Our Failed Match Story

It was a Monday morning. The day we were swept onto the fastest, craziest emotional rollercoaster of this second adoption journey.

Let me just back up a bit here.

We have been actively waiting, meaning our home study is updated and our profile is being shown to potential birthmoms and social workers in the foster care system, for almost 9 months. In those 9 months we have been contacted about 15-20 cases. Of those cases we have said yes to about 10. Sometimes we have to say no because the placement fees are too high, or there are needs that are beyond our capacities, or there are risks that we can't take on. We have to be honest. Brutally honest with ourselves and our worker about our fears, abilities, finances. Completely honest despite our incredible longing for more children, despite the time that has been ticking by, despite our knowledge of our calling to adopt. We have to be honest about every situation. Talk about self-awareness! My goodness.

This "ready and waiting stage" is also hard because it is so unpredictable and the waves are intense. One week we could get emails about 3 different cases, and have to wait a week to hear back about their decision. Sometimes a birthmom changes her mind about the adoption plan. Sometimes DHS has to step in and the baby/child is placed into foster care, for whatever reason. (There really are so many different situations.) And sometimes we could wait an entire month before we are contacted about a new case.  

Every time we say "no" our hearts break a little because we wish we had more finances available, or that we had a wheelchair accessible home, or hundred million things. We so wish we could say yes every time. And I cry and pray over those little ones.

Every time we say "yes" and it doesn't work out, for whatever reason -- another family is chosen, the birthmom chooses to parent, extra fees are calculated and much too high -- we are crushed. I cry and pray over these as well. I remember their due dates, their birth dates. And I will probably carry them with me forever.

And maybe you're wondering why you haven't heard about the 10 cases we have had said yes to? Honestly, sometimes we don't even tell our parents. It's hard enough looking at each other each morning we wait to hear about a birthmother's decision, and to tell him that she chose another family? Heartbreaking. Defeating. (Not that it's a contest by any means and anyone "wins." But defeat. despair, sorrow? I don't know what to call getting some hope knock out of you.) Maybe it's selfish. Maybe it's self-preservation. But sometimes I can only handle one other person knowing our hope and hurt. I don't want to answer the hard questions over and over again. I don't want to get the well-meaning, extra-long comfort hugs at every family event. I would cry. At every hug. At every event. And be the crazy cousin that never stops crying!! Really. And I cry ugly so...we keep it all close and keep moving forward.

And I know God has the best in mind for every one of those little babies, which is probably the one and only thing that keeps my head up and from spiraling into some sort of depression, so we trust Him and know He also is holding our family in His hands. And one day, one day, OUR child will come home to us.

Okay, so we've been waiting for 9 months. And then the email. Our case manager at Legacy of Adoption emailed about a birthmom out of state who had had her baby in December and they needed immediate placement. A stork drop, we in the adoption world call it. A baby boy already born, three weeks old, waiting for his forever family. We said Yes! And waited to hear back from Anita about the birthmom's decision. We didn't tell anyone. Because, I mean, we've been here so many times. Three stork drops before. Three emails exactly like this one -- baby already born, waiting. And three times we've been crushed. So the good man and I talked about what we might do in the off chance (ha) we were chosen (giggle giggle).

And I don't mean to make light of this wait time or being chosen. We were excited. We were thrilled. We were mentally and emotionally preparing to go see this baby. But we were cautious. We were hesitant to throw ourselves with reckless abandon in love with this baby. Because, chances are, as history had taught us, we wouldn't be chosen. And sometimes the only thing you have left to do is laugh at the craziness of the situation. All night we prayed and held our breath. But what if we ARE?

Tuesday morning my phone died. And I had small group so the Bea and I were rushing around the house getting ready. I jumped in the shower and yelled, "Eat your food!" over the sounds of the water. And looked for my comfy pants as I yelled, "Go potty!" across the house. And charged my phone a little while I brushed massive tangles out of beautiful, curly hair. I mean, you know how it goes...

