At the beginning of my pregnancy, I was unsure of what I was to do. I wanted to badly to keep my baby, and raise it as best I could. The father wasn't involved. I knew financially I could manage it; my parents had already offered their help. My parents wanted what was best for me and the baby, and so they wanted to support me in whatever I decided. However, it still confused me as to what I should do. I remember distinctly when I truly began thinking about adoption as an option for me and my child.
I had already been in the hospital once for cramping and pains. This was the second time, only this time fluids were accompanying the cramping. So my mom drove me to the hospital. I was lying on the bed, for who knows how long that day. The doctor, having already examined me, walked in with my results. He said that the pains were indeed contractions and the fluid was amniotic fluid that was leaking from my womb. I took the news pretty well. They told me that they would be transferring me to the hospital in town that had the best neonatal unit, because if my contractions got worse, my baby would not live more than a few hours, a day at most. I was only about 20 weeks pregnant. The doctor went to make the necessary calls for the ambulance to come. I was staring at the ceiling, taking in what I had just heard. Mom walked over to the bed, put her hand on mine, and asked if I was ok. I said I was ok, but when she asked “are you sure” I burst out in tears. I didn’t want to lose my baby. It was not fair to him, he was losing so much because of me, Who knows what he would be missing out on! I couldn't imagine my little baby being in an incubator, with me holding only his hand for a short time. It would be my fault that he didn't live, my fault that he would miss out on an amazing life. It would be unbearable!
The doctor came back in a while later, said that the hospital in Calgary had no beds. He told me to head home, told my mother the signs to watch for to take me into the hospital, and ordered me to bed rest.I got home from the hospital, and dad helped me down the stairs onto the couch where I was to spend my sentence. My normal obstetrician was a friend of dad’s. Dad was worried, so he called Dr. J, and J ordered us to the hospital in town that he delivered at, because he wanted to look at me himself. He said many things can cause the amniotic tests to come out positive. So we went. Dr. J met us up at the hospital and he’d check me himself, did ultrasounds, and check my fluid levels. He also did a sample to which he checked the fluid under a microscope to see if it was amniotic fluid, instead of just the “swab changing-colors” test. He finally came back and said it was not amniotic fluid but I was having contractions and I could go home, but I was to rest and stay lying down for a week or two until the contractions stopped.Being on the couch for a week or two gave me plenty of time to think. I thought I had almost lost my child, and I was so upset about all the things he’d miss out on. I was so scared as to all the things he would miss because he didn’t get to be in this life. He wouldn’t get to grow up, or experience anything in life.Then when I found out that he was safe for the time being, my mind began to turn, and I started thinking about all the things he wouldn’t get to do in life if he lived. If I kept him. He would miss out on so many things. He wouldn’t have a daddy to show him how to throw a ball, or ride a bike; nor a mom to be there for him, to teach him right from wrong – as I would be working or going to school to support us. We probably wouldn’t be able to afford teams, or extracurriculars. Who would teach him how to treat a woman, or how to do all those “manly things”? Or all those other things that only a daddy can teach his son? How could I raise a baby by myself, when I hardly knew how to take care of myself? I would never be around, someone at a daycare would end up raising him, not me. I wanted him to be raised by a mother who could stay home and teach him. I wanted him to have a dad. I wanted him to have more than I could give him.
