He was so beautiful – blue eyes, soft blonde fuzz covering his head, porcelain skin, and sweet rosebud lips – a small angel gazing at me from the arms of the social worker.  He was seven weeks old and he was ours.

The woman placed him in my waiting arms and this child became my world.  All I remember after that is the warm feeling of his body next to mine, the pressure of his small hand gripping my finger, the tiny whispering sounds of his steady breathing as he fell asleep in my arms.  He trusts me!  That’s a good sign!  I was so worried, so nervous, so completely overwhelmed, and so intensely thankful to the unknown young woman who had made this decision.

We had waited so long for this day, to be parents, to become a whole family.  There had been so many disappointments, watching the calendar, going through
humiliating and sometimes painful tests, charting my temperature every morning, then more tests.  You are ovulating just give it time.  How much time?  The years began to add up.  Two miscarriages, then a pregnancy that lasted longer and then still longer.  Was this one going to be successful?  Hope became tangible.  We were living on the Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.  I was teaching at the Department of Defense School on the Base.  Each morning, I carefully ate the two soda crackers my husband brought me in bed.  Then slowly, I would get up and head for the shower, hoping not to throw up.  The dr. told me that morning sickness was normal.

Four months then five months passed.  We didn’t talk about it very much, but our hopes began to grow.  I wrote to my parents to let them know they were going to be grandparents.  Six months . . . how sweet the feeling was.  We began to talk about the baby, make lists of names, and buy diapers, small gowns, tiny undershirts, and even a stuffed lamb for the crib we had picked out at the Base Exchange.

That night in April 1968 – a bad nightmare – falling out of a boat into a lake –  my mother was in the lake – I was calling to my brother on the dock to save her, she couldn’t swim – trying to scream when I realized I couldn’t swim either – my husband waking me, holding me, telling me it was just a dream.  Then I realized that the sheets were wet.  Honey, I think my water broke!

He called the Base hospital and was told to bring me there right away.  The dr. seemed upset to be called out in the middle of the night.  His examination didn’t take long. The baby is coming, it’s too early.  He gave the nurse some instructions.  I was given an injection and moved to a room in the hospital.  For eighteen hours I experienced waves of intense contractions.  My husband held my hand.  He was so pale.  I finally told him to go home and get some rest.  Later I found out he waited outside my room, constantly checking with the nurse about my condition.  Is she going to be all right?

The baby finally came.  Do you want to see him?  No.  I couldn’t handle it.  I was given more drugs.  I’m not sure how long I was in the hospital.  My husband found the Base chaplain to come talk to me.  He prayed with me, assured me that there would be other children. 
    Our next duty station placed us in Rhode Island.  A month after we found a place to live, my husband’s ship left for the Mediterranean.  He was gone for eight months.  I spent that lonely time watching television, writing letters, crocheting, and quietly having a nervous breakdown.  The Base Hospital referred me to a wonderful psychiatrist who helped me to accept the loss of our baby.

A year later, we were stationed in our home state of Minnesota.  Dale was attached to the Naval Recruiting Office in Duluth.  It was such a ‘normal’ life!  I was able to find a good doctor who recommended some exploratory surgery to find an answer to

what went wrong with my pregnancy.  The answer was difficult to accept.  I had a ‘double’ uterus, each half much too small to support a full-term pregnancy.  So it was my fault after all.  I was defective. 

My husband suggested adoption.  He was right, as usual.  There had to be a baby for us somewhere.  I could almost feel him in my arms.  We began the process – paperwork – interviews – waiting – and more waiting.
    Now there finally was a child and he was ours.  He was healthy. He was so beautiful.  My high school girlfriend sent me this poem:

The Answer

(To an Adopted Child)

“Not flesh of my flesh, nor bone of my bone,

But still, miraculously my own.

Never forget for a single minute,

You didn’t grow under my heart, but in it.”

-Anonymous

Colin is now 33 years old and Stacy is 28.  They were each just seven weeks old when they came to us. We have always told them that they were adopted, that their birth mothers loved them enough to give them life and to give them a chance for a better life

than they could provide for them.  Both have grown into wonderful, intelligent, hardworking, loving, caring adults, and continue to bless our lives every day.

NOTE:  Abortions had become legal a year before Colin was born.