Adoption + 1
We happened to be visiting Julia’s family in New Mexico on vacation, and I was planning to go live with our adoption fundraising website when we returned. We were enjoying a Duke City pizza from Dion’s, a local favorite, when my phone rang. It was my mom. My side of the call went something like this, “Hey Mom… what? No, likely not… yeah pretty committed to China at this point. … okay. Love you too! Bye.” “What did your mom want?” asked Julia, enjoying a slice of green chili, turkey, and cheddar pizza. “Oh, there’s a girl in Florida who’s pregnant and wants us to consider adopting.” I added about a half slice to my gaping mouth and slurped some coke. “Oh honey!” she exclaimed. “What? We are adopting from China.” I was completely dismissive of the whole thing. “Dave… can we talk about this.” Julia has a very wide range of tones and emotions. To my own shame, I can be oblivious to most of them, but this was a tone and an emotion that was so powerful … I stopped chewing altogether. With a mouth half full, I looked halfway up and mumbled, “What?” “You’re telling me,” she began, “There is a baby that’s going to need a family. The baby’s family has specifically asked for us to consider adopting, and you just said no?” She was cool and even tempered. She wasn’t angry, but she was staring at me so intently I thought my face might break. “Did she have a point?” I was thinking now. “Certainly not. We are supposed to adopt from China. I mean, I had an inspirational WIX website, for crying out loud.” She broke into my deep thoughts with her slow and direct words, “Can you please just call your mom and tell her we’ll think about it?” “Okay,” I agreed. “When is she due?” I hadn’t asked. “What’s the gender?” Again, I hadn’t thought to ask. There are times in marriage when being not only on different pages but in entirely different books can be incredibly frustrating to one’s spouse. This was one such time for poor Julia. If I were to apologize, I guess I would say, “Sorry for being hyper-focused. Sheesh.”
Subsequent phone calls to my mom, and then the birth mom, revealed that this young mom was only about four weeks along and had really just found out that she was expecting. We started to plan on our way home to Indiana from New Mexico and figured that this should basically be free or next to free as we had identified a baby without the help of an agency. I mean, that was the most difficult part, right? We called four different adoption agencies, and everyone agreed to knock off the fee for matching us with a birth mom as we had already been matched, bringing our total cost down to just about $29,500 on average. Insane. I won’t go off on a tangent about the cost of discarding an unwanted baby compared to simply placing a baby in a qualified home, but I know I have a definite opinion there. We decided to piece everything together ourselves and found a wonderful attorney out of Catholic Charities. She was located in Florida and would be able to handle the Interstate Compact paperwork for transferring a newborn to a new state via adoption. Total fees related to the route we had identified were about $15,000. We were so pumped. We knew we could raise that money!
We were so excited planning everything that Julia didn’t realize that she was “late.” I had come to be terrified of the words, “I’m pregnant.” But it was different this time. You see, about two months back, we had asked three different pastors to pray specifically that Julia would conceive without any medical intervention. We wanted to have a baby and not be able to praise a doctor or IVF for the child. We wanted to specifically point to and worship God for his provision. Three pastors had been praying for us for about two months, and Julia was telling me that she was expecting. She was about four weeks along, and the new baby in Florida was about eight weeks along. What. In. The. World. We were so happy. Miraculously, Julia made it past 13 weeks, and for the bereaved mothers reading here, you know the joy and relief that we felt headed into that 2nd trimester. Fundraising was well underway. The birth mom was progressing well, and my doubt that she would actually sign away her rights grew day by day.
