The Door Was Opened

And, so, I pursued as if God was calling me to adopt. Which, in fact, He was, but that's a later story.

I called the woman from the shelter who was advising Lee with her baby's adoption. She let me know that Lee was involved with a local agency and was reviewing parent profiles, but that she would pass on a letter, if I was so moved.

I was so moved.

I wrote Lee a letter, explaining how I couldn't imagine the pain she was experiencing, and that I was so impressed with her selfless decision to put her baby's needs before her own. I told her about my mother, about my obsession with kids, about my job and my house, about this baby-shaped hole in my life.

She didn't respond.

Unfortunately, Lee was unable to go through with the adoption. The baby's father, who was in jail at the time, would not sign off his parental rights. If she put the baby up for adoption, the birth father wanted custody, and the baby would go live with his mother until he got out of jail. Given the choice of trying to raise THREE children or allow her son to be raised by his father, Lee was forced to keep her son and lose the beautiful dreams she had laid out for him. I still pray for her often, for her baby (now 15!), and thank God for her role in my daughter's adoption.

Meeting Lee opened the door to the idea: I didn't have to get married. I didn't have to wait to find "the one." I honestly wasn't even sure I was cut out to be someone's wife. Ever. None of my romantic relationships had lasted more than a year and I couldn't imagine living with someone else EVERY DAY. But thinking about adopting Lee's baby gave birth to the idea that I could adopt, or something. That I could bring a baby of my very own into my home. Suddenly giving baths at night, reading books in the rocking chair, singing lullabies, guiding first steps--all of these dreams seemed within reach.

This very same month, in Massachusetts, an egg was released. A woman was making rash decisions, looking for comfort, seeking someone who could calm the storm in her mind. The egg found its mate and fertilized. My daughter began.

After school started, I began to look on-line at adoption agencies. The local Catholic Human Services would not even discuss single parent adoption. Mostly, I received a half-cough, half-laugh when I told the counselors that I was a 25-year-old teacher, looking to adopt a baby. Like my mother, I think they all thought it was, well, sweet. But not particularly realistic. When women could choose from so many other married couples, many of whom could offer a stay-at-home mother, why would they choose a single-working mother, who was only 25? Adoption just didn't seem like the road I would travel.

Financially, adoption seemed out of reach as well. Most domestic adoptions were $30,000 or more... I just didn't see how it would be possible. But, still this idea had taken root in my mind, and I couldn't let it go. At the time, there was an Elton John song that kept playing on the radio, and it wouldn't let stop haunting me.

"Blessed"

Hey you, you're a child in my head
You haven't walked yet
Your first words have yet to be said
But I swear you'll be blessed

I know you're still just a dream
your eyes might be green
Or the bluest that I've ever seen
Anyway you'll be blessed

And you, you'll be blessed
You'll have the best
I promise you that
I'll pick a star from the sky
Pull your name from a hat
I promise you that, promise you that, promise you that
You'll be blessed

I need you before I'm too old
To have and to hold
To walk with you and watch you grow
And know that you're blessed

In my internet searching, I began to think about artificial insemination. Why not? I had a womb, I could grow one of these things on my own, right? I talked to my best friend again, spending an afternoon talking about the process when we were supposed to be "off" and relaxing before evening parent-teacher conferences. I had found a cryogenic lab that would send the samples, had even selected some donors I preferred. Was it crazy? "Of course not. You're a girl. You want a baby. Make it happen," she said. Good friend.

What stood in my way, interestingly, was trying to find a doctor to do it. I first went to my own doctor, kind of a stick-in-the-mud, bland man, and got an exam. I had been taking depo-provera (an injection that stops your periods) for endometriosis since my freshman year in college, so I wanted to wean my body off that. I also wanted to get all checked out and get the clear. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of Dr. Oatmeal implanting my donor's seed, but I felt like I couldn't be real picky. After the exam, I told him what I planned. To say he was a little taken aback is an understatement. And then, he said something I would hear hundreds of times in the journey to find my daughter, "Oh, you don't want to do that. You're so young. You'll find someone."

If you've read my other writing, you know a little about my Grandma Hendricks. I am proud to say that my stubborn streak came directly from her. So, at 25-years-old, in a paper-thin gown, freshly released from the speculum, I looked Dr. Oatmeal in the eyes and said, "Of course I want to meet someone! I want to meet my baby."