Coming to Adoption Indirectly

Like most adoptive parents, my husband Mike and I did not come to adoption directly; it was our daughter Melissa who led us to it.

After an unexpected but healthy pregnancy, Melissa was born with serious medical problems. Her physical appearance was unusual: large skin folds, no fingernails or toenails, a displaced hip and possible mental deficiency. Most significantly, she was unable to suck on a bottle, eat and gain weight. Specialists couldn't give her condition a name, and each day we consented to tests, x-rays and blood work, hoping to find an answer so we could bring our baby home.

Our life with Melissa was a torturous roller coaster of good days and bad, hope and despair. She endured three major surgeries, including a liver biopsy during which her lung was accidentally punctured. She almost died that day and I never knew such fear. A transfer to a specialized, children's hospital brought better treatment, more procedures and, finally, a diagnosis. Melissa suffered from a rare, genetic condition called Donohue Syndrome. The condition is always fatal, in most children between the ages of six and nine months. This news was shared with us in August, 1978, and Melissa's struggle ended a month later, two days before her six-month birthday.

Our hearts were beyond broken. Melissa's life had left us exhausted and bewildered. Her death left us overwhelmed with grief. All the pain and disappointment was worthwhile as long as Melissa was with us, but now she was gone and there was nothing to hope for. For months I existed in a daze of emptiness. My body had made a baby, but she was dead, and we were all alone.

Melissa's doctors had told us that the chance of recurrence of her condition was one in four in subsequent pregnancies. This was stunning news for a couple in our mid-twenties, both from large Catholic families, whose siblings were having healthy children. As much as we wanted more children, we couldn't possibly risk this happening again. I'm grateful that Mike and I always agreed on that. Doctors proposed one possible solution: artificial donor insemination. Since the recessive gene that caused Donohue's was extremely rare in the general population, a baby conceived in this way would almost certainly be healthy. We thought about it carefully for a few months, and decided to go ahead.

It took four months just to get an appointment with yet another doctor, and several more months to chart my cycle and start on Clomid. Finally, inseminations began, and in the fourth cycle we were successful. At six weeks, however, on the day the lab confirmed the pregnancy, I miscarried. I took a week off from work, devastated by this latest blow. The unfairness of it all was almost too much to bear. But, after a short time we were back on the monthly treadmill of inseminations and blood tests. After nine more months, I was seeing a therapist and beginning to question our decision. I knew we could never replace Melissa, but since her death I had felt an overwhelming need to have a baby that came from me; that another pregnancy with a healthy outcome would make things right again, complete the cycle begun so long before. After talking with a priest we knew, I started to understand that I would never have that baby. I cried long and hard that day, and for many days after. But through the grief came the realization that we didn't need a pregnancy in order to become parents. We took a much-needed vacation on a beautiful beach and decided to pursue something we had kept tucked in the backs of our minds - adoption.

Adoption was not new in our family. My mother's sister had adopted a wonderful baby boy two years prior, and he was loved and accepted by everyone. I had feared that our extended families might not embrace our plan, but my aunt's experience had paved the way.

We approached adoption energetically - reading, calling, writing letters. We went to seminars, met with lawyers, even attended parties benefiting foreign orphanages. We talked to anyone we thought might help. We considered foreign, domestic, private and open adoption. We had just hit a snag in the paperwork for a South American placement when a local Catholic agency said they would work with us. After so many disappointments we could hardly believe or even hope that we might really, finally, have a baby in our lives.

The interviews and paperwork were relatively simple. Even the cost was moderate by current standards. Thirteen months after our initial contact with the agency, and almost five years after Melissa's death, Sean Michael Collins arrived home at the age of 15 days. I quit my job eagerly, and truly enjoyed full-time motherhood. Sean was blond and blue-eyed, healthy and happy. He gained a pound in a week and just kept on growing. At 13 months, Sean's first ear infection was accompanied by a high fever and convulsions. Doctors inquired about our family history, and for the first time I was at a loss because he was adopted. Sean's medical history had been given to us, but convulsions were not mentioned for his birthmother, and we had even less information on his birthfather. While this was not critical for Sean's treatment, I felt angry that I didn't have the knowledge that might make our son well. We later learned that febrile seizures are common and usually outgrown by age five. Now, after several scary trips to emergency rooms, Sean has been seizure-free for six years.

"Our" agency told us that we could apply for a second child when Sean was two. When I called to inquire, I was put off, due to high demand and low "supply". Then Mike's job required us to move to the Midwest. Our New York City-based agency would not place a child outside the tri-state area, and suggested we apply to the Catholic agency in our new location.

Soon after our arrival in Milwaukee, we did so, while also putting out feelers elsewhere. Before long, we were asked to attend pre-adoption classes at Lutheran Social Services. At our first meeting we were told that LSS only placed with childless couples. We fearfully approached the group leader after the meeting to remind her that we already had one child. "The Lord works in mysterious ways," she told us. A clerical oversight had led to our invitation to the classes, but we were welcome to continue if we wished. We did!

The weekly classes discussed all aspects of adoption and gave us a chance to share our feelings and concerns while getting to know the other couples. The most compelling sessions were panel discussions with adult adoptees and birthmothers who had surrendered children.

The wait for our second child was longer - about two years - and the feelings more complex. After five years as an "only" how would Sean react to a new baby? We tried to prepare him by reading the few children's books that didn't discuss Mom's pregnancy in connection with a new sibling, and we visited the hospital to see what a newborn would look like.

The agency had us prepare a letter about ourselves, complete with family photos. When our attributes "matched" the needs and/or desires of a birthmother ready to place, our letter was sent to her with two others from which she could choose a family for her child. Our phone call finally came on Sean's fifth birthday. A birthmom had chosen us, but her baby had not yet been born. We had not requested a boy or girl, so a match could be made before the birth. A week later we learned that our second son, Brendan Louis, had been born at 9:00 p.m. on Sean's birthday. His birthmom did not wish to meet us, but she named the baby and left a photo of herself, along with two letters - one for him and one for us. Her only request was for an up-date letter and photo after one year, and we were glad to comply.

Brendan came home at the age of five weeks. The adjustment to a two-child family was probably typical. Both our boys are strong-willed and competitive, and as they grow, their personalities are more evident. Mike and I thoroughly enjoyed having a little one around again, and I wonder now if we unintentionally excluded Sean in our excitement. At the time, he voiced his objection to having a new brother, more than once. Now, at the ages of six and eleven, the boys are not exactly best friends, but they are beginning to do more things together. We still need to encourage them to work our their constant "he did, no he did" conflicts.

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Credits: Roots & Wings Adoption Magazine