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.