And we ran to the van. In the garage I got a text from Anita that said, "CALL ME!" So I called her while I buckled in the squirmy, cranky, just had my nest of hair brushed and I hate everything kid. With phone pinned between my ear and shoulder Anita says, "It's you!" And I was speechless. Dumbfounded. And the tears were already escaping and running. All I could muster was, "Whuuuuuut?!" And she says, laughing, "that's not the response I was expecting!" Then I gathered myself and said, "Yes! Yes!"

So I got in the van and started to back out, because we were running late to small group. Then I said, "What am I doing?!" And thought, we've got to get our baby boy! And called the good man to tell him the news. And he was just as flabbergasted as me.

Not the expected response. || This is hard. Because everyone expects that we are giddy and joyful and have been waiting sooooooo long we've got to be stupid happy. But really, we hold back. Much like the pregnant-again woman who recently endured a miscarriage. Excited, yet...we know. Life has been ugly and we are no longer ignorant of loss. Every minute I am on the verge of tears. Even right this morning I brushed my teeth and nearly sobbed because of it all. The waiting. The paper work. The calls of hope. The calls of hope shattered. Let's face it, buckling a cranky girl in her car seat was not the moment I expected to learn I would be a mother again. And when we say "Yes!" we do wholeheartedly, but in the back of our minds we know the truth. We know nothing is guaranteed. We know this all could turn on its head in an instant.

And it does.

We made a game plan, as I sat in the van half backed out of the garage while the Bea whined in the back about having to be in a car seat when the car isn't moving. (and bless her little heart, she had no idea why everything changed in that moment) The good man and I planned our next moves. The rest of the day involved rushing to the bank to take out a loan for the placement fees. Packing all the things I could think that we might need for a hotel stay for a week (while the ICPC cleared). And calls to family because we need people ready to care for our little girl when we travel for a week!

I had a quick phone call with the out-of-state adoption agency and they said they were expecting placement to take place on Friday. FRIDAY. Three whole days of waiting to meet and hold our little boy. I gave myself a pep talk. "You can do this!"

The packing. Rather, the unpacking. Years of baby things bought, collected, prayed over, cried over. Things I had bought giddy and blissfully ignorant of a silly thing called "infertility." Things packed away some 9 years. Things I had forgotten about. Things I had thought about every. single. day. In the rush and hurry of the day, the crazy levels of anticipation and scurry, time stood still as I opened the lid of this special blue tote and dug inside. And for the first time in almost a decade there was actual hope pulsing through my veins.

The next two days flew by in a slow-motion frenzy. Holding my breath every second, remembering I'm traveling to meet our son and having a giddy/anxiety attack every time, packing, coordinating with family, looking at hotels flights, picking up baby things from friends...It sounds so simple and carefree typing it here. But every moment was bathed in anticipation. Every second counting down. I actually had the hours marked and was waiting for the call to travel. We have a son. He is in a different state. And we can't go meet him for the first time yet. I mean, time. is. frozen.

Thursday afternoon I sat in a pile of baby clothes and swaddles and I was stupid happy. I let go. I let myself go there. Stupid happy. Imagined the weight of his little body in the onesie I had bought 10 years ago. Imagined life in the hotel with him -- sleeping, cuddles, changing, bathing. And nursing. A friend gave me a Lact-aid, a nursing supplimenter system, and I just stared at it in disbelief. I'm really going to get to do this?!

I got up from my pile of baby treasures and called the case worker. Hoping for a good word.

Good news! The birth mom had signed the papers! I danced in the dining room.

But there was another glitch. Medical bills. The birth mom had been in the ICU before and after the birth, and it is agency policy that adoptive families pay the cost of the birth not covered by insurance. She didn't have insurance. And might not get Medicaid. And we won't know for sure for months. Could we pay her medical bills?

