Baby Blues

Though I will be the one narrating this story from my perspective, this is not solely my story. I will do my best to be fair in my depiction. This is my version of our story. 

I was adopted by my family at three weeks old. I grew up in a traditional household, surrounded by a loving family, including a large extended family. 

As I entered my teenage years, I became emotional and disgruntled, like many teenagers facing the angst of growing up. My parents were always wrong, and I was being held back from living my best, most authentic life, this led to some turbulence between me and my mom. 

At 18, I began dating Dave. He was with me when I decided to go to the health department to get on birth control. Dave waited in my van as I went in.  

As I was leaving, halfway through the parking lot, I heard a panicked female voice calling my name from behind. My stomach twisted into knots; “What did she want, and why was it so urgent?” I kept walking while I tried to work out what was

 happening. 

“I’m so sorry, honey, but I need you to come back inside with me.” After she took the birth control back, with my shoulders slumped and my head hanging down, I left. I jumped into my van, where my new beau was waiting for me.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“I’m pregnant,” I spat, throwing the paperwork I had been gripping in my palm that showed the anticipated due date. I drove him home in silence. 

I found out a couple of weeks later at my first ultrasound that my friend Nick, and not Dave, was the father of my child.

Both Nick and Dave had dated my friend Lucy. Lucy had been living with her mom in another state and had just moved back into town with her dad.

I had been at Lucy’s dad’s house one morning, when I finally got the nerve to tell her I was pregnant by Nick omitting details about Dave. I knew if I had mentioned Dave, whom she still had strong feelings for, it wouldn’t have gone well.

Lucy encouraged me to call Nick.

When he answered I panicked, and the words spilled out, “Well, I just called to tell you I’m pregnant and it’s yours, but I don’t need anything from you. I just…” I paused for a moment. “I just wanted you to know. Go back to sleep. Just call me when you’re up!” And I quickly hung up the phone.

“Do you have a plan?” he asked tentatively.

“Not really. I’m telling my mom tomorrow. I think adoption might be an option,” I explained. Being adopted myself and sorely unprepared to be a parent, it felt like the right decision.

“Yeah, that might be a good option.” The relief in his voice was crushing.

The next morning, the weight of it all pressed down on me as I made my way downstairs. My mom was in the kitchen, sipping her coffee, blissfully unaware of the storm that was about to hit. I stood in the doorway for a moment, trying to gather the courage to step inside. 

“Mom, we need to talk,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper.

Tears filled my eyes as I anxiously tore up a small post-it noteAs the words slipped from my tongue, the tears began flowing down my face. “I’m pregnant.”

The defeated, empty look in her eyes felt as though I had lost her respect for good this time.

She finished our talk with a suggestion, ”I’ll tell your father, but I think it would be best if you weren’t here when I did.”

After that day, my father could hardly glance in my direction, and he didn’t speak a word to me directly until the day of my delivery.

A week after divulging my situation, Lucy had come to stay the night at my house. 

When I woke up the following morning, I was surprised to realize Lucy wasn’t there. 

I saw my journal on the desk next to my bed, sitting open. Lucy and I regularly made a habit of reading each other's journals, but she hadn’t come over for months, and I hadn’t thought to put it away. Acid began to rise up my chest and flood into my throat. I slowly walked over and looked down at my journal, which was open to the page where I divulged the events of my first night with Dave.

“Dammit.” I muttered under my breath. 

The days and weeks that followed Lucy’s abrupt departure were a blur. I found out that she had told two of our other friends that I had slept with their ex- boyfriends as well, this was untrue. I made feeble attempts to talk to my friends, but ultimately allowed them to cut themselves out of my life. 

The worst part of Lucy’s blow back had involved Nick. 

“Hey, I just wanted to fill you in on how it went today, if you are interested.” I was still hesitant about how to talk to Nick about these things.

 “Maybe you should call Dave.” He snarked. 

I closed my eyes and let his words linger on the line, while I attempted to calm myself. “I guess you’ve spoken to Lucy.” It wasn’t a question, I already knew. 

“Yep. I just don’t think I want any part of this.” He told me in a matter-of-fact tone. Nick’s words felt like a punch to the gut. His casual dismissal of the situation left me feeling more isolated than ever. 

I felt completely defeated, “Ok, you’ll still have to sign paperwork, but I’ll have the agency talk to you about that. For the record the baby is yours, but it doesn’t really matter,” without a goodbye I hung up the phone. 

During my fourth month of pregnancy, I found myself sitting at the adoption agency once again, with my social worker Kate. 