While we were elated at Julia’s success in carrying, this was complicated by learning that Julia would suffer from hyperemesis gravidarum (HG). What is HG, you ask? Just imagine yourself throwing up all day, every day, to the point of extreme dehydration and weight loss; now imagine that you are unable to control this, and no matter how little you eat or drink, you just keep vomiting. You vomit to the point that you can barely walk, so you get admitted to the hospital. After rehydrating on two banana bags, you’re back in full vomit mode. Your body now has something besides stomach acids to try and kill you with, so it hits with renewed fervor. No matter how much medicine the nurses pumped into her system, we felt like there was no end in sight. We left the hospital with a pack of needles and a pump. Julia would have to insert a needle into her own stomach and turn on a pump that would deliver a drip dosage of nausea medication directly to her stomach. When the injection site would become swollen and inflamed, she would have to dispose of that needle, find a new injection site, and repeat the same process. Her nausea medication was extremely regulated, and we maxed out her dosages time after time, begging the doctors for higher doses. Poor Julia spent most of the 2nd and 3rd trimesters in tears, huddled over a bag or bucket, begging God for mercy and relief.
When the sickness finally began to wear off at about 26 weeks, we started to see the light. Things were going well at my job, but I was being passed over for a promised promotion, and the pay, while far better than what I had made previously, just wasn’t going to cut it for two new babies. I was calling contacts that I had from larger churches trying to get our fund-raising bracelets into book stores, and I called my old friend, Chris. We chatted for a bit, and I learned that he was no longer attending the church that I was after. He told me that if it was money I needed, he could get me into the oilfield. He told me they would pay for my move to Colorado and that I would make substantially more than I was making currently. I followed up on the opportunity, and he wasn’t wrong. The only thing that was slightly different was that I was hoping to be placed on the front range, and I was sent to Grand Junction, and I was hoping for a two weeks on, one week off schedule, but instead elected a ten days on, four days off rotation.
Next, there was the little matter of selling our house. You know the one that we walked through that had missing drywall in the ceilings, tangy-smelling bathrooms, and bouncy floors? So as not to lead you down a real estate podcast rendition of all that we did there, let me just say, we purchased that house as our primary dwelling with no plans of grandeur. We remodeled it entirely on a super skinny budget week by week and paycheck by paycheck. We did the design and work by ourselves, for ourselves, and not as a business venture. We sold that house after a few years and three foster kids, and then we just stood there like idiots with a fat check in our blistered little hands and said dumbfoundedly, “You can make money doing this?” Real estate was starting to make sense to us. We never intended to make any money. We just wanted to not pay rent, have a place of our own, and fix things up without asking for permission.
I accepted a position at Halliburton as a Field Operations Professional (FOP). This was a management training program designed to fast-track folks without an aversion to hard work, but who also have an aptitude for learning into management in just a few years. It was a self-paced program and supposedly layoff proof.
The new job and “pile of money” from selling our last place proved to be the bare minimum needed to live in the great state of Colorado. We lived, for a short time, several floors up in a hotel while we searched for a home that we could afford. Base prices were on average $50,000 higher than what we had sold for, and we were getting outbid every time we found a home that we liked. I was working ten days straight, sometimes for 16–18 hours a day, while Julia was pregnant and stuck in a hotel with two massive dogs who needed to go out no less than 84 times a day down the hallway, down the elevator, and out into new exciting territory. Of course, our dogs came from a large backyard and had no need to be leash trained as there was never a need to take them away from the house. So there’s Julia fighting two massive doodle mix-breeds, all pregnant and frustrated and alone while I’m working like a madman in the oilfield. It was the best.
The job paid well, and when Julia enquired about the work one weekend over dinner out, I mentioned that I was being trained by a man with a cadaver leg or a leg donated by a deceased individual. Sort of a “dead man walking,” if you will. Still not sure how that was better than a prosthetic, but hey, not my leg. “How did he lose his leg?” Of course, she would ask that. “Well… some high-pressure iron blew up. Someone put the wrong cap on the end of a line. It had the wrong threads and wasn’t rated for high pressure, so it sheared off under load and took his leg on the way.” “So, you hammer up this iron with sledgehammers and stuff,” she began to recount my job description to me, “Then you hook it up to 20,000 horsepower worth of diesel engines hauled on the backs of semis, pressure it up to 13,000 PSI so you can break rock open a mile below the surface, and it nearly killed your boss? And you’re how many hours from civilization when you’re doing this?” She wasn’t a fan of my work at that time, as you can imagine.
