Letter from a Fake Mom

My face was flushing.  I knew it was...I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks with each pound of my heart.  I had the sudden urge to slap her while at the same time feeling the desperate need to stand up and leave before I burst into tears. 

I did neither, though. I held my tongue as she continued talking. 

She was in the midst of relaying some things she was trying to work through (hypothetically) with her boyfriend and his two children.  There was the question of whether she would want to have a child with him, herself.  She was explaining how it would be too hard on the other children if a new child were brought into the mix; how it would make them feel jealous and left out. As her mind wandered down this path, she arrived at the idea of adoption.  Maybe that would solve the problems..a child that wasn't REALLY theirs.  Because he wouldn't be the REAL dad and she wouldn't be the REAL mom and this would prevent any jealousy from the other children because IT wouldn't be a REAL child.  Of course, this child would just be so grateful to them and it would be nice to be appreciated.  

I was shocked into silence. Each "real" that escaped her lips drifted across the table and slapped me in the face.  Over and over. All I could hear was "NOT A REAL MOM." The words echoed in my head.  I could feel my heart speeding up and the tears wanting to come. How could she say this in front of me? To me?

Am I not real? I feel real.  I felt real when I hugged my son good bye before I dashed out to meet her.  I felt real earlier when I was explaining to him why he can't run out into the road and when we sitting at the table laughing over lunch.  I have felt real every day of the past six years.  When did I become "not real?"

If I'm not a real mom, what am I? An imposter? A fake? A temporary? Unnatural? If I am not real, what am I?

I am a mom.  Just Mom.  Not adoptive mom. Not second mom.  Not legal mom. Definitely not fake mom.  When my son calls for me to come see his latest lego creation, he says mom.  I wipe bottoms, find lost loveys, beg for better aim at the toilet, fret over healthy dinners, and wonder how a little body can eat so much.  I love this little boy with every single fiber of my being...I can't even understand how I love him so much.  But I do.  I am a real mom. 

He is my son. My very real, very loved son.  Not my adoptive son.  Not the boy we adopted.  He's my son.  He's my buddy, my baby...my boy. 

There is no other label that need to be affixed to either of us. He is my real son. I am his real mom. We are a real family.  End of story. 

Sometimes, I forget that not everyone thinks this way. I will forget that there are people out there whose frame of reference for love is so narrow that they can't conceive of loving someone not biologically related to themselves.  They love because they are suppose to. These same people can turn off love, should it be determined that a relative is not, in fact, "really" related (as she later remembers is the case with her little brother..only now he's not her brother, because they aren't related). 

Don't get me wrong, I am aware EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY that another woman (who is AMAZING) gave birth to this little buddy of mine. She carried him for nine months; she knows him in ways that I never will. I am ALWAYS aware that my greatest joy in life came from someone else's greatest sadness.  I have not forgotten her and neither will my son. That same woman choose ME to be the REAL mom to a REAL little boy. She wasn't looking for a nanny or a temporary guardian. She was looking for someone to love her son as their own.  That is why she chose me. 

I am not going to lie- the words hurt me...way down deep, in places I can't even think about without feeling my chest tighten. It crushes me in ways that make me want to curl up and cry.  In ways that make me want to fight to PROVE myself.  When we set out to adopt, I knew that I would encounter these people and that I would have a lifetime of explaining and proving. But when it comes from a obtuse comment from someone that "loves" me, the poisonous words go deeper than they should, because I have my walls down. Because, after all, she loves me. 

More so, though, it angers me because she truly believes these things. It breaks my heart because she genuinely does not see that love can be that big. She will profess to want a great, open love, but truth is, she has no idea what love actually is. Her idea of love is shallow, convenient, and self-serving, and therefore, her life will never be touched by the great love that could be. My love is like an ocean and hers will always be a puddle. She will never understand this until she lives it...and maybe she never will. This thought overwhelms me with sadness for her and the limited life she has and will always have. 

Suddenly, her voice draws me back down to the table...back down to the fork I have sat down, the chair I have leaned back in, and the cheeks full of heat.  She has finally noticed my lack of attention, although not my offense at her statements.  My eyes focus again on her face and now that she knows she has my attention again, she continues.  

My heart slows and my cheeks cool.  I am not going to slap her. I'm not going to run out of the restaurant.  My heart hurts for us both because this narrow love of hers will always keep us at a distance.  In that moment, I pity her more than I have anyone else in my life. 

