A Gallery of Stories

I Hoped
For most of my life – at least since my teens – I have had a recurring dream. The setting and circumstances change every time I have it, but never the primary detail. In this dream, I find a baby. By some enchanted chance event, I am graced by a tiny foundling who, without ceremony or doubt, becomes my own. I delight in having discovered motherhood. I shop for diapers, sundries, a crib, clothing, the things that a baby needs all at once. I feel my insides change as I begin to love my child. When I realize that sleep is lifting, I try to hold on. I don’t want to lose my baby. At last, I am unable to fight my body’s natural rhythms and I awaken to a void. My heart remains in the dream space. I long to go back.

I was fully awake at around 5:00 pm on November 7, 2008 when seven month-old Isabela and her big brother Christopher (pseudonyms) were dropped off along with two plastic grocery bags containing all of their worldly possessions. Two hours later, I was shopping for diapers, sundries, a crib, clothing, the things that a baby needs all at once. I felt my insides change as I began to love my children. The next morning, I awoke to the stirring of an infant lying beside me. This time, although it felt like a dream, the baby was real.

Now, my baby is almost 23 months old. Together, we have celebrated two Thanksgivings and two Christmases. We have traveled from Connecticut to Oregon to meet grandparents, relatives and friends. We have been to Disney World. We have been camping in the rain. We have grieved the loss of our most-loved pet. Her first word was meow. Not the meow that human parents teach their children in response to “What does a ____ say?” But the meow that a boy cat teaches the girl baby who naps beside him on the bed. Indeed, her first “word” was a most proper meooow – perfect pitch, precise context. Her second word was hi. She was exactly 11-months old when she took her first step in the family room; it was witnessed by her big sister, whom both of them had nick-named Iggy. She doesn’t like snow. She says “cakoo” for please, although thank-you is quite clear. She loves Elmo and bath-time and breakfast in bed. She’s learning to eat with a fork. She has opinions. She makes them known. She snores. She wears a size six shoe. She is just about ready to start potty training. Last week, she learned to say I love you. Last night, as I held her and cried, she reached up with her tiny hands and caressed my face.

I keep thinking about that song from Les Mis – the song that Susan Boyle so beautifully crooned on television and YouTube last summer. Who didn’t hear it? “I dreamed a dream in time gone by, when hope was high and life worth living.” It was an ironic anthem of inspiration. Even as she sang lyrics that told of despair she was realizing her own dream; her story reverberated in a spirit of optimism that traveled around the world. I couldn’t help but celebrate in a silent smile and nod to the unlikely triumphant – her quiet perseverance. The song stayed with me. I hummed that first line over and over in my head although I never really listened to the words beyond; they became background noise in my otherwise busy mind. A couple of weeks ago, I read the liner notes as I listened to Susan Boyle’s CD. When I came to the last line my breath was halted as my body forgot, for a second, to run. I was overcome by an emotion for which I have no name because I had never before met it face to face. I turned off the music and sat still in my chair – more still than I have ever been.

“Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.”

Tonight as I watch my baby sleep, I must remind myself to remain optimistic. I will tell myself to savor every moment and hold tight to any chance. I am hoping beyond hope and against probability that life will not kill the dream I dreamed. I have been fighting for months to keep my children. I have done everything within my power. I have exhausted all of my resources – everything but hope – and now, I place my trust in the Universe. I hope.

~~~

That was seven weeks ago. Today, hope has run out. My partner and I have learned that over the next several months the children we hoped to adopt will be returned to their biological mother. Sixteen months ago we were deceived, by the Connecticut Department of Children and Families, into receiving two children who did not fit the expressed needs of our family. We did not learn the truth until late last summer – a lifetime after we had fallen in love with Isabela and Christopher. I am happy that my children’s biological mother is picking up and reorganizing the pieces of her own tragic life. We are all better off for her wellness. My partner and I and our two beautiful daughters, however, have been shattered at our loss and by the recklessness of DCF; recklessness which appears to have been embraced by the agency as business as usual.

It seems that everyone we know has a friend, or a cousin, or a friend of a friend with a similar story. If you have had such an experience, we would like to talk to you. Please lend your support by registering as a follower of this blog.