Waiting

“I don’t know how much longer I can wait.” Stephen said as he hunched over and put his head in his hands. “It’s been ten hours of waiting and there was only so much hospital cafeteria coffee that I can drink.” 

“It could be awhile longer, remember, we waited 23 hours for Lucy.” I reminded him as I checked my watch for the fifteenth time in the last 30 minutes. The waiting room chair dug into the middle of my back and I wiggled trying to get more comfortable. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh light on the eerily silent room, that just a couple of hours ago had been filled with family members of expectant women. 

Stephen and I had tried for five long years to get pregnant after we were married. We spent thousands of dollars on medical testing, painful fertility treatments, and two rounds of invitro fertilization. The first miscarriage shook us. We had such high hopes when the test came back positive, but we were still getting used to the idea of growing our family when at 6 weeks I miscarried. The second miscarriage was devastating. We had a full 14 weeks to settle into the idea. We started buying baby equipment and had emptied out the guest room to become the nursery.  My mood became dark and gloomy. I struggled to get up in the morning and wrestled falling asleep at night despite what felt like to one hundred pounds of exhaustion. I blamed myself for our combined inability to grow our family. I was mad at the world and took it out on Stephen. The stress was putting a strain on our marriage and we were fighting all the time. 

“The nurse knows we are here, right? They will come and get us when he comes.” Stephen said as I put my hand on her bouncing leg trying to calm him down. 

“Yes, they know we are here, the care worker also knows that we are here and has the paperwork ready.” I said calmly despite by own anxiety rising. 

After the miscarriages, I started therapy for the depression.  We began marriage counseling once I got the depression under control. We talked a lot. We discussed hard subjects. We overcame blame and insecurities. Stephen didn't believe in therapy initially, but the counselor helped us to communicate better, accept our fate and really enjoy each other. We emerged from our life altering experiences a stronger happier couple living in the present and take life as it comes to us. 

Which is why, when we got the call from a friend at our church asking if we would like to foster a baby whose mother was in drug rehab, we said yes.

“Do you remember the night we first held Lucy?” I asked Stephen. “She was so tiny, pink little lips, long delicate fingers, and only a wisp of blond hair?” 

“Of course, I do, she was only slightly bigger than my hand.” Stephen reminisced with a hint of a smile.   He got up from the chair. “I need to take a walk”. He was still struggling with the decision made just a month prior to foster another baby. 

We became a family three short years ago on a bright sunny morning where the world shines a little bit brighter and the colors are a little bit bolder. Despite Stephen’s apprehension, he was an amazing father. We fell into our little routine. Stephen would leave for work, Lucy and I would clean the house, play games, take walks in the park, and nap until it was time for Stephen to come home. Stephen would take over and play with Lucy and give her a bath while I finished dinner.

Lucy was only with us for six months before her birth mom was discharged from rehab and reclaimed her right to raise Lucy. The rain and wind had caused all the fall colors to disappear into brown heaps on the ground and the days were staring to get shorter and darker. Packing up her tiny pink clothes and her blanket with the fuzzy white bunny, her diaper bag with extra formula, bottles, and her favorite doll through the tears has challenging, but handing her off to Lucy’s case worker was unbearable. Our routine fell apart and we restarted counseling. We resettled into the new normal as just the two of us. I returned to work in the office and Stephen started working out after work again. 

Three months later, Stephen and I, with the marriage counselor, worked through the ramifications of accepting Lucy back into our home and family without a promise of adoption when her birth mom ended up back on drugs and in jail. Despite the potential heart break of losing Lucy again, we felt we needed to embrace the present and provide her a stable home. She was only nine months at the time and had already been through so much. It took a while to get back into our routine. Lucy did not take her regular naps and no longer slept well at night. She was clingier and just appeared to crave the love that we provided. 

A week before Lucy’s first birthday, we received an envelope from Lucy’s caseworker with a letter from her birth mom. She wanted to see Lucy. The case worker arranged for a supervised visit. We sat in one room at the courthouse, while Lucy’s birth mom was in another. The Case Worker was responsible to take Lucy from our room to the room where her birth mom was residing. Lucy was just starting to walk and was skilled at waving “bye-bye”, which she did vigorously when she went away. It took all my strength to lift my arm to provide her the return wave that she craved. All we could do as foster parents was to sit and pray. He held each other hands and our breath for what felt like eternity, but in reality, was only 25 minutes. The traumatic experience for us appeared to be a slight blip in the bubbly toddler’s short life.

The sky was just starting to turn that light blue that occurs before the sun makes it entrance. Stephen came back and handed me a half-eaten bag of candy from the vending machine. “Any word?” he inquired?

 “No, not yet.” I said looking at my watch once again and mentally running through my list. The car seat was in the car. Bottles, formula and diapers were purchased and ready. Tiny clothes were washed and folded. The bassinet was brought out of storage. 

For 3 months we waited for the call to send Lucy back to her mom. The call finally came while eating dinner on a wet grey spring day. Lucy was 15 months old, blond erratic curls on top of her head laughing as she pushed the peas around on her tray. The tulips out the window had just bloomed, and the grass was still damp from the spring rain that afternoon. The sky was turning into a mottled pink as the sun tried to peak out from the horizon to remind us it was still around before it set for the night.  Instead of the devastating news we expected, Lucy’s case worked let us know that Lucy’s birth mom had decided to relinquish all rights. She wanted to know if we wanted to make the arrangement permanent and adopt Lucy. Between tears and smiles we said yes. Lucy became a permanent part of our lives in a small ceremony at the courthouse on a warm sunny day. 

“Did you check on Lucy?” Stephen said as he grabbed his phone.

“Why don’t you text my mom and see how she did today. I’m sure Lucy is sleeping.” I also checked my phone for an answer to an unasked question. 

The case worker called a month ago. Lucy’s birth mom was pregnant again, strung out on drugs, and in jail. The case worker wanted to know if we wanted to foster Lucy’s stepbrother. We struggled with the decision knowing well the risks and the struggles and adding in the impact on Lucy with the potential uncertainty. We researched, talked, and prayed before deciding that we wanted to take the opportunity to give the baby a solid start in life. 

“What did they say about the withdrawal symptoms?” Stephen asked for about the hundredth time. 

“Possibly tremors, crying, trouble breathing, sweating, fever, and inability to eat and it could last for up to five days. They did say there was a treatment that they could give the him if needed. They also said since the birth mom has been in jail and taking a low dose of methadone for the past month, it might not be as bad.” I repeated as if reading a public service announcement. 

“What if there are other problems” He asked nervously. 

“Then we will deal with it” I said calmly

“What if he has to stay in the hospital?”

“That is what we have insurance for.”

“What is Lucy doesn’t get along with the Baby”

“She will”

“What if….” He stopped, not finishing the unmentionable fact that the situation may not be permanent. 

I placed my hand on his knee. “We can handle this. We can handle it together. Want some more M&Ms?” I said as I handed him the bag.  

Just then the doctor came with a smile on his face and wanted to know if we wanted to see the baby boy.