the next 24 hours...

After our dark night of the soul ended we entered the limbo of 72 hours. All you can do is wait, Trisha, our nurse of the 7am to 7pm shift, advised.  Fuck waiting.

When waiting to know if your life will go one way or another, with a child you already crave and adore and care for; waiting 72 hours in a hospital room is no worse nor better than waiting 127 hours for help in a hole in the ground with your arm dying trapped underneath a rock. Having to eventually saw your arm off in order to be free and alive was basically an easier emotional option than our 72 hours. For that dude, his choice was clear. Chop off your arm and live. Our choice was murkier. Wait for this baby to become yours. Or... what? Did we have a choice? Could we have folded, caved and walked away? It wasn't an option. The only option was to wait.

72 hours (which is 3 days for those of you with math skills like mine) is a long time to wait for a birth mother to decide to give her newborn baby to you. Especially when you have holed up in your 10 foot by 10 foot bonding room in the Akron General Maternity Ward and have not left that child's side for much of those 72 hours.

Surrender has always been an awful word in the context of war & death, but in the legalese context of surrendering your infant to someone you met the Monday before at a Red Lobster,  it's reasonably unimaginable.

While we were waiting for the baby to be born, Bio-mom's mother Sheila told us Bio-mom had already signed the surrender paperwork. Andrew and I instantly sobbed. My sister and mother both welled up and Sheila looked at us with slightly stunned amazement. As if to say, " You really didn't think we were gonna go through with this?"

I was moved at Bio-mom's resolve. But in my heart, with 16 nieces and nephews, who I fell in love with at first sight even though I'm not blood related to half of them, I also knew that Bio-mom wasn't legally allowed to sign those papers until well after she had given birth. Even me, someone who has never brought another human to term on this planet, I knew that once Bio-mom saw this baby, all bets were going to be that much harder to place.


Bio-mom left the hospital Thursday morning, determined to make her son's 5th birthday special, despite it being the day after having given birth and the day she left her newborn behind. We gave her gifts for her son, thanked her for her baby, hugged her gently and tried not to think about what she was feeling. 

I imagine it like the grief of losing a limb, or the ability to walk, or see, or hear.  She left a living part of herself behind with a middle aged white couple she had primarily communicated with via text. Sheila called us sobbing from the hospital lobby, begging us to do right by this baby. We assured her we would not be able to do anything else. 

Bio-mom named our hopeful child after her Creole grandmother, who had the misfortune of having four children with a man who fell into and died from drug abuse. Bio-Mom's grandmother was forced her to put her four children in foster care, reared by folks who were just after the monthly check.

Soon after we were reunited with our hopeful baby again, Jan the hospital social worker visited. Not to rain on social worker's parades, but their job is to rain on everyone else's parades with as much professional diplomacy and efficient empathy as possible.

We eagerly asked Jan when the 72 hours of legal limbo would precisely end, just so we could have something to shoot for.  Jan smiled like a nun and gently reminded us not to be in too heartless of a hurry; that the 72 hours doesn't officially begin until after birth is completed. So, sometime on Saturday afternoon/evening, at around 5pm. Or later. She'd get back to us.

It was Thursday, 10 am. Nurses let us know we were were free to leave the hospital and come back to visit baby. They would keep her in the nursery so we could rest, shop, relax... sort of like a more sterile form of day care.  We opted to stay until they kicked us out.  We were either leaving together or when baby left without us. Thus the real agony of waiting officially began. My mom turned to me and said, "This is your labor." Good times.


We passed the time by taking pictures, cuddling, snuggling and treating this baby as a member of our family- why should this newborn live in a heat-lamp limbo even if she was? She was hugged, fussed over, dressed, changed and basically babied. It was what every baby deserves and the least we could do.   We reveled in her eating skills and her repertoire of face-making while sleeping. She has a quite pretty male pattern baldness, sort of an Ed Harris hairline, and these occasional crazy furrowed brows. We call this face the Roscoe Lee Brown. We might not get to keep her, but acted as if we were. Nicknames were invented, poopy diaper songs sung, and a delicate cautiously optimistic love blossomed.

My sister & mom held and smelled her divine odor and fruitlessly tried not to fall in love. I could see them memorizing her face, neck, toes and fingers just in case. Andrew and I stole away to the hospital cafeteria with the always on, low level volume TV, tucked on a high shelf- I wanted to throw my shoe at it, but couldn't tear my eyes away from it. Watching whales be milked at the Atlanta Aquarium helped somehow. Life does go on. It just has to.

Andrew asked me if I saw baby's face when I closed my eyes. I did. I realized why I married this man. To share this painful miracle with and to complement each other's weaknesses with our quite different strengths.  Bio-mom texted a bit, asked for pictures, was very brave and strong and asked us if we were sure about this. Now it was my turn to be surprised. She hadn't begun to understand our resolve, which matched her own.