“We have portfolios of potential families, you can browse through the couples then we will set up interviews with them.” Kate informed me. She explained that the adoption process had evolved since my own adoption. I had what is known as a closed adoption.

“These days an open adoption is considered a better option for the child.” Kate informed me. 

I was torn between the idea of an open adoption and my own experience with a closed one. I couldn’t imagine the emotional impact of the open adoption process at the time. It all sounded very cordial and even pleasant

I spent the next hour and a half working my way through portfolios of hopeful couples. Eventually, I picked up a green scrapbook, the letter inside told me that the couple were Gaelic musicians. The mention of Irish roots struck a chord, and their life as musicians intrigued me. I informed Kate I would like to set up a meeting. 

On the day of our meeting, my heart pounded in my chest; I tried to steady my breathing as we approached the meeting room. Kate exchanged pleasantries with my parents, but I could barely focus on their conversation. 

Finally, in walked a nervous-looking woman with light eyes and dark red hair, accompanied by a small-statured man with a handsome face and a charming smile. 

The meeting was brief, lasting only thirty minutes. Shannon, the woman, and her husband, Jim, shared their story—how devastated they’d been when they found out they couldn’t have children. 

I didn’t speak much during the meeting. Even though I was the one carrying the baby, it felt like the conversation was more between my parents and the potentials.

By this point, I had begun the process of stockpiling my earnings from both jobs. A nagging voice in my head told me that maybe if I worked hard enough over the next few months, I’d be able to raise my baby myself. My days began with a 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift at Subway, a 3 p.m. to 4 p.m. class, then home for a little sleep before my 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. shift at the center.

At 22 weeks along, Jim and Shannon met me at my doctor’s office for my first ultrasound. The nurse peeked out and called my name. I stood and gestured for Jim and Shannon to follow. The nurse looked intrigued. “Who do you have with you today?”

The words caught in my throat, but Shannon, beaming, filled the silence. “We’re the adoptive parents!”

My chest constricted, heat rushing to my face. I was angry at her excitement, hurt that I couldn’t share in the same joy about my own pregnancy. I reminded myself that I wanted them to be excited about becoming parents. I nodded at the nurse, acknowledging Shannon’s words.

I lay on the exam bed, shifting uncomfortably as I pulled my shirt up and tugged my pants down just enough to expose my growing belly. The paper lining the bed crinkled beneath me as I adjusted, the sterile smell of the room mixing with the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. The doctor entered with a reassuring smile, a small bottle of clear gel in hand. “This might feel a little cold,” she warned, though the gel was pre-warmed, spreading across my skin with a cool, slippery sensation. He pressed the ultrasound wand gently against my belly and began to move it in slow, deliberate circles.

On the screen an image forms, it’s no longer the image of a kidney bean, the image from inside me had a head, legs, and arms. 

My doctor used the mouse to point to a dark spot on the monitor. After a few clicks he turns to me, “You’re having a girl.”

Shannon and Jim gasped in delight, their voices filled with joy as they spoke to each other in hushed tones. But I barely heard them. My mind was racing, images of my daughter flashing before me. For the first time, I was meeting someone who shared my DNA, someone who might look like me. 

The ultrasound ended, and the doctor wiped the gel from my belly, offering me a soft smile. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice gentle. “Your baby girl looks healthy and strong.” I knew I had to make the hardest decision of my life, and the clock was ticking.

The weight of my situation pressed down on me more heavily each day, and my mental stability began to waver. I decided to reach out to my older sister, Robin. 

When I called Robin, I poured out my distress. She listened patiently before reminding me of her friend Nysa, who had also been a birth mother. Robin mentioned that Nysa had recently offered to talk with me, should I ever feel the need to speak with someone who understood what I was going through.

Grateful for the lifeline, I thanked Robin, hung up, and dialed Nysa’s number.

We exchanged a pleasant greeting, and I expressed my gratitude.I started to pour out my worries about the impending adoption. “I know I’ve been a mess, but since finding out I’ve been working two full-time jobs and going to school. With just a little help, I think I could be a good mom.” The last few words came out as sobs. 

Nysa ended up explaining that she saw her biological son only once a year but had phone calls with his parents every other month or so. 

Before I let Nysa go, I had one more very important question. “Will you come to the hospital when I deliver?” 

Like the angel she’s been for me, answered, “Nothing in this world could stop me.” 

Two more weeks passed before I spoke to my social worker again. She was giving me a rundown of what to expect at the hospital when I delivered.