A few months passed, and I was 5 months pregnant when I made the decision to place my baby boy for adoption. I was tired of bouncing back and forth between the options of keeping him, or placing him. I knew I had to make a decision – mostly for my own sanity. I knew that once I made a decision, I would feel much better about moving forward, than if I just kept weighing the options. I knew that if I just made a decision, I would know sooner or later, if it was the right one.At first I had decided to keep him, but as soon as I had made that decision, the most awful, upsetting, soul-crushing feeling came over me. It was the worst pain I had ever felt. All afternoon I had that crushing feeling, and even though I thought I had made my decision, I started wondering if it was the right one. That same night, I changed my stance to adoption; the pains were gone immediately and peace and contentment washed over me. However, with those awful feelings gone, new ones replaced them, these were much different. These feelings were my own self longing for my child, missing him already. It was pure anguish of a mother losing her child. But I knew it was the right decision for my baby, and it was what he needed, and to me, a mother's job is to give her child what they need.I started looking through profiles at the adoption agency I attended. They gave me 10 to look at while I was in the office, and allowed me to take 3 or 4 home until my next visit, then I’d look at another 10, and take another 3 or 4 home to study, and so on. Two of the very first four I took home I continually took home week after week. They were my favorite couples. Weeks had passed and it was September and I had gone through all the profiles in the province and some in the next province to the west of us, but one of those first couples I continued to take home with me. I was out of options. I didn’t know what to do. I knew I liked this couple, but I hadn’t had a strong feeling of “this is them”. I felt so discouraged because I thought that I would instantly know who was meant to be this precious baby’s parents. After talking about it with my adoption Councillor, he told me sometimes meeting a couple can give that feeling I was looking for. So I decided to meet this couple that I had liked from the beginning. I was so nervous about it; however, everything seemed to fall into place that week. I was beginning to be optimistic. Although I had many nights of tears and pleading in prayer for God to say it was best for me to keep him, much of the time I had peace in my decision. December 2006 came, and I was 38 weeks pregnant. My back was in pain so much that I could hardly walk up and down the stairs at my parents’ home. My sister, who was a doula, had flown up from California to be with me during the birth, and be there for me afterwards. My doctor knew well of my situation (I found out years later he was adopted). He knew that I wanted my Aparents to be at the birth, and he knew how distressed I was. I wound up in tears in his office one day; it was a Wednesday. Waiting for the day that I would give birth to my son, and then say goodbye to him was more than I could bear. I did not know when this day would be, and everyday grew harder and harder for me to wait for. I wanted to still be pregnant, to stay with my little one as long as I could, but knowing that he would soon be gone was too much for me. So my doctor made a call, and scheduled my induction the following Saturday. I felt like a weight was lifted off of my shoulders. I could now emotionally prepare for the day, because I knew when it would be.Plans were made; the adoptive parents drove the 3 hour drive from where they lived to where I was. My sister (the Douala), my mother, my birthmother specialist, the adoptive mom, a nurse and my doctor were all there with me. There was no waiting room, and so the adoptive dad was stuck in the cafeteria. Once things got going however, the nurse suggested that the adoptive dad come stand outside the curtain to hear the baby's first cry. I was induced at 8am and had my water broken at around 2pm. I started pushing at about 7pm, but the baby's head got stuck at about 745 and so for an hour and a half he was crowned, but stuck. Then after that grueling hour and a half (thank you epidural!!) I was finally able to push him out. On December 9th, 2006, with my son's mom holding one of my knees with her hand on my forehead, and my son's dad outside the curtain listening, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy at 9:20pm. He weighed 7lbs .5 oz and was 21 inches long. We all cried and the adoptive mom cut the cord. The nurse placed my baby boy on my chest and let me hold him for around half hour before she took him. Me and his mom held each other, and held our baby and cried with each other. My mom held up a sheet to cover my lower half so my son's dad could look in through the curtain (I’d like to point out that he was the first one crying hehe).Adoptive dad came into the room once I was all fixed up, and we all just took turns holding our son/nephew/grandchild. We cried, and laughed. We watched together as he got weighed, measured, poked, warmed and wrapped. Then we took turns again holding this little bundle of pure joy and perfection. Pictures were taken by the hundreds, videos were made. Our son came into this world under the most perfect circumstances there could be – with all of us there.I spent 2 amazing nights in the hospital with my son - for he was truly mine for those 2 days. My favorite song since then has been "Awake" by Josh Groban. For those two days that song was EXACTLY how I felt. "Keep me awake, to memorize you, give us more time to be this way, we can’t stay like this forever, but I can have you next to me today". His parents were so gracious to let me have those 2 days with him. They came to visit on Sunday night for a couple hours. Monday afternoon was the placement.The adoptive parents spent the morning with us, to help us get ready and to have the nurses at the hospital "train" them. I gave them a few things that I had bought for the baby – a couple outfits, blankets, etc. Then they pulled out a couple packages for me. The first one was a “finished” scrapbook for me to put in pictures they send me. The second was a gold locket so I could always keep him close to my heart.The baby and I were released, the papers were signed, and the adoptive parents left to give me a last few moments with my baby boy. They would meet us in the room where the placement would occur. I fed him one last time, changed him, and put him in his new outfit I had specially picked for this day (it said "Thank heaven for little boys" for surely that’s what we were all doing). I wrapped him in the blanket I made him. I had nothing left to do to get him ready, so I sat on the bed and cried. My mother came in and wrapped arms around me and cried with me. This beautiful baby boy, that looked like me, that was perfect in every way, was mine for a few moments longer. I have never begged God for something so much in my life. I wanted to keep him; I knew the God wouldn’t change his mind, but I begged. These last moments were nothing short of anguish. Pure anguish. We gathered our things, and went down the hall. My father and three sisters were waiting for us, as was the adoptive parents and their sister and her two kids, my birth specialist, and the adoption agent. We took some pictures, cried, and talked a little more, cried again. Then we had nothing really left to do but for me to place my little boy in his new mother's arms. I gave my little boy over to his new, and eternal, mother. We hugged, and kissed and cried one last time. We took a few pictures together with me and his new family, and I tried my best to smile, but I was miserable inside. Happy for them, but absolutely and utterly miserable. I kissed my little boy, touched noses with him and whispered in his ear "I'm your mommy, baby, please don’t forget me." Then, with my family, I left.
