When I was 18 years old, my mom who was a former nurse started doing special needs foster care. We primarily had infants straight from the hospital who were deemed as having some drug exposure. Other kids had downs syndrome, fetal alcohol syndrome (FAS), or kids who had complex multiple surgeries with neurological and mental development problems as well.
Our first foster child was Desiree. She came to our home from the hospital at 6 weeks old. They said she had some prenatal drug exposure but nothing was apparent to us when she was in our care so thankfully it seemed minor. We absolutely fell in love with her and I knew right then if I ever had to adopt a child I would not have any less love or difficulty bonding with him or her than having my own biological child. In fact, our family wanted to adopt Desiree, but because she was half Chinese and half Aboriginal all non-Aboriginal families were prevented from adopting those kids because of a government imposed moratorium. At that time, the government thought it best they remain in homes of their own heritage, but the majority of kids in foster care are Aboriginal and finding suitable placements was difficult (since then the moratorium has been lifted but an exemption must be requested by the Ministry and a cultural plan must be made - a plan I think is needed for any cross-cultural/ethnicity adoption).
I took over 1000 pictures of her (remember this was film days) and one of those pictures was posted on the adoption list. Our hearts sank but the reality of finding a match didn't hit home until they found a placement. A couple with four other adopted kids applied to adopt Desiree, and even though the adopted mother's psychiatrist wrote more kids would be harmful to the mother's well being, she was placed there anyway (since then they adopted more kids). She left shortly before her second birthday. We were absolutely devastated. We visited her once, noticing how much weight she lost, but it was too hard on us emotionally to keep contact.
So I was 20 years old when my mom recognized that my brother and I had not dealt with loss before. When I was a teenager I had an aunt who died from a rare form of cancer in her forties. She lived in India and I adored her at each of our visits, but the physical distance meant we were not as close as we could have been.
We later had other babies and children come and go through our home but we were more guarded and slightly more mentally prepared. But then came Marie. Marie was an infant when she came to us as well, had downs syndrome, and was Aboriginal. The Ministry finally deemed her a ward of the state as her biological parents still made some limited connections. So that meant she would stay in our care and not be adopted. I then brought down that guard and started to bond with her. At the age of two and a half, she had a stroke and was brought to Children's Hospital. A neurological disease like a spider web was going through her brain. We would take turns sleeping next to her at the hospital and going to work in the morning. My brother called one night and told me she was being transferred to the ICU. It wasn't looking good. I told my mom we had to go to the hospital. I said nothing else as I didn't need to. She just knew. It was decided to end her life support. I remember singing to her before she passed away.
I now cry as I write this.
Nicky was the complex kid - we had her for about 3-4 years and she suffered from a host of issues such as FAS, developmental delays, multiple cardiac thoracic surgeries, and tracheal rebuilding (something like that). Because of the FAS it was very difficult for my brother and I to bond with her but nonetheless she was part of lives for a long time. My mom was more bonded with her as all mother's have this unconditional love for their kids and Nicky was not an exception. My mom first had to grind her food because before she was placed with us she choked on a french fry and landed back in the hospital. Years later she progressed so much she could eat solids. Then two weeks after Marie died, my mom found her in the living room turning blue. She was choking on a french fry. Nicky later died in hospital shortly after. My brother called me at work and I could hardly speak. This all took place six months after my cousin Deepuk died. He was killed by a hit and run driver and I wrote about him a bit in December. I could hardly explain to my manager what was going on in my household that I needed to leave again. On an aside, my mom (in moments between pure grief) thought she was going to lose her job, however the Minister sent her a letter of appreciation for the care she provided to these children.
Years later, I now work at Children's & Women's Hospital (I tried to keep that point vague earlier in my postings but it is easy to figure out). I had wanted to work there since Marie was admitted in 2001. At times I am in the ICU and I find myself trying to remember which small room Marie was in. I look at some of the nurses and try to remember if that was the one who was counselling us in the family room before we had to say good bye. Blonde pony tail and very pretty..... sometimes I think it could have been the former ICU nurse who is now a close colleague of mine in the office next to me.
Nicky's mother, who also has FAS and developmental delays, was very much in contact while Nicky was placed with us and to this day. She lives in Whitehorse. Although the communications have lessened over time, she will still visit my mom for a few days every other summer or so. One time I remember she visited me downtown and took pictures of me in my sari as I was getting ready for a wedding. The moms talk about Nicky and find comfort with one another.