As we part ways, she whispers "love you" and hugs me tight.  I whisper it back, knowing full well that we are speaking different languages. And while it pains me to witness her puddle, I'm more than willing to keep inviting her to the ocean. 

Who knows, maybe one day she'll meet me in the deep waters. 

Life After Dad

Nine years ago, I sat next to my dad and held his hand as he took his last breath on this earth.  I felt the warmth of life slowing leave him....watched his eyes grow dim...watch him struggle for each breath.  And then, I saw his chest rise and fall for the last time.  I heard my mom scream "I LOVE YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME?! I LOVE YOU!!"  It was so surreal. It was like watching a movie-watching that scene where things fall apart and the person hangs by a thread on the brink of sanity. I heard the screams and weeping, felt my own tears, saw the pain written on the face of my mom and brother.  I watched the rain that suddenly poured down.  I closed my eyes to try to calm my thoughts and I kept thinking the same thing over and over again.

I kept thinking, "I wanted so much more for you, Daddy.  Not like this....please, not like this." 

My dad was only 45 years old.  I was 26 years old, newly married.  That first year of marriage, my husband had gone through a grueling chemotherapy.  He finished in January, and in March my dad began his.  It was the most horrific time of my life. I remember praying over tests results for both my husband and my dad. I remember thinking how heart-breaking it was to watch my dad and husband exchange chemo stories and share pointers on countering nausea. It was so bittersweet to watch them bond over chemo. 

The year had been so polarized.  We started off the year with my husband coming off his chemo.  We would have to wait months to find out if it had been successful; to be out of the window for remission. During that year of injections and pills and lost hair, I had come to a new chapter in my life.  I had aged. It wasn't a physical thing (although, there was definitely some physical consequences to the year's stress)-it was a soul thing.  I could tell that my perspective on life had changed.  I know it will sound cliche, but I felt like I could see the big picture for the first time. 

I was young, naive, and a little selfish.  It wasn't that I was a horrible person, but for example, I wasn't ready to really settle down and start a family. I liked being married and having real jobs (which equaled real money) and being able to travel and shop and all that good stuff.  But that period was very short-lived.  Suddenly, travel was just the trip to the doctor's office.  Shopping consisted of mad dashes out for whatever food my husband thought he could eat (but never could...I was always too late).  Life was suddenly limited; it was finite.  And in that, it became so very, very precious. I measured each day. I cherished friends and family in ways I never had. 

So that February morning, as my hubby and I made our first trip to church in a very long time, I stopped my husband in the parking lot and looked up into his eyes.  It was a beautiful day and I remember feeling the sun shine on us and it was like God smiling down and telling me it was going to be alright; it was a new day.  So, I smiled up at him and told him I was ready to have a family.  He had been ready since the day we met, but I had held out. But now I was ready to take the plunge. As soon as we were cleared by the doctor to start trying, we would. It was a wonderful day. He picked me up and swung me around and I remember thinking that we had finally made it; life was going to get back to normal. 

I was so very, very wrong. The next month (March 12th), my dad was diagnosed with an extremely rare and aggressive type of cancer (adrenal carcinoma).  It had spread; it was everywhere. His chances of survival were slim. I remember getting the call from my mom to come to the hospital-that the test results were not good. I found her standing next to my dad's bed, holding onto the rails, crying uncontrollably. I had never seen her cry like that. I just held her and told her we would figure it out. I truly believed it would be alright. My dad was strong; he was invincible.  He was a career army man for crying out loud! He made a career out of yelling at people LOL So this would not be the end of him. 

The days were so long. It's crazy the things that stick with you.  I remember dad kept dreaming about food. He hadn't eaten in weeks....but he would swear to you that he had just eaten a big plate of spaghetti.  Other days, it was fried chicken. One day, when he was dreaming, he actually picked up his IV line and bit it in half while we were sleeping.  He wanted to eat.  He just couldn't. In his dreams, though, he was feasting every day on his favorite foods. I was always thankful to God for that.  He had good dreams. 

One day, he was laying in bed and suddenly his hands started moving.  I watched and realized, in amazement, that my dad was tying on a lure to a fishing line. I had seen his hands move like that all my life on our fishing trips.  He tied the line, put on a sinker, and cast out his line (off the end of the bed). Then, he started reeling it in slowly...I swear I could hear the spinner smacking in the water.  I could see the sun on the water as he reeled that line up to the bed.  

