Chapter 2

 “Well they’re just selfish!” The statement bounced off of my eardrums, convicting me at least twenty times a day.  I love Juno, but not at times such as these.  When we thought about adopting our fourth child, people felt free to share their opinions.  “That’s a lot of kids,” “You know, you are getting old,” and “There are so many other families waiting,” were typical responses from well-meaning family and friends.  While viewing our books, birth mothers were hesitant to place their babies in a large family. “It looks like they have run out of room!” Our dreams of a large family seemed to fade a bit with each comment.  Maybe we were out of line.

          We had been very blessed through domestic adoption.  Our first daughter, Lydia, was relinquished with a closed adoption; we brought her home at three months.  Our son, David, was relinquished in an open adoption (letters and pictures), coming home at three weeks.  With child #3, we decided to change venues and were licensed through a private adoption agency.  We embarked on our first “wide-open” adoption, were matched pre-labor, experienced doctor visits and the birth of our son Elijah, bringing him home from the hospital two days later.

          Our adoption journey so far had been ideal: were we pushing the envelope? Yet, I could not shake the hope for a fourth child.  I sought counseling, thinking maybe the scar of infertility was pushing me toward relentless desire for one more. 

          We tried embryo adoption.  Those who have attempted In Vitro Fertilization have the option of placing the remaining embryos in the care of doctors/caretakers who then select “adopting” families.  We were selected, and hopeful – twice.  The first attempt was a devastating failure; none of the embryos “took.”  The second attempt showed some promise. 

          I was pregnant!  They had transferred three embryos, so we were not sure how pregnant I was.  I remember going in for a scan and being thankful for one heart beat: we would have one more child. 

          It was not long after that I allowed myself to start dreaming.  I scheduled an appointment with my OBGYN to begin prenatal care, and started thinking about what our child would look like.  I envisioned a little girl with brown curls and clung to that thought.  I would not have to fear the first year, wondering if someone would take her away.  I would be able to carry a child from the hospital, confident of her place in our family.

          On our way to the final appointment with our fertility doctor, we were both giddy with excitement; today we would see our baby on the fetal monitor.  I laid down on the cold table, Paul sitting to my left, holding my hand as we prepared to take our first look.  The doctor, to my right, greeted us as he prepared the monitor.  It had been a long road together and we all were anticipating the joy of this new life.

         “Is that his little arm?” Paul inquired, sitting forward a bit in his chair, pointing.  Tension slowly grew in the silent response, as the doctor shuffled in his chair and turned the screen away from us.  Death.  The moment was surreal.  “I’m sorry,” was his reply, his eyes downcast as he motioned to the nurse to leave the room, “the baby did not survive. You should stop taking your hormones and it will pass from your body naturally. Take your time and come out when you are ready.” 

          Ready?  How could I ever be ready?  Emptiness filled that room, devastation, hope banging loudly off the walls and crashing to the floor.  As the silent splinters of my heart fell I could barely breathe. 

          There were no tears, just a knot in the pit of my stomach.  The baby was dead and everyone knew it.  I walked quickly to escape the well-meaning glances – I wanted to run out of there.  Somehow we managed a silent walk, down the elevator and into the car, and began our journey home. 

          Our three little loves were there to greet us as we walked in the door.  I cherished their smiles as they ran, their little arms wrapping excitedly around me.  They did not know where we had gone, only that we had returned.  We spared them the details, not even wanting to make mention of the pregnancy until after today’s appointment.  It turned out that we did not need to tell them of the dream that almost was.  They would remain blissfully unaware, as it should be.