYo has a tight knit group of friends, and many times, he and his buddy Hai He resemble two little old men, patting each other on the shoulders and nodding in agreement about a snack.

So much to say… we have been showered with gifts. We’re staying in a small apartment for volunteers, and fresh flowers greeted our arrival. We’re invited to every meal, and we were Doctor H’s guests on May 1, a special holiday in China, for an elaborate feast at a very fine restaurant (which took who knows what to book). We ate Peking Duck, tofu soup, seafood soup, steamed riced potatoes, stir-fried mushrooms, in all about 20 different dishes, complete with Chrysanthemum tea.

We’ve been given a pile of YoYo’s clothes, a book of well-wishes from a group who sponsored a man to run a length of the Great Wall when money was being raised for the surgery in the US last summer, a book with notes from every volunteer passing through who has met or worked with YoYo, many tears from his loving ayis*, a book which his favorite ayi reads to him each night…

And then there’s Gogo, the stuffed dog we first met many Skypes ago. Gogo is a constant companion, sleeping with YoYo, eating with him, sometimes joining him in the shower. Yesterday, YoYo used a tiny chair to pin Gogo against a table, where he mixed dried beans in a bowl and pretended to feed his friend a simple dinner. And our photo ball is the guest at YoYo’s changing table, where he plays our Shilo’s bark each time he’s catheterized. He talks to her photo each time.

There’s so much more… but there is also time to tell it. Suffice it to say… Wow!

*ayi = nanny