Another day, he was sitting up and suddenly, I heard him mumbling.  As I got ready to say something to him, he said, "Draven, get back here!" Draven was one of the dogs at home. Sometimes when my dad would walk her, she would dash off and Dad would have to go get her. He would yell at her to come back, but she never did. Today, Dad yelled at her a couple more times and then let out a big sigh.  I knew that he had given up on the yelling and was going after her.  I laughed a little and thought to myself, "Poor Dad, even in his sleep he's having to walk the dog." His dreams were such a beautiful blessing; such a wonderful escape, for all of us. 

April rolled around and the chemo had stopped working.  There was another trial drug.  In the end,  it wouldn't work either.  But he tried it. He gave it his all. It just wasn't meant to be. 

Dad had aged so much.  My dad was a young man.  I remember at one of the last appointments, a nurse asking my mom how "her dad" was.  My mom quietly corrected her, saying, "This is my husband."  The nurse apologized profusely, but I remember my mom crying that night.  It wasn't because of the age thing...it was the why behind all of it.  She didn't care about selling the car that they had just purchased, but that now sat in the driveway collecting dust.  She didn't care about the job she had left so that she could stay by his side day and night. She didn't care about all the other myriad of things that were happening. She cared that the reason that all of this was happening was because of the cancer.  It was because we didn't need a car for dad anymore.  What killed us was that little by little, dad was slipping away. 

It was Mother's Day weekend and Dad had come back to the hospital. The new trial drug was not working.  The doctor's solemnly walked in and told us that there were no other options.  It was over. There was no fight left. All we needed to do now was decide what "our wishes" were. I remember my mom telling me how the doctor explained to dad that he could go home and they would make sure he was comfortable there.  Dad looked at the doc and said, "No, I don't want to go home. Can't you send me somewhere else? Can I stay here?" She was shocked.  "Honey, don't you want to come home?" my mom asked.  He looked at her and explained that he didn't want to come home because he was worried that we would be afraid to live in the house if he died in it.  He didn't want to taint our home.  

I felt the lump in my throat turn to a rock. I thought I might choke. I felt the room spinning; felt the tears burning.  C. S. Lewis was right when he said that grief feels like fear.  It is that same overwhelming feeling; that same desperation, that same fight or flight instinct.  You want to escape; to get away, but where do you run? How can you escape this? 

I remember feeling such pity at that moment. I remember being humbled by his willingness to die in a strange place so that it wouldn't "haunt" us.  We wanted him home.  We wanted him with us.  He finally agreed to come home. 

I had gotten flowers delivered to my mom in the hospital for Mother's Day. As we gathered up all our belongings to head home, I got the vase of flowers. I remember feeling sorry for mom. My mom had literally been with my dad longer than she had been without him. They had gotten married when she was 16 and he was 18.  She had literally grown up with him.   

We went home. There was the home health agency bringing the bed, the long wait at the pharmacy for the meds, the scramble to get dad comfortable in his new "room" in the living room. Ever the planner, I made a list in my head of all the things I needed to figure out. Where did dad want to be buried? What funeral home? What was I supposed to do after he was gone? How would I ask him these things? How do you ask someone you love-no, someone you adore and look up to...your hero, how do you ask them how they want to die? 

We thought we had a little more time, but we were wrong. The next day, things took a turn for the worst.  It was a beautiful day, I remember.  I remember thinking that you would never know that some one's world was falling apart on such a gorgeous day.  Yet, here we were, sitting in the living room, watching dad fade away.  

It seemed to go by so fast.  First, he was sitting on the couch, having his last cigarette.  He let it burn down so much that it got down to his fingers, but he didn't notice that it was burning him. We watched him like a hawk; all of us staring at him and watching every movement. He suddenly yelled, "Boo!" and we all just about fell over.  "Why would you do that?!" my mom exclaimed.  "Stop staring at me," Dad said, "It's creepy."  

Then, he got up to try to go to the bathroom.  Suddenly, he was falling.  Mom and my brother caught him.  My brother was yelling, "I've got you! I've got you." Mom was just screaming. I stood up and the next thing I knew I was throwing things down. I looked at my husband and yelled, "Do something!!!"  I don't know what I expected him to do, but I just had to yell.  It just came out. 

We got Dad into bed and he regained consciousness.  He looked around and said, "You know, I think I was gone there for a second." My heart was racing.  I had this instinct to run; to get as far away from this as I could.  But I knew I wouldn't. I knew I would stay there no matter what. We got dad comfortable and we sat by his side and we waited. 