Leaving the hospital was the worst experience, by far, that I have ever had. I cried the whole way. “Cried” doesn’t even explain it. I sobbed, for lack of a better word. I hugged a teddy bear that my birth mother specialist had given me and sobbed I looked up a few times to see people staring at me with curiosity and sympathy – if only they knew what I had just been through they would not stare. My family came in two cars, so my dad took everyone home in his truck, and me and my mom went in hers. She helped me to the car, and I when I got into the car, she wrapped her arms around me and held me. She was whispering something to me, but I didn’t really hear her. All I could think about was that I was leaving without my baby. I do remember her saying how proud of me she was and how much she loved me.
That afternoon, I got home, and I slept. That’s all I wanted to do. I cried, and slept. I slept with his first receiving blanket that he ever was wrapped in. I just wanted to smell him, to be near to something of his. I needed part of him near me. I had the locket on that the adoptive parents gave me, and I was so grateful for it. I never took it off.
That night, I was given a few things from my sisters, to help me feel better (physically) – lotions, some nicer sweatpants until I could fit into my prepreggo things, a candle, etc. My mother gave me a necklace named “mother and child”, and a wooden figurine called “Keepsake: Kept Forever in the Heart”. Little things to help me and remind me. But nothing could satisfy the longing that a mother feels when she doesn’t bring her child home.
I remember nights waking up thinking I heard him crying (If you’ve ever heard of a ghost limb, after its been amputated the person still feels like they can feel it itching because the brain hasn’t registered that the limb is gone), it was like my body and my brain didn’t realize he was gone. I heard him crying, I would wake up thinking I needed to feed him. I would wake up in a panic not knowing where he was. My arms ached to hold him. My heart just wanted him near. Every fiber of my being yearned, ached, and pleaded for him. My only comfort was knowing he was where he needed to be; that he was better off where he was; that there was a mother who felt a similar yearning to hold a child in her arms who was now holding the child I yearned for. Some people would think this shouldn’t comfort me, but knowing that some woman’s yearnings had been satisfied gave me comfort to know that maybe one day mine would be too.
My little boy is now 9 years old. I have seen him several times - they even came to my wedding! We talk at least once a week, through email, or facebook, or phone calls. Our lives are truly entwined. They include me in their lives, and I include them in mine. Neither of us could ever imagine not having the other, and I would never change a thing.
I miss him all the time, but I love seeing his smiles, his laughs, and where his curious mind leads him. I love hearing stories of the havoc he produces at home as all little boys do, and how the first thing his mother thinks to do in those situations is to take a picture! He loves his dad and his little brother. They are all just best buds! His mother is the sweetest, kindest, most patient woman in the world. She has become someone that I strive to be more like.
I now have my own two little girls and a little boy, and am married to the most wonderful man in the world - my highschool crush. My husband is the most amazing dad to my 3 children. My birth son's parents want my birth son to know who I am and to always know how much I love him.
Although placing my son for adoption was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do (and most likely will ever have to do) I never regret it. He’s happy and it made me happy too. Seeing him grow up, even from a far, I’ve found joy in his joy. He is such a blessing to his family, and to mine. He saved me from a life down the wrong path. I turned my life around so he would one day be proud to call me his birth mother, and in doing so I found a life of happiness and joy in itself. I didn’t give him up, I gave him life and found, through him, a life worth living.
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