We eventually got out of that hotel and found a home in Grand Junction on Orchard Mesa. We thought this was a lovely neighborhood, and we really enjoyed it. When folks asked where we lived, and we happily blurted out, “Orchard Mesa!” We could tell from their turned-up little noses that we had failed to pick an acceptable housing development, and we just laughed. Our mortgage was more than double our last, we loved our new home, and it still wasn’t considered a good neighborhood. We didn’t care. We were happy, and we were preparing to double the size of our family at any moment. We painted a room for the nursery, crafted an accent wall, put up baby monitors, and began the process of preparing for two little simultaneous babies. Our Target registry had two car seats, two cribs, four sets of sheets, and on and on it went. My heart was filled with doubt that we would end up with two kids, but I hoped and hoped for the best outcome.
Valentine’s Day 2015, at 2:30 in the morning, my phone rang. The birth grandmother was there letting me know that labor had started and that they were headed to the hospital. Julia and I jumped out of bed, and she started packing my suitcase. This was it. Julia was 36 weeks along, high risk, unable to fly, and she was sending me off … by myself … to go get a baby. No big deal, right? I was a bag of nerves, antsy as it gets, and ready to get on my plane. I don’t remember what time my flight left, but after we packed, we had just enough time to run to a 24-hour Denny’s on the way to the airport, where Julia made me eat something. As fast as I could, I scarfed down my favorite, eggs over-easy served over buttered toast. After that speedy breakfast, we were back on the road to the airport. Julia cried pretty good as she dropped me off. We had called her parents in New Mexico, and by this time, they were also on the road, headed towards Red Mountain Pass to Grand Junction to be with Julia while I was away. We had no idea how long I would be gone, if the birth mom would actually sign away her parental rights, and then how long the legal paperwork would take to allow me to head home. I was literally leaving on a jet plane and didn’t know when I’d be back again. Dang it, John Denver, he always makes me cry.
I don’t remember anything about that flight. My thoughts were solely on Aleah. Had she been born yet? What would she be like? Would she even like me?
I remember being at the rental counter to get my car after landing. “We have a Mazda 5, Sir. Will that be ok?” Mazda 5, hmm, as I remembered it, my sister had a cool CX-5, we loved the Mazda 6 sedan, and we were looking at a Mazda CX-9; a Mazda 5 must be pretty good, right? I accepted and went out to find my sporty little “zoom-zoom.” Now, I am not a large man, I’m pretty average 5’ 8” and sort of a schmedium most days, but I looked down to the roof when I got to the Mazda 5. It was shaped like a minivan, but it was the size of a Ford Focus. Worst. Car. Ever. Sorry Mazda, but it’s only the truth. I was not starting my Dad journey in a minivan, no I was starting my Dad journey Ford Focus masquerading as a minivan. As I folded my body into that tiny little car van thing, I called to check on the birth situation. The mother was still laboring but not “progressing,” whatever that meant. I took off on the hour plus journey, and while the Mazda didn’t live up to the family name for comfort or style, it certainly was zoomy! I did about 90 mph for most of that drive, and as I got closer, I realized that I was shaking only partly from nerves; I was starving. I pulled into the first thing that I saw off my exit, a Subway. As I sat there scarfing down a double meat, double cheese “spicy” on Italian herb and cheese, I finished and posted this note to our not yet but already daughter:
Dear Aleah,
I'm on a plane in Colorado, headed to come get you from Florida. I am so overwhelmed to finally meet you! You have been loved since you were first delivered to your mommy's belly. You have been wanted for years. I will love you, protect you, and cherish you as if you were my own because you are. You may not have grown in Julia's womb, but you have grown in our hearts since the day we knew you were coming to meet us. I love you, baby girl.
Love always,
Daddy
I cried in Subway writing that, and I cry every time I read it to this day. The Facebook memories get me every time with that one.