The moment was now. Dad's breathing was almost gone. He was cold. I knew it was coming. I knew it was happening. I kept thinking of all these things I wanted to tell him.  I wanted to tell him that I loved him. I wanted to tell him that my life would never be the same without him. That I wouldn't be able to survive without my dad. That I still needed him SO much. I needed my dad to help me fix up my house, to show me how to have a beautiful garden, to change my oil and remind me to check my tires. I needed my dad to be there for my husband; to help him learn how to change spark plugs and get his guy time on the golf course. I needed him for my unborn children.  Their future would never be complete without getting one of his hugs, without summer fishing trips and the embarrassment of his break dancing.  I needed him. 

I wanted to yell.  I wanted to stand up and just tear at my hair and scream at the top of my lungs. I wanted to tear things off the wall. I wanted to break things. I wanted to break down. I wanted to die. 

But I didn't. I didn't yell, I didn't break anything...I didn't break down. I simply sat there, held his hand, and told him it was ok; that I understood and I loved him no matter what. 

I sat there, holding his hand, as that last breath escaped his lips.  Until his chest went down and never came back up. I sat there while the world fell down around me; while my heart broke into a million pieces.  I sat there. 

I can't tell you how much it hurts. I can't tell you how much it kills me. It has never left me. It doesn't go away. No matter what anyone tells you, it never goes away. You just learn to live with it.  It's like learning to live with a handicap.  It doesn't get easier, you just learn how to do it. You will think that you have overcome; that you are finally in smooth sailing territory.  And then, suddenly and out of nowhere, you will be right back in that moment. Suddenly, I am sitting right there with my dad, watching him die. 

It has been nine years since I lost my dad. Nine years that I have missed his laugh.  Nine years that I have dreamt about just one more hug; just one more chance to feel him envelope me like a teddy bear. Nine years that I have longed to hear his voice; to hear him call me "Sissy" one more time. With each year, it seems that I find new reasons to miss my dad. When we found out we were approved for our adoption, I needed to share it with him. When our son was born, I wept for us all. Every day, I feel sad for my son and the fact that he will never, ever know the man that loved just the idea of him so very much.  Will never know the man that literally had him on his mind until the end. 

No matter how old you get, you need your parents.  I need my dad. I wanted so much more for him. I wanted him to get to grow old, retire, and spend his days fishing. I wanted him to get to know my son. I wanted him to get to see me as a mom.  I wanted so much. 

All this to say, I miss my dad. Always will. 

She's a nut!

Do you ever have those moments where so many things are flying through your head you don't know where to start? Or how to say what needs to be said? Partly because there are so many thoughts and ideas and emotions....and partly because you aren't really sure YOU even understand them yet? 

That's exactly where I am.  It's almost midnight (way past my bedtime) and instead of being snuggled up in my bed, I am sitting on the couch in the dimly lit living room of my home, basking in the glow of the computer screen as I make a feeble attempt to type at the speed of my thoughts.  It's  impossible, I tell you. 

So many things are going through my head right now, but I will have to delve into the mysterious of my craziness later. Right now, I have to start my purpose. I have to let you know why I've made this dive into the blogosphere...why I'm up at midnight with you instead of in my warm bed.  It's the orphans. 

 Photo courtesy of My Spiritual Journey blog by Richard Lawry

Orphans are keeping me up at night. Orphans are haunting my days.  It's like the scales have fallen from my eyes and suddenly, I can't make myself stop seeing them....can't stop thinking of their hearts breaking. I can't keep from asking myself, "What is happening to them tonight? Is there one crying herself to sleep right now? Is there a little boy, shaking in his bed as a storm passes through and there is no one there to comfort him? Is there a little baby sitting in a dirty diaper, in a stinky room with 40 other dirty diapers, waiting for his five minutes of contact for the day? What about the brothers sliding down into their ditch for the night, pulling a piece of cardboard over the hole, hoping it will protect them...protect them from the elements, from animals..or worse. What about those kids? Who will comfort that little boy tonight when he wakes up from a bad dream? Who is loving on them...caring for them...holding them...Who?"

