Wednesday, May 20, 2015

This Is Our Story, This Is Not Our Story

When I decided to blog about our adoption process, I thought it would be easy because there is so much to contemplate and so few people with which we feel comfortable sharing the details of this terribly invasive, emotional roller-coaster ride of a process. As it turns out, the reading, researching, studying, planning, preparing, worrying, and second-guessing has been a lot more draining on my creative mind than I realized and I just haven't had the energy to put many thoughts down on paper (you know what I mean.) I have found, however, that collecting other articles and stories shared by those that have already been through this has been really helpful soI've been dumping them here just to have an easy repository to refer to at a later time. Here's another example:

Dear Mom of an Adopted Child

Credit to Kathy Lynn Harris who, "wrote this piece after reading an essay by Lea Grover titled "Dear Less-Than-Perfect Mom." The post by Lea was wonderful, and it made me think about us moms who found our sweet babies through adoption, and how we face unique challenges. I hope you enjoy it, whether you are the parent of an adopted child or not."

Dear Mom of an Adopted Child,

I met you in adoption education class. I met you at the agency. I met you at my son's school. I met you online. I met you on purpose. I met you by accident.

It doesn't matter. The thing is, I knew you right away. I recognize the fierce determination. The grit. The fight. Because everything about what you have was a decision, and nothing about what you have was easy. You are the kind of woman who Makes.Things.Happen. After all, you made this happen, this family you have.

Maybe you prayed for it. Maybe you had to convince a partner it was the right thing. Maybe you did it alone. Maybe people told you to just be happy with what you had before. Maybe someone told you it simply wasn't in God's plans for you to have a child, this child whose hair you now brush lightly from his face. Maybe someone warned you about what happened to their cousin's neighbor's friend. Maybe you ignored them.

Maybe you planned for it for years. Maybe an opportunity dropped into your lap. Maybe you depleted your life savings for it. Maybe it was not your first choice. But maybe it was.

Regardless, I know you. And I see how you hold on so tight. Sometimes too tight. Because that's what we do, isn't it?

I know about all those books you read back then. The ones everyone reads about sleep patterns and cloth versus disposable, yes -- but the extra ones, too. About dealing with attachment disorders, breast milk banks, babies born addicted to alcohol, cocaine, meth. About cognitive delays, language deficiencies. About counseling support services, tax and insurance issues, open adoption pros and cons, legal rights.

I know about the fingerprinting, the background checks, the credit reports, the interviews, the references. I know about the classes -- so many classes. I know the frustration of the never-ending paperwork. The hours of going over finances, of having garage sales and bake sales and whatever-it-takes sales to raise money to afford it all.

I know how you never lost sight of what you wanted.

I know about the match call, the soaring of everything inside you to cloud-height, even higher. And then the tucking of that away because, well, these things fall through, you know.

Maybe you told your mother, a few close friends. Maybe you shouted it to the world. Maybe you allowed yourself to decorate a baby's room, buy a car seat. Maybe you bought a soft blanket, just that one blanket, and held it to your cheek every night.

I know about your home visits. I know about your knuckles, cracked and bleeding from cleaning every square inch of your home the night before. I know about you burning the coffee cake and trying to fix your mascara before the social worker rang the doorbell.

And I know about the follow-up visits, when you hadn't slept in three weeks because the baby had colic. I know how you wanted so badly to show that you had it all together, even though you were back to working more-than-full-time, maybe without maternity leave, without the family and casseroles and welcome-home balloons and plants.

And I've seen you in foreign countries, strange lands, staying in dirty hotels, taking weeks away from work, struggling to understand what's being promised and what's not. Struggling to offer your love to a little one who is unsettled and afraid. Waiting, wishing, greeting, loving, flying, nesting, coming home.

I've seen you down the street at the hospital when a baby was born, trying to figure out where you belong in the scene that's emerging. I've seen your face as you hear a nurse whisper to the birthmother that she doesn't have to go through with this. I've seen you trying so hard to give this birthmother all of your respect and patience and compassion in those moments -- while you bite your lip and close your eyes, not knowing if she will change her mind, if this has all been a dream coming to an abrupt end in a sterile environment. Not knowing if this is your time. Not knowing so much.

I've seen you look down into a newborn infant's eyes, wondering if he's really yours, wondering if you can quiet your mind and good sense long enough to give yourself over completely.

And then, to have the child in your arms, at home, that first night. His little fingers curled around yours. His warm heart beating against yours.

I know that bliss. The perfect, guarded, hopeful bliss.

I also know about you on adoption day. The nerves that morning, the judge, the formality, the relief, the joy. The letting out of a breath maybe you didn't even know you were holding for months. Months.