I finished my sandwich and chips and took off towards the hospital. When I walked into the hospital just a few minutes later, I made my way up to the birth floor just in time to hear that the baby was stuck in the birth canal and was showing some signs of stress. The mother was being taken in for an immediate C-section. I called Julia to let her know the birth was moments away. She was at Walmart with her mom and dad, who had just arrived from New Mexico. They were headed into the store to get some things for the babies and for their stay. When they heard about the C-section, they decided to stay put in the parking lot and wait for my FaceTime call.
My GoPro was set up in the corner, and I had FaceTime rolling on my phone just waiting outside. I remember hearing Aleah cry for the first time. Just a few minutes after those first cries, she came out with a nurse and her birth grandmother. FaceTime was on, and Julia got to see her baby for the first time while standing there on the blacktop, crying her eyes out with her mom and dad staring at the phone. Here she was, this little girl that we had prayed for, waited for, and loved so dearly. She was here now. Julia was weeping on the other end of the call and only got to see her for a few brief moments before the nurse placed her in a bassinet and wheeled her to the nursery. I was allowed to follow to the nursery where her birth grandmother, and I got to watch as the nurses took her weight, did all her measurements, and wrapped her up tight and snug in her first swaddle.
I had been given my own hospital room as an adoptive dad, but I wouldn’t leave the nursery. I gave Aleah her first bottle. I got reprimanded a dozen times for having my phone camera out in the nursery, and the nursing staff tried to shoo me away multiple times. The whole concept was weird to the head nurse, and she did not approve of my being there. I remember one of the greatest gifts from her birth mom that day. The Nurse asked me how to spell Aleah and then told me that her birth mom wanted “Parton” put on her birth certificate. This woman had just gone through an incredible birth process, and she wanted us to be able to put “Parton” on Aleah’s birth certificate? I was blown away and very thankful. That poor nurse had to watch me cry over a name. We had loved her since she was four weeks old. She grew in this woman’s body and in our hearts at the same time, she was here, and she was being called by my name. If I have to add the specific theological paragraph here to help you see the significance of this monumental moment, I can’t help you. Just know, I was a mess. I was blown away by His goodness, and I was hopelessly in love with this little girl, whose nurse wouldn’t even let me hold her.
Isaiah 43:1
But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.
The shift change came later that night, and the new nursing staff was a Godsend. They did some final checks on baby Aleah and put her in a bassinet to be wheeled to my room. I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. I just sat on my bed and stared at her. Was she breathing? Would I be able to change her clothes without breaking her arms and legs? Would she be ok? Was her birth mom going to be okay? Would she still sign over her rights after laboring for so many hours and carrying her for 42 weeks? As I sat there and cried over her. I doubted that she was ours. I knew she carried my name, but I was also sure that this whole thing would come crashing down. I just knew that I had spent all of this money given freely by our friends to fly out here and meet a child that I would never hold as my own. As soft music from “The Praise Baby Collection” played on my phone for her, I just watched her. I prayed for her. I prayed for her birth mom, and I cried for her situation and for the heartache undoubtedly ahead for many of us.
At 2 am my phone buzzed, and the music stopped. It was birth mom… She wanted to hold Aleah at her next feeding time and give her a bottle. My heart hit the floor, and my stomach flipped. Aleah was my baby already and not yet. I was filled with fear. I told her that I would bring her over when she woke up next but hoped she would sleep all night. About one hour later, at 3 am, Aleah woke up and was hungry. I grabbed an Enfamil bottle, shook it up, and headed to birth mom’s room pushing … my baby? … Her baby? In that bassinet. That was the longest walk of my life. It was only about 150 feet away, just around the corner, but I felt like I was taking her never to see her again. I knocked on the door, and the birth mother was awake, undoubtedly in her own turmoil. I wheeled Aleah alongside the bed and put on my strongest face. We chatted for a brief moment, and I handed over her baby very gently as she was quite sore from her surgery and long labor. I shook the Enfamil one more time, attached a clean nipple, and handed it over. I watched them both quietly. I watched a mom feed her child. I watched a baby suspended between two families. Both moms loved her. Both moms wanted the best for her. One held all of the cards, the power to make things go one way or the other, as well as the most precious little life I had ever seen. I watched them both for what felt like an eternity. Aleah ate until she was full and spit out the nipple, snuggling down for another nap. Birth mom just looked at her, and I looked at birth mom. She was a good mom. She loved her baby, and it was evident. This was a tragic moment and one I am sure she relives constantly. She asked for help to pick Aleah back up and get her in the bassinet. I did so gently and slowly. Aleah’s breathing changed as she fell into a deep newborn slumber. Birth mom thanked me, and I wheeled Aleah back to our room. I cried as I walked down the hall back toward my room. I knew it was over. I knew when the 48-hour mark hit that birth mom wouldn’t be able to sign away her rights. I got “Praise Baby” playing again and laid down, hoping that sleep might ease my fear of losing what I knew was mine but didn’t really have yet.