I have always thought of myself as a decent, kind, and loving person.  My friends would describe me as very loving, very compassionate.  Yet, I feel like I have only been so to a slight degree.  Something has shifted in me; something has changed. It all started a few months ago. I prayed a new prayer. I prayed for  God to break my heart for something that broke His.  The next day, some one's offhanded comment about the dire circumstances of a Ukrainian orphanage brought me to tears.  I didn't know this person. I didn't know the orphanage.  I have never been to an orphanage.  I don't even know anyone from the Ukraine. But that day, it felt like I did. It felt like that man was talking about my children.  It felt like he was telling me that it was my own son that was lying in a dark corner somewhere, with people afraid to touch him because his culture marked him as "cursed by God."  He was talking about my son crying himself to sleep at night as he tried to figure out why no one....NO ONE...loved him.  I couldn't handle it. 

That feeling led me on a mission. I began to study, in earnest, what the Bible had to say on orphans and how we are to take care of them. The more I studied, the more the burdens of their life weighed on my heart.  The more I read up, the more I felt love for these children I had never even met. Each day, I found myself loving people and children I had never even given a second thought. Suddenly, I realized, I am surrounded by orphans.  Literally. 

So, I took the next step. I prayed and asked for guidance; for direction on what God would have me do.  Am I suppose to adopt? Am I suppose to help my local foster kids? I prayed and prayed.  A couple of days into it, I got an answer: Ethiopia.  

I was literally sitting at the table, head bowed in my prayer, and when the word came to me, my head shot up and I said out loud..."Whoa whoa whoa....what?!" 

Again, I heard "Ethiopia." 

My mind started racing. What would I do in Ethiopia? I am not a medical person. I have never been on a single mission trip. Not ONE! Not even a local thing. Oh sure, I've volunteered at my share of bake sales, but never have I entertained the thought of skipping across the globe to a third-world country.  

"Go and see." 

I stared straight ahead and tried to let my mind wrap around what I had just heard.  "Go and see" seemed pretty straight-forward.  Go to Ethiopia and see His children.  Go meet these orphans IN their distress. Don't just write a check; don't just think about it. GO AND SEE. 

To say that this is out of my comfort zone would be an understatement. To say that my husband is super-excited would be an extreme overstatement (but wait until you hear how God worked on him...it is SUCH A GOOD STORY!).  To say I have any idea how I am going to afford this trip, considering our son just got done with a major surgery would be a blatant lie. I have no idea how this is going to work. No idea how we will pay for this.  No idea if I can handle a trip like this...emotionally, physically, or spiritually.  For the last two months, I have been doing a lot of talking to myself.  Essentially, I have been talking myself out of the trip.  I have been reminding myself of all the reasons I can't do this (hello, there are so many!). 

Then, tonight, I decided something really, really important. I decided that if God wants me to do this, then He will work it all out. I need to stop trying to plan this out. This is NOT my plan, after all. This is His plan. I need to walk in faith. If He told me to go, then go I shall. And if He is sending me, then surely He has a plan for everything from the cost of my plane ticket to shielding me from malaria.  God is great and I know He is all over this! 

And you know what? I'm a peace tonight.  I'm gonna just go along with this and see where it takes me.  In a few months, I might be trying to figure out what this was all about. Or, I may be writing to you from Ethiopia.  Who knows? Right now, though, I am going to simply rest in His will.  

I know it doesn't make any sense, but for some reason, just writing this all down has made me feel so much better.  It is seriously cathartic to just see the words on paper.  I know that this adventure isn't just about a literal trip to the other side of the world; I know that God is working on me in crazy ways, even right now. This new journey into the love of my Lord is just incredible.  I figure that if nothing else, I will share with you how He is working on me.  Maybe it will help you.  Maybe it will help me.  Maybe we can help each other.  After all, God gave us each other so we can encourage and shelter one another.  

I warn you now: my path is lined with dirty dishes, piles of laundry, match box cars, dust bunnies, chewed on remotes, and the occasional puddle.  I'm a regular, stay-at-home mom who has just heard the voice of her Lord.  I sleep late more than I should.  I hate changing the litter box. I can't figure out why my son thinks that throwing toys (or anything for that matter) is so hilarious.  I adore my husband and best-friend, and still think he looks pretty darn good in a pair of jeans. No matter how far I get into my life, I always feel like I'm a newbie.  I always feel like I need to read more, meet more people, and see more things.  My train of thought is about as straight as a slinky.  Multitasking is one of my favorite hobbies, and also one of my biggest curses. In other words, I'm a glorious mess. 

So, what I'm trying to say is that this blog may be a little crazy.  I will probably be sporadic in my posts.  Some may be deep and thought-provoking and others may be pure folly.  I promise, though, that I will be real, transparent, and genuine.  





And finally, I can sleep. 



Goodnight ya'll. 
Erica