I've seen you meet your child's birthparents and grandparents weeks or years down the road. I've seen you share your child with strangers who have his nose, his smile ... people who love him because he's one of them. I've seen you hold him in the evenings after those visits, when he's shaken and confused and really just wants a stuffed animal and to rest his head on your shoulder.

I've seen you worry when your child brings home a family tree project from school. Or a request to bring in photos of him and his dad, so that the class can compare traits that are passed down, like blue eyes or square chins. I know you worry, because you can protect your child from a lot of things -- but you can't protect him from being different in a world so intent on celebrating sameness.

I've seen you at the doctor's office, filling out medical histories, leaving blanks, question marks, hoping the little spaces don't turn into big problems later on.

I've seen you answer all of the tough questions, the questions that have to do with why, and love, and how much, and where, and who, and how come, mama? How come?

I've seen you wonder how you'll react the first time you hear the dreaded, "You're not my real mom." And I've seen you smile softly in the face of that question, remaining calm and loving, until you lock yourself in the bathroom and muffle your soft cries with the sound of the shower.

I've seen you cringe just a little when someone says your child is lucky to have you. Because you know with all your being that it is the other way around.

But most of all, I want you to know that I've seen you look into your child's eyes. And while you will never see a reflection of your own eyes there, you see something that's just as powerful: A reflection of your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst of your tears and laughter -- and whose loss would be like the loss of yourself.

This post originally appeared on KathyLynnHarris.com.

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Detective Goes From Man's Man to Family Man

Here's an adoption story in honor of Infertility Week. A while back, we decided (for myriad reasons too numerous to list here) that instead of pursuing a private infant adoption, we would adopt from the State, meaning we'd be taking a kid (maybe even two) out of foster care.

We're not doing it for praise and we don't think it will particularly be easy, but seeing stories like this continue to affirm my belief that we are making a good choice for us.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

National Infertility Awareness Week April 19-25

So, it's National Infertility Awareness Week. I didn't even know that was a thing and now that I know, I'm a little compelled to share something I read today.

Is There Happiness After Infertility- Surprising Findings

Infertility is sad. People who are in the midst of struggling to have a child almost always feel some combination of grief, anger, and fear. It can be a toxic combination. They often wonder if they will ever feel normal—if they will ever be truly happy again.

Suffering changes us. After a while, we may return to “normal”, but it is a new normal because we are different people. The good news is that this “new normal” can be filled with happiness and now we have research to prove it.

Will You Ever Be Happy Again

Researchers* in Sweden studied quality of life between four and five and-a-half years after IVF treatment in 979 men and women. The study subject were broken into four groups:

Couples whose IVF treatment had failed, and they remain childless.
Couple whose IVF treatment were successful and they conceived a child or children.
Couple whose IVF treatment was unsuccessful and they adopted children.
Control group of couples that did not have fertility issues and who conceived naturally.

Researchers used measurement tools to determine quality of life as measured by psychological well-being and a feeling of connection. (As measured by the Psychological General Well Being (PGWB) and Sense of Coherence (SOC) instruments.) They controlled confounding factors such as demographic, socio-economic status, and health.

Surprising Findings

To the surprise of everyone, the group that showed the highest quality of life were those whose infertility treatment has failed, but they went on to adopt a child or children. They showed a higher sense of connection than all groups, including the control and the successful fertility treatment group, and a higher general sense of well-being than the unsuccessful treatment group without kids and the control group without infertility.

In addition, the group that adopted were found to be less likely to need medical care, used fewer medications, smoked less and reported less long term illness than other groups.

As you would expect, those whose IVF treatment had failed and who were still childless showed the lowest levels of satisfaction with life.

Co-author Dr. Marie Berg said that the “suffering” childless couples endure can contribute to their later happiness.

Do you see this in your life or in the lives of your friends who have experienced infertility?

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Glutton For Punishment

Nice weather always fills me with the urge to do projects. Despite Matt's insistence that he is DONE with backyard improvement, we began digging out the grass to extend our patio.

Step One - bye bye, grass

Added a frame and gravel

Here comes the sand....

The sticker says, "Tranquil Blend" - at 33lbs each in 90 degree heat, tranquil is hardly the word I'd use...

On the level.

Coming together.

The finished product! We used it a lot already. I think the new cushions help this because the seating is much more comfortable now. I'm already looking forward to entertaining the whole Schoessler clan for the annual Oktoberfest!

