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?