Children are a piece of our hearts, not DNA
And just like that, a man in a white coat reaches into my future and rips it apart. All my plans of four kids, spaced two to three years apart — gone — replaced with a question mark.
I was diagnosed with peripartum cardiomyopathy a month after Nicole was born. It's a fancy term for unexplained heart disease caused by pregnancy that left me with a weak heart and at risk for heart failure.
I knew the diagnosis meant any plans of more children were seriously in jeopardy, but until the doctor said it, I still held out hope. And while my doctor says it's my body and I can do what I want, he also questions why I would want to push my luck.
So, there it is — the prognosis. And here I am, now in a strange state of mourning the loss of something I never actually had — grieving a hypothetical future, an intangible idea. I haven't lost a child with a name and a face, but the loss is real, nonetheless.
It was real when I gave my maternity clothes to the Salvation Army instead of neatly storing them in the basement for the next one. It's real when I see a family of four who all have the same nose and jaw line, and I have to fight the sting of envy.
Adoption is painfully real.
When I made that phone call, I realized I had not fully prepared myself for what I would say when someone answered: "Um ... hello? I want a baby." It's not something they teach you in the parenting books.
I cried when we went to orientation at the adoption agency and the couples around the room were introducing themselves. Suddenly, it just seemed so real; I was one of those couples sitting there, listening to a man talk about how to get a baby. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, watching myself nod politely as he talked about birth mothers and legal fees.
But inside, I was a mess.
Would anyone pick us? What if I don't bond with an adopted baby? Could I love an adopted baby as much, or at least the same way, as I love Nicole?
As I sat there nodding and acting calm, the man showed a picture of a white family — one child looked just like the parents and the other child was Hispanic. It looked like a riddle from the Sesame Street segment of "one of these things is not like the other."
But as I looked closer, all I could see were four smiling faces with arms wrapped tight around each other. They all belonged to each other — biological and adopted.
To be honest (and selfish), I love that Nicole looks like me. I love that she can roll her tongue just like I can. I look at baby pictures of myself and see her in my eyes and chubby cheeks, or I recognize her dad's smirk on her face. I love that she has the same strawberry hair that I did as a child, and even that she has her father's benign heart murmur.
I love all those things that tell me she's mine, but as I looked at that happy family I realized it's not why I love her.
I love her not because she's a piece of my DNA, but because she's a piece of my heart.
And while the muscle may be weak, my heart will never fully heal until all my children claim their piece — however they choose to get here.
E-mail: stewart.erin@gmail.com
Recent comments
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Squiddy | Sept. 9, 2008 at 7:28 p.m.
I can't even imagine the emotion it took to write this column. I…
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