Monday, June 02, 2014

First Hurdle Cleared

We finally selected an agency and submitted our application to become adoptive parents. It is finally happening! I know this is just the first step of a long journey, but I feel like it is a big one due to everything we've gone through just to get to this point. And contemplating the various options before us took longer than expected. I thought we had decided on a private agency but then after talking to a friend who adopted her two daughters from Ethiopia, I felt compelled to at least explore the idea of adopting an older kid(s) rather than an infant. Since international adoptions have been on the decline recently, we attended a meeting through the state of Oregon and learned more about the children that are available for adoption through the Department of Human Services - most of whom have been removed from abusive or neglectful situations. Even though the meeting was intended to only give a general overview, it was quite eye opening. Unlike the private adoption agencies which spent a lot of time during orientation discussing their success rates and the benefits of the services they offer and the quality of time and skills of their case workers, the DHS approach was a "quick and dirty" introduction to the levels of bureaucracy with which we would be engaging. And this crash course was much more exclusive than inclusive as we were told time and again, "If you don't want people coming to your house, opening your cupboards and looking through your drawers, this might not be a good choice for you." Or, "If you think this is going to be like raising your own children, this might not be a good choice for you.". Or, "If you have a problem with us talking to your friends and relatives about you, this might not be a good choice for you." Not that I have a problem with any of those things and I am still interested in adopting older children in the future, but the way the message was delivered was the sort indication we needed to push us towards going with a private agency. Not this. Not for us. Not right now. And once we decided, I knew the agency we picked was a better choice for us.

I'm sure that we are in for just as much red tape unraveling and hoop jumping despite not going through the State. Adoption is nothing if not litigious and involved, but for now, it's worth it for us to feel like it's OK to ease in to this process. And I also feel like we're ready.

Monday, May 05, 2014

Un-Mother's Day

So I'm sharing another post from another blog. It's not that I don't have my own thoughts on the subject of Mother's Day and infertility, because I certainly do. I just find it helpful to remember that there are a lot of other women out there who share these feelings and this experience. That said, I am looking forward to celebrating with my mom this Mother's Day. She's been really supportive and surprisingly positive as we endeavor to adopt. I am definitely in a better place this year than last and it gets a little better all the time, thanks to the support of family and a few good friends. The below is a good reminder that it isn't an easy time for everyone.

Mother’s Day: A Cultural Crucible

By Pamela Mahoney Tsigdinos

The last week of April and first weeks of May have for years felt like their own special form of hell week. Each year it’s the same. First the signs, banners and fliers start showing up everywhere humans congregate — in grocery stores, outside restaurants, liberally scattered around malls and shopping centers. Then the fiber-optic lines light up carrying headlines and advertisements with unsolicited, mocking reminders of what might have been.

There’s simply no making it stop. Mother’s Day, for a portion of society accustomed to being invisible, is a cultural crucible to be endured. There’s literally no escape even at sacred houses of worship or at movie theaters, the once safe place to tune out the world.

For me, the emotional torture reached its peak a few years ago when I was newly aware that motherhood would forever remain a concept, a theoretical — not an actual experience I would ever know intimately. More than a decade of trying to conceive with increasing amounts of surgeries and medical intervention had proved unsuccessful.

Ultrasound images of embryos we once cautiously affixed to the refrigerator amid the smiling faces of our family and friends’ children soon found their way into a manila folder along with stacks of doctor forms, prescription regimens and reproductive endocrinology reports. My husband and I found ourselves for a time in limbo assigned to the confounding category of “unexplained” infertility. There were, we were soon to discover, no membership kits, no bonding rituals, no themed parties, no special holidays for the involuntarily childless set.

It wasn’t that I became thin-skinned as a nonmom among the mommy set. It felt rather like I had no skin at all. The sight of a pregnant woman could ruin my day in an instant. But that was only the beginning. I had the unfortunate timing of trying to cope with and mourn the losses associated with infertility at what I’m sure will be remembered as the zenith of the mommy-and-me phenomenon. Mom’s clubs, mommy bloggers and helicopter parents took off like wildfire just about the time my uterus was declared officially closed for business. My barrenness also collided with an onslaught of reality TV shows showcasing supersized families, from the Gosselins to the Duggars. And just to make things really weird, along came Octomom.

This year I’m finding the signs and advertisements don’t elicit the emotional rash they once did. I no longer have the urge to hit the reply button sending scathing responses to e-mail marketers asking how I planned to celebrate motherhood. Mother’s-Day-brunch providers and flower shops urging early reservations no longer cause me to feel like an outcast among women. I can only conclude that I have crossed the threshold to a once elusive zenlike acceptance.

Amid a societal celebration of all things maternal, I was forced to grow a skin much thicker than I ever imagined. Much like regular inoculations sensitize allergy sufferers to irritating substances, I’m much less reactive to the whole motherhood thing in general. In fact, I’ve developed a powerful protective instinct for women who are today where I once was — lost, angry, sad and mourning the dreams they once held so dear.