I had thought I would try contacting Desiree through the Ministry when she was of age....16 years was a long time to wait but it was always in the back of my mind. She is now in her late teens and a few years ago she sent messages to my brother and I on Facebook asking if we were her foster siblings. We cried happy tears and keep a bit of contact going through that forum. I can't hate Facebook all the time.
I guess there are two points from this post:
Losing Desiree, Marie, and Nicky have taught me so much earlier in my life that seems to have coincided with meeting the many bereaved parents in my support group. The trauma, grief, anger, fear that "these things will happen twice", and "unresolved resolution". Not many people have experienced the death of a child, and in Desiree's case having a child be "taken away".
All the children we had placed with us reminds me to have faith in adoption (the act, not the process) and to not be too anxious about what we can handle; we just need to be upfront about our limits. These children need the opportunity to be placed in a loving home. We need the opportunity to provide it.
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p.s. I wanted to post pics of these girls but they are not scanned...will do so later.
It is becoming very apparent to me that men grieve differently than women. This might not be such a groundbreaking discovery given that men are different from women in so many ways, but how we deal with pain and grief is sometimes more different than I would have expected. Some women express concern for their husbands in their blogs. Are men not expressing their feelings enough? Is this just stereotyping that women might be more openly showing their feelings and emotions or is there some truth in it? Are men pushing the pain away?
I think the truth might be that husbands sometimes feel they have to be strong for their wives. Actually, I don’t know if that is the case for all men, I should rather say that it might be the case for me. I don’t think it is something that I do conciously, but there is this primal instinct to protect one’s family. I wanted to protect my kids which turned out to be impossible and I want to protect my wife. However, there is no bad guy who wants to do something terrible to her who I could chase away. If it were just that easy, something physical to tackle and fight. Of course mothers have the same instinct to protect their children, husband and family. Why should this be different? I don’t really know, maybe I am stuck in a traditional stereotypical world view. But she does tell me that she feels safer when I sleep next to her for example. I always understood my role as being responsible for making her feel safe and secure.
In any case, the sad reality is that there is absolutely nothing I can do to protect her from harm. The harm has already been done and I cannot undo it. I sometimes even wonder what is harder: my own pain having lost our kids or seeing her being in so much pain and being helpless to make it go away. This utter inability to make it right, the finality of death. When your house burns down, it is certainly a difficult experience, but you can get back up and rebuild. When you have a setback, you can overcome it. When death claims a loved one, you are helpless. He is the ultimate unbeatable challenger.
But then I have to remind myself that the idea of taking the pain away is wrong in itself. Pain is a big part of what is left to us. There is pain because of so much love. Taking pain away would mean to take the love away. My role might be different than expected, maybe it has evolved from a simplistic teenager view of protection to a much more complex understanding of supporting each other. In our previous life we had fixes for bad days or what we might have considered bad days. If something did not work the way we wanted or someone really pissed us off, we might have been mad or upset, but it could be easily fixed. Often it would go away by itself because it wasn’t really something to be mad about in the first place. For “really bad” days, ice cream, jokes, flowers, cinema or eating out might have done the trick to cheer her up [when my wife read this she started laughing and said "really, was it that easy". What shall I think about that?]. Well, loss and grief are entirely different beasts. A real problem and quite a big one at that. How could we have ever wasted thoughts on mundane nuisances?
The plain and simple reality is: there is no fix. And maybe that is the hardest thing to accept. Our grief will stay with us for the rest of our lives. It will never go away and we cannot win a fight against grief. One cannot rebuild or maybe build an even bigger house to show resilience. We carry the ruins around with us, death has no match. And there is no getting over it, just learning to live with it. So what is grief? Is it an enemy, is it a companion, is it a reminder, is it the partner of love? Whatever it is, it has taught me a lesson. And maybe I have a better understanding now about what I can do and cannot do. I can be there for my wife when she hurts and is in pain, I can hold her and let her cry as long as she needs to and I can cry with her. I don’t have to feel this need to comfort her to make her feel better.
I sometimes still fall back into old habits when I ask her if I can do something for her when she is sad. I should know better by now, but these old habits are difficult to get rid off. I am trying and still learning… At the end some things might be more difficult for me, some things might be more painful for her, but after all we are going through this together and it is our grief. We might just not be showing it the same way, but we are wrestling with the same beast. And the beast is like a mystical shapeshifter, hard to pinpoint or to understand, always in for a surprise…