1. I would have to sign her copy of the original birth certificate. I could choose to give her a name, but it would most likely be changed by the adoptive parents.

2. Jim and Shannon could be called before, during, or after labor—whatever I decided.

3. Kate would come in on the day of discharge to handle the “exchange.”

As I left her office, I was already overwhelmed and disgusted by the idea of an “exchange.” But my mind kept drifting back to the birth certificate. I placed my hand on the bulge on the left side of my belly. “What should I name you, love?” I let my thoughts wander through little girl names, humming a nursery rhyme to my baby girl still cuddled comfortably inside me. She always started kicking whenever I hummed or sang to her. Maybe it was her way of asking me to stop, but it felt like our special connection, a bonding moment we shared every day.

Then, as I sifted through a mental list of names, a light went off. “I think your name is Nadia,” I whispered to her. I felt her turn over, and a smile spread across my face. I was satisfied that she seemed pleased with Nadia.

Later that evening, I emailed Shannon to ask if they had chosen a name. She replied quickly, expressing that they had—and that they planned to use my name as her middle name. I felt a surge of gratitude, knowing that she would carry a part of me with her. 

The morning I went into labor, I struggled to my feet and made my way down the hallway to my parents’ room. I hadn’t spoken to my dad in months, but I needed him now more than ever. I gently nudged him awake, my voice trembling, “Can you bring me to the hospital, please?”

I had decided not to call Jim and Shannon until after the birth. My labor stretched on for eight and a half hours, with my mom and sister by my side. With my final push, my beautiful miracle emerged into the world and was placed directly into my arms.

In that moment, the entire world seemed to fade away as I savored the profound connection between Nadia and me. She was real, she was my family, she was perfect. In my heart and soul, she was mine.

The next three days were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Each moment with Nadia felt like a precious gift, and I clung to her with a fierce, protective love. I refused to let her leave my side, sleeping with her nestled in my arms, her tiny body warm against my chest.

My parents, who had been distant and disapproving throughout my pregnancy, began to soften. For a brief, fleeting moment, I felt a glimmer of the support I had longed for.

On the morning of the third day, as the hospital room buzzed with the inevitable approach of Jim and Shannon, Nysa arrived to offer her support. Her presence was a comforting balm, a reminder that, despite the whirlwind of emotions, I was not entirely alone. 

As Jim and Shannon entered my hospital room, I pulled Nadia tightly against my chest. The excitement on their faces was a stark contrast to my tear-streaked cheeks and the purple bruising from my sobbing. My parents greeted them with smiles and open arms, and I struggled to navigate the conflicting emotions of loss and betrayal. Nysa sat next to me, her hand firm on my back, whispering, “You’re all going to be okay. You’re so strong.” I didn’t feel strong.

Jim turned on his video camera, capturing the moment I would place Nadia in her new mother’s arms. The worst moment of my life was being recorded. I sobbed uncontrollably, feeling as though all the air had been sucked from the room. I kissed my baby girl goodbye and handed her to Shannon.

I watched in anguish as Jim and Shannon recorded themselves singing Gaelic lullabies to their new daughter. Then, Shannon turned to us and announced that they had decided to use a completely new name, one that no longer included mine as her middle name.

When my parents brought me home, I went straight to my bed and wept . My heart had literally been ripped from my body, and I lay there, bleeding out, alone.

That evening, as I emerged from my room to grab a glass of water, my mom was in the kitchen. I told her how much I was hurting, how it felt like a wound that might never heal. My dad walked in, and I saw pain in his eyes too. “Maybe we could put a nursery in the guest room?” he suggested to my mom. For a moment, my heart stopped. I turned with a hopeful look toward her.

My mother’s face contorted in outrage. “How can you even say that? Can you imagine what it would do to them? You can’t just rip her away from Jim and Shannon! No way!”

My knees gave way, and I collapsed into a puddle on the kitchen floor. I couldn’t understand why my mom cared more about the pain of this couple she barely knew over her daughter. It was as though she felt they were more deserving of being my child’s parent more than I was. I would hold onto this assessment and take on her judgment of my inadequacies as my own, for years to come. 

My dad, who just last week was still reeling with disgust and shame over my getting pregnant, became my advocate, he spoke angrily to my mother about her harsh treatment. His words muffled in my ears, my mind was shutting down.

I eventually made my way back to bed, where I would remain for the next ten days. Mourning the loss of my Nadia, feeling the emptiness in my belly and working to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.