This year when the fill-in-the-blank (pastor, priest, minister, rabbi, etc.) asks all women in the congregation who are mothers to stand to be recognized, you might take a closer look at the women who remain seated. There are many among them grateful that only a few hours remain to be endured in the annual Mother’s Day season.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

People Say the Wrongest Things

I read this article today titled, "How Not To Say the Wrong Thing" and it really made an impression on me. The general idea is that when someone is grieving or experiencing something difficult, you need to weigh your closeness to the situation and respond accordingly - offering care and support to those most affected and reserving your doubts and fears for those more removed. Basically, common sense for those who lack it.

I thought back to when we first learned about the seriousness of our infertility issue which, coincidentally, came up right after the loss of my job. We had just bought our house and a new truck before this and we were really worried about how we were going to pay bills and mortgage on unemployment when suddenly we find out that the only way we were going to be able to have a biological child was to spend a huge sum of money on a risky procedure that may not work. One night, I had a friend over and I couldn't hold back all of these fears and concerns and I totally lost it. I started complaining, which lead to more intense bitching and bemoaning. By the time I'd finished my rant, I found I was near tears. I was so stressed about not being able to find a job and hopeless because I never thought it would be so hard to start a family and I guess I just couldn't deal any more. What I was even less prepared to deal with was my friend's response, which was, (and I am quoting very accurately) "Well, sometimes life just sucks for no reason and we have to get over it." I know it is the truth, but the delivery and timing of this truth still hurts to this day. Maybe sharing will help someone, anyone avoid a similar scenario.

How not to say the wrong thing

-credit LA Times 4/7/14

When Susan had breast cancer, we heard a lot of lame remarks, but our favorite came from one of Susan's colleagues. She wanted, she needed, to visit Susan after the surgery, but Susan didn't feel like having visitors, and she said so. Her colleague's response? "This isn't just about you."

"It's not?" Susan wondered. "My breast cancer is not about me? It's about you?"

The same theme came up again when our friend Katie had a brain aneurysm. She was in intensive care for a long time and finally got out and into a step-down unit. She was no longer covered with tubes and lines and monitors, but she was still in rough shape. A friend came and saw her and then stepped into the hall with Katie's husband, Pat. "I wasn't prepared for this," she told him. "I don't know if I can handle it."

This woman loves Katie, and she said what she did because the sight of Katie in this condition moved her so deeply. But it was the wrong thing to say. And it was wrong in the same way Susan's colleague's remark was wrong.

Susan has since developed a simple technique to help people avoid this mistake. It works for all kinds of crises: medical, legal, financial, romantic, even existential. She calls it the Ring Theory.

Draw a circle. This is the center ring. In it, put the name of the person at the center of the current trauma. For Katie's aneurysm, that's Katie. Now draw a larger circle around the first one. In that ring put the name of the person next closest to the trauma. In the case of Katie's aneurysm, that was Katie's husband, Pat. Repeat the process as many times as you need to. In each larger ring put the next closest people. Parents and children before more distant relatives. Intimate friends in smaller rings, less intimate friends in larger ones. When you are done you have a Kvetching Order. One of Susan's patients found it useful to tape it to her refrigerator.

Here are the rules. The person in the center ring can say anything she wants to anyone, anywhere. She can kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens and say, "Life is unfair" and "Why me?" That's the one payoff for being in the center ring.

Everyone else can say those things too, but only to people in larger rings.

When you are talking to a person in a ring smaller than yours, someone closer to the center of the crisis, the goal is to help. Listening is often more helpful than talking. But if you're going to open your mouth, ask yourself if what you are about to say is likely to provide comfort and support. If it isn't, don't say it. Don't, for example, give advice. People who are suffering from trauma don't need advice. They need comfort and support. So say, "I'm sorry" or "This must really be hard for you" or "Can I bring you a pot roast?" Don't say, "You should hear what happened to me" or "Here's what I would do if I were you." And don't say, "This is really bringing me down."

If you want to scream or cry or complain, if you want to tell someone how shocked you are or how icky you feel, or whine about how it reminds you of all the terrible things that have happened to you lately, that's fine. It's a perfectly normal response. Just do it to someone in a bigger ring.

Comfort IN, dump OUT.

There was nothing wrong with Katie's friend saying she was not prepared for how horrible Katie looked, or even that she didn't think she could handle it. The mistake was that she said those things to Pat. She dumped IN.

Complaining to someone in a smaller ring than yours doesn't do either of you any good. On the other hand, being supportive to her principal caregiver may be the best thing you can do for the patient.

Most of us know this. Almost nobody would complain to the patient about how rotten she looks. Almost no one would say that looking at her makes them think of the fragility of life and their own closeness to death. In other words, we know enough not to dump into the center ring. Ring Theory merely expands that intuition and makes it more concrete: Don't just avoid dumping into the center ring, avoid dumping into any ring smaller than your own.

Remember, you can say whatever you want if you just wait until you're talking to someone in a larger ring than yours.