Sunday, December 23, 2012

7 years ago

7 years ago today, my daughter entered the Jinan SWI.  She was in cardiac failure and was brought to the army hospital for surgery.  I think about her birth parents on this day.  Do they wonder where she is?  Do they think she's still alive?  Dr Miller from Tufts Medical Center read over Jess's chart when she first came home and said our little girl had been very, very sick.  Is that why her parents couldn't take care of her?  Our guide had told us that most families don't have insurance and the cost of surgery is prohibitive.  I know that I couldn't afford open heart surgery without the benefit of insurance.  When we were going into adoption, we wanted nothing to do with open adoption.  Now, I would love the chance to tell Jessica's birthparents what an awesome, loving, smart, fun child we have.  I can't help but wonder whether they are thinking of her on this day as well.

An excerpt from a Mothers Day poem by Jennifer Wilson-Pines.   

I am a mother
every second of the day.
My daughter is stitched 
into every fiber of my life.
I love her with an intensity 
that took me by surprise.
Surpassed only by the fear
of losing her.

But she has another mother,
The woman in the mirror,
The shadow, who comes
and goes through invisible doors.

You first felt her stir, roll 
and kick inside you.
The contraction that announced
her impending arrival,
heard the first cry, touched 
the downy fuzz on her head,

And left her.

And I grapple with this,
As she will sooner than I wish.

Can I say I would never do the same?
Judge not?..

Perhaps it was the desperation 
of a mother
who throws her children 
from a burning building.
Hoping and praying 
that someone will catch them.
That they will be safe.
Perhaps, perhaps,
I will never know.

Do you miss her,
wonder at what might have been,
where is she now?

Our daughter is dancing, far away,
dressed in a Cinderella blue gown.
Serving tea to a stuffed turtle,
singing songs of her own invention.
You will never hear her voice.
She will never see your face.

She is neither you or me.
She is the third way,
already crafting her own story.
You gave her life,
I give her a future.

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