You never get what you expect and things rarely turn out as you plan. My first adoption took seven years; two countries, two home studies (and three updates), three lost referrals, many thousands of non-refundable dollars, and a five month stay in India. My beautiful, healthy daughter has been worth every moment of frustration and heartbreak, and I would do it all again to bring her home.
The time and expense were problematic for me though, and as a single mom who wanted to parent two children, I found myself in a pickle. Though I started my family at the age of 35, I was 42 by the time my first child arrived, and by the time I could even contemplate another adoption, I was almost 46. I was now too old to adopt a child younger than my daughter almost anywhere, including India. In addition, I was still struggling to recover from the financial havoc my first adoption created (when all was said and done, it cost nearly $50,000, more than twice what I made per year).
I chose Russia because their laws allowed me the opportunity to adopt an eighteen-month-old child. I was willing to consider a girl with special needs.
I received a referral for Aleksandra, a toddler with a rough history, who had begun her life in the orphanage after a hospital stay for multiple skull fractures at the age of 8 months. She was described as delayed, and had a staggering list of allergies in her medical record. Because of the risk of learning disabilities, coupled with her birth parents history of substance abuse, she was considered difficult to place, and the adoption fees had been reduced to encourage interested families. With trepidation, I decided to adopt her. With the financial help from A Child Waits Foundation, and the magic of credit cards, I paid my fees and booked my flights.
The week of Christmas, I traveled alone to Siberia to see Aleksandra. I met her for the first time on Christmas Eve, and saw her again on Christmas day before making the long trip home again. I was not encouraged. The poor mite had chicken pox, and besides the pox sores, she was covered head to toe with a crusty scaly rash I was told was caused by her food allergies. She seemed to be in a trance, largely unresponsive, and kept falling asleep. I was told it was the medication for the chicken pox. The orphanage staff made every effort to convince me she had a livelier side, but I couldn't see it while I was there. I was terrified that she was profoundly developmentally disabled.
The weeks after I returned home from the first trip were filled with anxiety. I talked with friends, social workers, doctors, nurses, pretty much anyone who would listen to me worry out loud. I was very relieved when the international adoption doctor I consulted with told me it was common in Russia to give children barbiturates for chicken pox, and that she didn't believe the orphanage staff would intentionally mislead me about her ability to connect and respond. I decided to adopt her, and returned to Russia six weeks later to bring the little sweetie home.
The first six months she was home were among the most difficult in my life, and not for the reasons I had anticipated!
Thankfully, her medical issues were not hard to address: the scaly rash that was supposed to have been the result of food allergies was scabies (a parasite that burrows under the skin), NOT food allergies (she isn't allergic to anything as far as I can tell!), and her delays were not as significant as I feared.
However, my two lovely girls (aged 3 years and 19 months) hated one another on sight. The oldest, formerly the Queen of Everything, went into a clinical depression: unable to sleep, losing all interest in food, toys, and almost everything she used to enjoy in favor of dogging her new sister 24/7 to make sure she didn't enjoy herself in any way. The Challenger to the Throne, Princess Sasha, came well-armed to fight for territory with lots of great orphanage survival tools like biting, pushing, and hitting. The Civil War was re-enacted daily in my living room. Any affection I lavished on either child was greeted with outrage by the other party. I was torn, angry, exhausted, and depressed. I found myself screaming at the children I wanted to love, reassure, and guide. I seriously wondered if I had made a terrible mistake. I even fantasized about disrupting the adoption.
Why am I talking about this in an adoption story? Aren't adoption stories supposed to be full of joy? Yes, they are, and my story is too. But the myth of happily ever after in an adoption can be just as elusive as it can be in a marriage. Successful family relationships evolve and grow, requiring on-going hard work, disappointments, conflicts, and challenges--and adoption is not an exception.
I was miserable, I became desperate, and in my desperation I did some helpful things. First, I talked to other adoptive parents, as many as I could, and told them what I was experiencing. And you know what? I wasn't alone. Other people admitted to feeling the same way I was feeling during the early months of their adoptions, especially those who had more than one child, had adopted more than one at a time, were single parents, or had children with special needs. When I heard other parents say they also felt depressed, guilty, inadequate, and angry during that transition period it gave me hope that not only was I not a monster, but that there was light at the end of my tunnel.
I read. I got parenting books from the library, read adoption articles in magazines and on the internet. One of the things I discovered is that there is a bonafide syndrome identified-Post Adoption Depression Syndrome (PADS) that occurs for many adoptive parents that is similar in many ways to the generally accepted depression that sometimes becomes an issue for parents who give birth to a new child.
I asked for advice. I talked to my mom, my friends, my social worker, I even talked to myself (more than usual). I brainstormed. I was comforted by others willingness to listen to me, and encouraged by hearing their stories. I tried lots of wild and crazy suggestions and ideas for modifying my children's' (and my) behavior. Some of them helped.
I got therapy. I found a family counselor
to help me and my older daughter understand and explore the dynamics of our little
Family in Crisis. I gave myself the gift
of individual therapy to address
my own expectations, grief, anger, and history that was affecting the way I interacted
with my daughters. I took antidepressant medication to help me make it over the
transitional hump and handle my emotions better to be the (somewhat) calmer, more
patient mom my children needed.
Last week was Sasha's one
year homecoming anniversary, Gotcha Day. I looked through our photos, and I had
to laugh. There was that early attempt to get a decent picture of the two of them
together about two months after Sasha came home.....because they refused to stand
close together, I had asked my eldest to take Sasha's hand. The photo I have is
of the enraged Sasha biting her own arm in a vain attempt to bite her sister and
wrench her hand out of the detested grip. Like a wolf caught in a trap, it seemed
she would rather chew off her own paw than submit to the enemy's touch. And then
I looked at the beautiful picture of my girls on Christmas morning, six months
later: Sasha giggling with delight as her sister kisses her cheek, one arm draped
around her shoulder in a casual gesture of affection. I wanted to tell this part
of my adoption story. Maybe adoptive parents somewhere will read it and give themselves
permission to be human, and be willing to admit that their real families don't
look a bit like their Fantasy Families.
It's not unusual to have a (very) difficult time with a new son or daughter. It's ok to acknowledge your grief, disappointment, guilt, and depression if that is what you are experiencing. Take steps to take care of yourself during this terrifying and trying time. It does get better. Really.
My family has come a long way. I can't tell you how awful it was, or express how glad I am that we somehow pulled through it. I can't tell you how proud (and relieved) I am that I have two wonderful daughters who really have grown to love each other dearly. We still have a long way to go (the rest of our lives), and we will undoubtedly never be an Ideal Family, but we love each other and we are willing to keep working on it. The other morning at breakfast my oldest Co-Princess demanded through a mouthful of oatmeal, so......how do we get a little brother?
Valerie
DeVolld,
Mom to Sasha, born July10, 2002,
from Novosibirsk, Russia; adopted
February 2003 with the
financial assistance of A
Child Waits Foundation