I told Bio-mom she was my hero. Despite or because of all that, I was a sneaky bitch and sent her photos of baby sleeping on daddy, skin on skin, and a photo of baby gripping my thumb. She asked for one of baby alone. Close up, just the face. Bio-mom was onto me. It was gonna be a mom on mom showdown.  I complied. I sent her just single face baby photos. I tried to find the most unflattering ones, but there just aren't any... this limbo baby is stunning, almost more so than the children with regular parents who are going to take them home. This limbo baby is going to make everyone love her and mourn losing her. She's a survivor baby.  Even the nurses told me she was the general favorite in the nursery. Which was great to hear, but painful in the long run of the 72 hours.


Thursday night was pure, unadulterated heaven.  Every poop was an Olympic gold medal, every bottle drunk a Rhodes Scholarship, and every burp a Maya Angelou poem. We kept staring at each other, stunned at how simple and natural it felt.  We took turns on the crunchy hospital bed and the roll out mattress chair, which could easily replace waterboarding as a torture device. At least it took our minds off the waiting.

I kept telling myself I didn't really like baby, not nearly as much as my dog, and tried to find things wrong with her. It helped pass the time and the nagging feeling that I never get what I truly want.  I am good at accepting loss, being optimistic and moving on.  But this would prove my undoing. Wanting to mother this tiny sleeping peanut who had no idea of how much buried joy and heartfelt pain her very being had awakened was sorely testing my ability to roll with the punches and shake it off.

Nurses wanted to take her to do things to her. I pretended I didn't care as they wheeled her away. I yearned to feel relief when she was out of sight. No such luck. They'd bring her back and my heart would expand out of all proportion like the Grinch when he finally learned that Christmas wasn't about things at all.


Thursday night, Bio-mom texted that she wanted to come by the hospital to see baby on Friday. I feared telling her we had to leave baby behind at 2pm on Friday to see the social worker.  We debated whether Jasmine visiting the baby would hinder or help her decision making.  But ultimately it didn't matter. Until 5pm Saturday, Bio-mom was baby's only mother, so if she wanted  a visit, that was her full and unequivocal right.

Baby was sporting a tiny lo-jack bracelet on her ankle so if someone took her, alarms would ring, lights would flash and doors would lock. But can you steal your own true baby? I decided not to ask that question. Admitting full helplessness, I let Bio-mom know when we'd be away and when baby'd be in the nursery. And the nurses assured me Bio-mom would have a private room to visit baby in. Great.

Friday morning, 36 hours left. The large nurse clock on the wall drove me nuts. I wanted to smash it against the wall and grind it into dust under my slippers. Sheila texted me to check in. 'How was our first night.' 'Oh, it was long and hard.' I elaborated about how hard newborns are to care for. Went into detail even.

I was hoping for them to feel relief at not having another newborn to care on top of the two babies already sharing their one bedroom apartment but it backfired. Sheila shot back, 'Oh. Are you not up to it?' They were testing us to make sure we really wanted her. Of course they were. Who would simply and selflessly love someone else's hopelessly dependent and completely needy baby? How does that happen? Where in human nature does nurture supplant nature?

I realized I'm truly bad at being sneaky. I confessed that we loved it. And that we were a good team. Andrew would make me sleep farther away from baby so I wouldn't wake with a shot every time she gurgled or sighed.  It wasn't what I intended to convey, but the image of the devoted father sealed the deal. Andrew was my ace in the hole. A good man that in love with someone else's baby was the clincher. Bio-mom, her mom and the grandmother the baby was named for had suffered enormously from the lack of fatherly love and attention.  That was what they were searching for. It was never about me and my word-smithy text-ability. It was about this child getting what none of them had ever had- a loving and devoted, dutiful father.  I was truly the backseat driver.


The snow was falling hard as we readied to drive to Cleveland. Since Bio-mom and I were the only ones with wristbands, baby had to go back to the nursery. As we steeled ourselves to leave, Bio-mom texted.  She had changed her mind. She wasn't coming to see baby. She was too busy job-hunting. This woman who had just given birth to a baby two days prior, left that baby to give her son cake and presents was looking for a job two days later. Bio-mom is a hero. A woman I can only hope to be as strong as. She's a tough ass tiger mother. I took notes.

Andrew drove very slowly because we were trying to be those people now. If we died en route to the social worker, what would happen to baby?  Cleveland was bitter. The snow whipped the wind from the big ass lake around us hard. We still had 27 hours to go.

Amy, our Cleveland Social Worker tape recorded us signing paperwork promising to not hit, abuse, neglect or have anyone else care for the not quite ours baby. It was a harsh exercise, making us sign paperwork and give this child a name, despite the fact that Bio-mom had more that a day left to surrender.  It felt unfair to make us fake parenting and make fake parenting vows, but that was the rule. We complied because we had zero choice. Sure, no one else would care for her for 6 weeks. We might not get to, either. I can easily vow and sign something if it doesn't matter anyway. Hell, I went to Catholic all girls school for 12 years. I can swear to anything.

