I cried and told him I couldn’t do this again.
“Just breathe,” he said, holding me closely. “Let’s just try one more time.”
But by now my attitude had changed. I’d became fearful and wary of my body. I felt I could no longer trust it to perform what it should’ve been born to do. It had never betrayed me before. Sure, I had the usual childhood diseases and illnesses. Even asthma, which I had outgrown by eighth grade. But now at twenty-seven, I questioned whether I was really all that strong and healthy. I was scared, vulnerable. Two miscarriages in twelve months. I didn’t want to try again. But the third time’s a charm, right? I got pregnant one more time.
Things were fine until one afternoon when I began to have pains. They were coming every four minutes when I called Bob at work and told him to come home. That pregnancy ended, too.
I was never given the reasons for those losses. Mother Nature just taking care of a bad situation, I was told.
Dream after dream died with every baby I lost. My heart was breaking, but still I remained steadfast and hopeful. Visualize your dreams, people told me over and over again. I clearly saw myself as a mother surrounded by happy and healthy children. Bob and I were good people. We had a lot to offer a child. There had to be a way for us to have a baby, I lamented. There just had to be.
By now friends and family were beginning to wonder if I could carry a pregnancy to term like other women. I began to question it myself. We’d been married nearly six years now. Not many couples had to wait that long to begin their family.
Most people were kind enough not to voice their doubts. However, some were not.
“You don’t have any children? Why is that?”
“What’s the matter? Can’t you have babies?”
Besides being shocked by their blatant and rude questions, how could I give them a reply? The truth was I just didn’t know.
While some women had babies as easily as dogs had puppies, there were other women like me who had a difficult time.
Months rolled by. Bob and I moved out of our rented duplex and bought our first house. A large four bedroom Cape Cod. The house had a family room off the kitchen and a large party room downstairs. Nearly twenty-six hundred square feet of house and a big fenced-in backyard to boot. It was in a good neighborhood with good schools. It would be a wonderful home in which to raise a brood of children. But so far no babies were on the horizon.
We bought a puppy to fill up our house ... and our hearts. A tiny brown mutt we named Punim. A puppy would have to suffice for now.
One day I was having a cup of tea in my neighbor’s kitchen. Her three-year-old daughter, Kari, was playing at the end of the table. Laura and I were telling each other about the difficulties we’d had becoming mothers. After I told her about my successions of miscarriages, Laura explained her own situation — months of tests and procedures to become pregnant.
“Well, see?” I said with a triumphant smile as I gestured towards her daughter. “Your determination paid off.”
With a quick shake of her head, Laura smiled. “Kari’s adopted,” she said without hesitation.
I stared at her, shocked. I’d never known anyone who was adopted or a family who had adopted. As I studied the beautiful child sitting at our table, I thought about what a normal, happy family this was. Father. Mother. Child. Complete with a pet cat named Henry and two goldfish. I would never have guessed this little girl hadn’t been theirs from the beginning. I told this to Laura.
My friend laughed as she got up from the table to refill our cups with hot water and offered me another tea bag. “Some people think that,” Laura stated. “They really don’t get it, though.”
Later when I was home preparing dinner for Bob and me, I kept thinking about what Laura had said. Some people don’t get it. I was the “some people” she’d spoken of. What was it that I didn’t understand?
Then it hit me. I GOT IT! I wasn’t supposed to see a difference between an adopted family and a biological one. If it had been so obvious, there would’ve been a major problem in the household!
I had never thought of adoption in my own case. As a child one doesn’t think of growing up and adopting a baby. At least I never had. But I’ve learned through the years that life takes us all on unexpected journeys. And all we can do is hang on for the ride.
I became excited about this new possibility. Once again my heart soared with hope of having a family.
Chapter 2
As an only child I grew up pretty much a loner. Painfully shy, I always felt more comfortable with adults than with my own peers. My parents’ friends would make a big fuss over me, something any child would love and appreciate. They made me feel important, special. But I never thought of myself as being special. And that point was always reinforced by my father.
While he spouted sarcasms at me, telling me how disgusting I was, I became lost in a world of make-believe and dreams. I spent a lot of time in my princess pink bedroom with the flowered cafe´curtains and matching twin spreads. There with my collections of dolls and stuffed animals, I dressed and undressed them, told them stories, and put them to bed. I pretended they were my babies. I played my 45’s on the portable turn-table and danced around my room. And I wrote stories.
From the time I was seven writing was a huge part of my life. Spending summers in Seaside, Oregon, with my mom, grandmother, and uncle, I made sure I packed a suitcase full of paper and pencils. I wrote about the beach town and its people and dreamed of being an author going on book tours across the country. It was just another dream.
In May of 1972 I met Bob at a Jewish “singles” party next door from where we lived. Though the gathering was for young people ages twenty-one to thirty-five and I was only twenty, I was invited to come.
The party was in full swing when I got there. Music. Laughter. Chatter. I knew no one. Standing self-consciously in the corner and then sitting on the couch, I finally decided I’d look more sociable if I had a glass of punch in my hand. I made my way to the refreshment table. There, I spied a man a few years older than I. Handsome, laughing, talking to several young women. Everyone seemed to know him and he knew them.
He turned towards me and smiled, handing me his glass of punch. We began to talk.
In June of 1973, Bob and I were married. We had a big wedding. Over two hundred guests. I walked down the aisle in a long white dress and veil, my arms filled with sweet smelling blooms. There was a string of bridesmaids dressed in pink tulle. A sit-down dinner. Live orchestra and dancing. It was everything I had ever wanted.
Every minute of every day brought so much joy just being Bob’s wife. We shared the belief that life would always be like that. Living in the clouds, as it were. Together. Forever. In time the routine of everyday life moved in with us in our small, one bedroom apartment. We welcomed it. Life was good. Bob went to work just five blocks from where we lived and walked home everyday for lunch. On weekends we took our clothes to the laundromat and did our grocery shopping together. We went on long drives. Went to the coast. Visited our friends and families. Only one thing could make our lives more perfect. A baby.
Chapter 3
Every new step we took in our lives was an adventure, an
