When I started researching adoption in 2003 I didn't realize I was starting a journey that would produce not just the family I'd always wanted, but also friendships that would sustain me. I had no idea of any of that. All I knew was that I had visited an orphanage and seen a little girl that I knew in my heart was my daughter.
Shortly after she came home I realized my daughter needed a sibling, and I started researching adoptable children in Russian speaking countries, because I wanted Alesia to be able to help me teach English to a younger sibling. Teaching her had been quite a challenge, simply because I didn't realize that she had a learning disability.
Michael came home in May 2007 and Alesia was a great tutor and sibling to him.
Michael was from Kazakhstan, a country I had only vaguely heard of that day in 2005 when I spotted his photo on the adoption agency website. I was working in the legal department of a hotel company at that time and I had to go examine the world map to figure out where he was.
Kazakhstan is a fascinating country. It's situated east of Europe, right under Russia, and west of China. For centuries, traders between Europe and China traveled across the vast plains of Kazakhstan on a trade route known as The Silk Road.
Sometime around the time I adopted Michael I "met" another adoptive mom who had adopted a little 6 year old girl from Kazakhstan. Although she lives in California and her background is totally different from mine, I liked Judy immediately. She is smart, funny, and she writes a blog. She lives in California, but a few years ago she bought an apartment in New York and she stays there part of every year and sees Broadway shows, goes to museums, etc. I always enjoy reading her blog about all her varied and fun activities.
Although it may sound like a peculiar friendship, my relationship with Judy has always been one of mutual respect and affection. We don't always agree politically, but we agree about a lot of important things.
Judy is one of the few people I can talk to about raising an adopted child who came home not as a baby, but as a fully-formed little human.
Raising a child who has come out of an orphanage and is older than 6 when they are adopted is quite a challenge. Judy has had challenges with her daughter and I have had some with Michael. We both love our children, and we have tried hard to help them. Other parents are great sources of wisdom when it comes to biological children, but they really don't understand the challenges Judy and I have faced.
Most children who live in chaotic birth homes with parents who neglect them carry that emotional scars of that for the rest of their lives. Ditto for kids who spend their earliest years in an orphanage, like Judy's daughter. Our kids didn't have as early examples parents who loved and nurtured them, who protected them from harm and showed them what it's like to cope with adversity in healthy ways. My son watched his birthmom cope with trouble by drinking. Right after he came home he picked up a bottle of perfume on my dresser, smelled it, and said in Russian "My mother used to drink this for the alcohol." [My daughter translated.] I was shocked.
Most kids like my son and Judy's daughter go through periods of hard rebellion when they become teenagers - more rebellious that biological children, usually. It's terrifying to watch, as a parent. Judy's daughter pushed the limits. Michael put me through a lot. Both children are doing well now, though. Judy's daughter is thriving in college, and Michael is headed back to college in the Fall. Our children are smart, resilient, and able to give and receive love. I am so proud of them.
Judy just learned the other day that she has Stage 4 colon cancer. There is a tumor on her colon and it's inoperable. The day she told me that, Wednesday, I cried off and on for most of the day.
You're probably thinking that's weird. I have never actually sat across from Judy and chatted. We've never met in person. I've never shared a meal with her. Yet, I feel like I am losing a member of my family.
I also am constantly berating myself for thinking there's no hope. There is always hope. Miracles do happen, all the time. Ask any doctor or nurse who has more than a few years of experience.
A few months ago I finished a book called Dying To Be Me, by Anita Moorjani. She had terminal cancer and actually died from it, in the hospital. Her soul left her body. She writes about it very articulately. Excerpt:
"I didn't feel as though I'd physically gone somewhere else -- it was more as though I'd awakened. Perhaps I'd finally been roused from a bad dream... What I can only describe as superb and glorious unconditional love surrounded me, wrapping me tight as I continued to let go... Love, joy, ecstasy and awe poured into me, through me, and engulfed me. I was enveloped in more love than I ever knew existed. I felt more free and alive than I ever had... I suddenly knew things that weren't physically possible, such as the conversations between medical staff and my family that were taking place far away from my hospital bed."
Anita goes on to talk about time in the other realm isn't linear, it's simultaneous, and how she was able to make contact with her deceased father and best friend. She felt such joy and peace in the other realm. She came out of the coma eventually, and her cancer completely went away.
I gave the book to my mother to read and she, too, found it fascinating. I love this idea: If you want to know about the journey, ask someone on the way back. By coming back and sharing her journey with the world, Anita Moorjani has helped countless people to not fear death. I don't fear it. I don't want anyone I love to fear it. It's simply a transition.
I kept thinking about my father's 1996 cancer diagnosis, when I heard from Judy the other day. He had been in such a lot of pain and yet I knew that when he died, the pain would be gone and he would enter into the blissful state Anita describes. Whether Judy is facing the last months of her life or it's simply a very scary bump in the road and she will recover, I feel peaceful. Her life is about to change dramatically, either way.
If Judy is dying, I will miss her friendship terribly. I hope I will also be able to rejoice, though, because she will be out of pain and in a state of peace that I can only imagine. One day our spirits will meet in person and I will rejoice in seeing my old friend, and hug her. One day our Kazakh children will meet, whether in this life or the next.
I am still finding myself crying, at odd moments, for reasons I cannot fully articulate. I don't want Judy to be in pain. I don't wish it on her family either. I am anticipating missing her, and she is not gone yet -- and I am a little angry at myself for pre-grieving. I am also sad that I never got to visit Judy in California, and she probably doesn't feel like traveling, now.
I comfort myself by picturing this: Judy and I sitting and looking out at the ocean, drinking something cold, and talking about our kids, our passions, our lives -- and laughing. So much healing and love comes in the form of laughter. One day it will happen, whether in this life or the next.
