For years, every time I saw a news feature on parents who had fostered or adopted a special needs child, I felt shallow. I felt like a failure as a human being that I couldn't be one of "those kind of parents." Don't get me wrong - I wanted to, truly I did. Somehow, though, I couldn't bring myself to imagine choosing to adopt a child who faced medical, physical or developmental challenges. "It would be too heartbreaking," I thought.
Adoption, for me, had always been a goal. From the time I was old enough to imagine my future wedding, I always told my friends, "I'm going to have two babies and adopt one, because so many children need good homes." In my youthful enthusiasm, I imagined picking a child up (like a homeless puppy), taking the tiny bundle home, feeding it and bathing it in all its wee baby perfection. Of course, in my childhood heart of hearts, babies never cried if they were loved enough and never got sick if they were fed the most nutritious foods - I simply had no frame of reference. I imagined my three easygoing, content, perfect children growing up effortlessly, becoming well-adjusted adults and world leaders. That fantasy lasted until the precise moment I gave birth.
My first marriage blessed me with my son. A divorce, new marriage (to a man who'd had a vasectomy) and a bout with cervical cancer later, I realized that I would never carry another child to term. Remarkably, I felt peace about that reality. We'd adopt!
Many people in my life, including friends, co-workers and relatives, chose adoption and I felt it was perhaps the noblest decision a parent could make. My husband and I looked to private adoption, only to be discouraged by the uncertainty and seemingly endless waiting associated with the process.
"There are so many special needs children who need homes," a friend advised me - and therein lay my personal struggle. Certainly, if I could conceive and carry my own child, the risk of having a baby with special needs existed, but would I choose it? Would I intentionally choose to face the challenge of raising a child who faced any number of difficulties? Could I be the type of parent who bravely faces medical issues or learning disabilities and fights to be an advocate for her child? Sadly, I couldn't answer that question definitively, and it made me feel superficial.
Lydia* was placed with us by Washington State's Department of Children and Family Services in April 2006. At seven months old, we knew that she had suffered neglect and abuse before being placed with us, but little else about her medical history. My heart immediately burst with love and empathy for this beautiful little girl, so traumatized that she ground her teeth until they chipped. "Will you consider adoption?" her social worker asked at the time of placement. "Yes!" I joyfully answered.
As months passed, my husband and I grew to appreciate many things about Lydia. She was curious and enjoyed manipulating small objects, was funny and possessed a wonderful sense of humor. We almost didn't question missed milestones, reasoning that delays were likely to be caused by trauma. Instead, we simply adored each new skill she learned and did what parents do - loved her with all our hearts. At a year old, she didn't crawl, but we repeated the mantra, "She will do it in her own time... she's been through a lot," over and over again, to friends, family, and, most often, to ourselves.
When, at eighteen months of age, Lydia wasn't walking or talking, we were forced to admit that she wasn't developing at the same rate as most other children. I contacted a local pediatric therapy center and requested evaluations and assessments.
The results were not unexpected, but deeply saddened us. Lydia exhibited significant delays in every area tested: gross motor skills, fine motor skills, speech, cognitive ability and sensory integration development.
Numbly, we listened as the individuals who would become her therapists explained each developmental delay and set goals for therapy outcomes.
Appointments were set, referrals were made, medical testing was scheduled... everything happened at once, and it was overwhelming. A short time later, a neurologist told us that Lydia suffers from petit mal seizures, a form of epilepsy.
Over two years have passed since our lives entwined with Lydia's. Since then, I have learned how to advocate and sometimes fight for access to services, how to request funding for programs that will reinforce her therapy, how to make my life work around twelve standing therapy appointments and any number of medical appointments each month and how to ask for help when I need it.
Lydia's current activities reflect the progress she is making with therapy. She now walks and runs, has a small cache of spoken words and a growing vocabulary of sign language. Her receptive language skills are extraordinary and she can follow a set of up to four instructions consistently.
As completion of Lydia's adoption nears, I marvel at the fact that I ever doubted my ability to "choose" a child with special needs. The fact is, it's about Lydia, not her challenges. Her abilities or disabilities do not define my ability to love her. I choose her, and every wonderful piece of who she is.
* Due to Washington State laws that prohibit publishing the names of children in state care, the child's name has been changed.