I'd cheerfully sign and vow all the while thinking that baby wasn't that cute, that she'd smell much better and where was that huge avalanche of maternal love I was supposed to feel completely buried under and I wasn't all that sure about her strong, fierce nose.  I'd sign a page and nod, listening intently,  and tell myself I truly wasn't a mother type. I would be happy to raise five interesting yet damaged dogs and just be that kind of woman.

We signed and initialed and promised and had to give the child that wasn't ours a name. Andrew did it with his heart. I vowed and signed, with my hand and my mouth- my heart was nowhere to be found.

Social Worker Amy informed us that the birth father, who's home address Bio-mom didn't know, could contest our adoption and that legally, even after Bio-mom had surrendered, he could fight for custody and win. And we'd have to pay for the trial to fight him. We signed. We initialed, we named her and nodded. Why not? She was our baby in triplicate double-spaced paperwork only. Someone else's name was on her birth certificate, and was probably with her at the hospital nursery right now.


As we were leaving Andrew asked Amy if she could tell if a birth mother was able to go through with the surrender. She nodded. 'Just today a mother gave birth that I know won't go through with it. The adoptive parents flew in from California, too!' We must have have paled because she quickly added that since our Bio-mom had two other small children she was raising alone, while jobless, was a likely candidate for surrender. She smiled and said, 'Don't panic unless you haven't heard from me by 6:30pm tomorrow night.' Awesome.  Cold comfort.


We drove back to our hopeful baby. Then a text came in. Bio-mom. She was in agony. She had no idea how much this would hurt. She didn't know if she had done the right thing. She couldn't stop thinking about baby. Our bellies were in ropes. How could we wish so badly for her to continue down such a wounding path?

I texted that while I could never truly understand her pain I admired her bravery and heroism,  and that her pain was our pain, which in many ways it truly was. How could we celebrate our great good fortune at becoming a family if it came at the expense of someone else's pain?

She didn't text me back. The long drive back to the hospital grew that much longer. We got baby back and spent another night caring for and falling for the baby who belonged to someone else. Jasmine had 18 more hours to walk in and claim her child.


Saturday was when the snow fell sideways and accumulated in drifts.  We met the droopy pediatrician,  who wanted to see baby on Monday or Tuesday. We said if that if the baby was ours we'd be calling. He shook our hands and smiled sadly and left.

Mom and sister showed up. We were in the last five hours of waiting. Didn't hear from Bio-mom or Sheila. Time was ours to kill or be killed by.  It all boiled down to sitting and waiting and eating or walking. My sister walked the halls of the hospital with me. We visited the chapel, the library, the cafeteria, the coffee shop, the gift shop where buying a single roll of Tums took a good 30 minutes.  We searched out other ways to spend or kill time.

Nurses came around to check on us, give us sad smiles and tried to distract us with funny stories of twin boys named Tank and Brick. Trisha regaled us with stories of the parents who were toilet training their two day old.  It didn't work.  Then, finally it was five. I had to walk, to leave loving Baby to Andrew and my mother. Deirdre came with me. I forgot my phone and ran back to get it. We wandered the halls of Fetal Monitoring and checked out the happy photos of babies who went home with parents who belonged to them.

My phone rang.  It was Amy. It was 5pm. It was over. Bio-mom had signed. My sister and I hugged quietly in the empty hallway, alone in front of happy familied baby photos. We would now have that same opportunity. We ran back to the bonding room to free Andrew and my mother and our baby, who we could now call ours. It was official. Labor was over.


We smiled and cried. Our joy was mitigated by Bio-mom's pain.  Pictures were taken. Nurses came in to congratulate us. We took the hospital clothes off our baby, dressed her in the clothes her brand new grandma had bought and washed for her, and we put her in her first car seat, also a gift from her grandmother, who shopped for this baby as if she had all rights to.

Social worker Amy came to sign her release. The hospital social worker and the nurse  signed papers. We were already packed to leave the bonding room forever. Trisha, our fantastic nurse cut the no-steal-baby-lo-jack off our baby's ankle. I had to be wheeled out in a wheelchair. Hospital regulations.

I wanted to run out, but I submitted to being wheeled, our baby in her car seat, on my lap. Amy walked beside me. As a representative of the state of Ohio, Amy is technically the baby's custodian until the adoption finalizes in 6 months.  The baby was hers, as Ohio, to hand to us, once outside the hospital doors.

Andrew ran ahead to pull the car around. He had shorn the car of three days of snow as thoroughly as an Australian cowpoke shaves a sheep to make UGGS.  The cold was sharp but felt great.

We were given Clementine Grace, directed to snap her into her car seat, shook hands with Amy, hugged Trisha the nurse.  I sat in the back seat and watched my baby breath and sleep as we made our way back to the hotel, where we dance with our baby and cry at Whitney Houston songs that used to make us roll our eyes.

Yes, we are those people. Finally.

xokd