I stood in the kitchen and scolded myself for even opening that stupid box of baby things. For getting to my stupid happy place. And I thought, Jesus, why? What on this god-forsaken earth are you doing?! I could feel the rug being ripped out from under us. We couldn't pay. We could barely pay the placement fees, let alone the travel expenses. And the case manager said something to the effect of, "I hate to say no. I hate to let families down, especially when we get so far into it, but if I'm honest, I'm not sure I would be comfortable moving this forward with anyone at this point, just because we don't have a clear view of what the medical bills actually are." And it was comforting. Not comforting to the fact that we were losing this baby, but that it wasn't simply our lack of finances, just the overall unknown. Then I felt so guilty and sad. That little boy is still waiting and how long will he have to wait to go to his forever home? And I wanted to say, "Screw it!! We'll leave now." But I know that would be impossible. And we didn't feel any peace with the medical bills. Once that was an obstacle, we knew it wasn't right for our family. It wouldn't be fair to Bea, it wouldn't be fair to him.

[pause] Let's talk blame. Some people might read this and get mad. "Why would they get your hopes up?!" "How could they do that?" "Why didn't she have insurance if she knew she was pregnant?!" And my response to all those questions and comments is this:

It's not about us. It's not about me. It's about the baby who needs a family and the birthmom who is making the most selfless, self-aware decision of her life -- she is not able to give proper care. They, adoption agencies, don't mean to get our hopes up. It just happens. It's part of what we sign on for because we are parents at heart. They need to find families who can take placement now. This second. Who are willing to step up even without all the details. Because that baby is waiting and every second counts. As far as the insurance or the choices the birthmom makes -- I think it's safe to say that if she had made the all perfect decisions for all of her life she would not be in this situation. And we would not be getting this call. And we pour out grace and mercy and love, rather than anger and judgement. Because none of us is perfect. It's not my place to judge whether or not she has done the responsible thing in the past. It's not about me or what I think or my convenience. We don't know her story or the reasons she has for choosing adoption, or why she waited until the birth. She already has more courage and strength than I could ever hope to gain. No one is to blame, least of all the birthmom. So please, choose grace. Grace. Grace. Abundant grace. [unpause]

So we said our goodbyes. She had our profile on file and would call if anything came up. And I made my way to the bathroom because, in that crushing minute, I just got my period. Thirteen days late and of all days, at the moment I lost my baby boy, it shows up. How...fitting. And I packed up all the baby boxes and shoved them in the spare room.

I called Jason and told him. I put in a movie for the Bea. I made coffee. I did laundry. I fixed my bed. Like a homemaker zombie. I called my mom. She had scrambled at work to get some time off for when we traveled. She said she was still coming down the next day, just because.

For the next two days I was living in a shadow. I would think, I need to pack my diffuser. I need to ask Mom for her luggage, I need to get a new pack of contacts. Then I would remember, No. No, I don't. Because I'm not going anywhere. 

Friday...the day we were supposed to meet our boy.

My mom. Thank the Lord for my mom. She played and played with the Bea. All day Thursday and all day Friday. And I did laundry, ran the dishwasher, cleaned my room...and wept, sobbed, threw things without worry my little girl would see and wonder what Mama was sad-mad about. I lived as an emotionally and physically exhausted, crampy, weepy, shadowy zombie and it was okay.

Saturday we planned to go to an outdoorsman event downtown with Jason's family. And I was happy for the distraction, although being able to go to the event meant we weren't holding our baby. And it was hard to live with that hovering over every moment for the first few days. The future of us had looked different and now it was back to the same, which, don't get wrong, is amazing. I love our little family. I love our life. But man, we were so close. An almost mama zombie walking through the crowds and booths of fishing and hunting equipment.

Jason went that night to visit his grandma and I went to church with the Bea. Probably the most restorative worship I have ever experienced. Is that even a thing? I think so. It should be if it isn't. God sweeping down from heaven and healing part of my heart that felt dead, giving me just enough strength to feel less like a zombie. Reminding me of the purpose I have now, in this little beautiful life we have, not in the shadow of what would have been. God seeing me -- the woman who had a baby she never held, and bleeding. Sometimes we feel forgotten. Okay, a lot of the times. We grieving ones feel forgotten, unseen. And although no one talked to me that evening, and I'm kind of glad for a big church in that way, I felt seen by the Father.

And Sunday...Sunday was good.