The 48-hour mark came … and then went. Papers were delayed. My anxiety was crazy. I tried to act cool, but I was dying inside. The day did finally arrive just 24 hours later, and Aleah and I had had an incredible time together. The procedure was such that I needed to wheel Aleah to the nursery (a neutral zone) while Katy, our attorney, met with her birth mom. I think I went to Carl’s Jr. Maybe it was Hardy’s. I don’t know. I was on the phone with Julia. We both knew this was the moment that everything hinged on. We cried together, we prayed together, and we found peace in knowing that God knew the outcome of our story even though we didn’t. I ate as fast as I could and raced the Mazda go-cart back to the hospital with fingers still greasy from my fries. I waited outside impatiently for Katy.
When Katy finally emerged from the hospital exit, she wasn’t frowning. Why was she not frowning? She smiled and waved a stack of papers in my direction. “She signed,” she said smiling as we walked towards each other, “Aleah is officially in your protective custody.” She signed?! Julia and I wept and laughed together over the phone 2,100 miles apart. I gathered my things from the hospital and prepared to head to a room provided by a church while Aleah and I waited for clearance to leave the state. What was happening to Aleah’s birth mom in that moment? I often wonder. In that instance, our precious daughter received a new mom, while her birth mom gave up her most precious belonging. Did her birth mom grieve that loss like we have grieved the loss of our own kids? I prayed for her, as I still do. She made the best choice she could for her child, and we benefitted greatly from that loss and heartache.
SEO Type jargon. Move along ...
Hello, and welcome to my not a blog blog!
So, I wrote a book, and I want the message of that book to get out regardless of whether or not anyone buys a copy of the book. A blog, so I hear, is a great way to take advantage of SEO and make sure that people who WANT to find content that my book covers will have a clear path to it’s happy little home in the Amazon marketplace and should then be able to walk away with a hard copy, kindle version, or Audible copy of said book. To that end, I will be releasing sneak previews and portions to each chapter over the next several weeks.
Can I buy the book today? No, sorry. While it is completed, edited, and proofed, the audio version is currently being recorded by a guy with a much better voice than my own. I have no idea what I am doing in publishing, but I think I want to release it all at once.
How did you get your book on Amazon? Well, I am a brilliant author, but I also used Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) that allows me to manage and upload my own manuscript(s), audio, and artwork.
So what is the book about?
Sovereign and Gentle is a window into my happy little family for those of you who don’t know us as well as a deeper look for those who do. The book will even be informative to some of my closest friends, as I don’t talk about much of this content often.
The book opens with the prospect of either Julia or myself donating a Kidney, follows that painful journey, and then backtracks to cover some of our struggles with infertility, multiple miscarriages, foster care, and adoption. I even sprinkled in some real estate investing horror stories for you guys.
The story is framed by key passages from Scripture that have been especially meaningful to me, and the climax of the book seeks to honor and praise God, who has gifted us in all things to be able to serve him in and through our struggles.
Did I discuss the big church from college days that laid me off on multiple occasions and kicked us out of a house after the pastor went up the river? I did, and I don’t think I’m bitter… I think... I’m a work in progress there, but I hope that I framed that experience in such a manner that others who have been beaten up by institutions can find comfort in the one who is sovereign over all things and in His ultimate plan.
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