Dear Dad,

You weren’t supposed to die. It wasn’t your time. It couldn’t have been. You were 58… and played racquetball almost every day. You were a happy, healthy person. Everyone–Mom, my brothers and me, and your friends–thought of you as their “best friend.” I can still see you toasting us at the Pope’s Table at Bucca. You went to all those Cavs, Indians and Browns games. You still had so much life in you, ahead of you.

Melanoma caught us all by surprise. That day I called to see how the doctor’s appointment went, Mom blurted out you had a brain tumor. I couldn’t stop crying for days. I don’t know how I took care of my toddlers, but I‘m sure it involved snacks (like you taught me). The next thing we knew, there was the surgery to find out about this brain tumor. The neurosurgeon told us in the waiting room it had metastasized from somewhere else. Several weeks later, we got the news: melanoma.

Skin cancer? It’s not like we lived in balmy Florida. We sit on frozen and brown Lake Erie! You had no marks on you. You went to the dermatologist. Did a doctor miss it or did it retract back into the skin? Or was it somewhere like your gastrointestinal tract or scalp or nose, somewhere impossible to see? I guess it doesn’t matter, only to help other people know their own skin can betray them.

The next six months were hell. Between radiation, chemotherapy and all those issues, you lapsed into a person you weren’t: sad. I never faulted you for that. I’m truly sorry I could never think of the right things to say, Dad. In my head, I’d hear friends’ advice: don’t dwell on it, be positive. But I wanted to validate your feelings, so I mumbled something about your feelings being “normal.” You liked hearing that.

I heard of a man in a news story who was dealing with melanoma and called the reporter and got his number for you. You called him; you talked. Dad, a few weeks after your death he left a message on your answering machine. He wanted to know how you were doing.

After severe seizures, you were hospitalized the last few weeks, and it was the level below hell. My brothers and Mom and I sat by your bedside, not knowing what to say. So we did what you taught us: use humor. We teased each other and avoided the horrible talk. You went in and out of consciousness, most of the time not knowing who we were. So, we came and went from your bedside: to the snack bar, to call our spouses, to go fight with the parking attendant.

Then when the calm oncologist said, “He’s not leaving the hospital,” we did what we “should.” (Our family was about shoulds.) We made plans for the funeral. My brother’s girlfriend found out what to do to get an obit in the paper. I, a writer, had to write my worst paragraph ever. I did it right in front of you. That was wrong. You lay there unconscious, and I was talking about you and your life like you were already dead. What if they’re right that patients can hear even when they’ve slipped away but are still alive? I didn’t know that then, but what if there was still some hope left in your heart? And I ruined it by talking about your death?

What if that whole time–the six months of the torturous cancer and the last two weeks in the hospital–I got it all wrong? What if I said nothing remotely comforting? Shouldn’t I have grabbed you, hugged you, thanked you for everything? Sure, in some small ways I did, but I never wanted to crush your hope so I didn’t want to acknowledge imminent death. So I said paltry, stupid words. To think you gave me college tuition so I could study the art of words and also psychology!

I wish I could’ve made it all better for you, like when I was ten and laden with the chicken pox, upset I couldn’t make the school fair. You made a fair in our basement, complete with contests and candy and prizes from Convenient Food Mart. You made it all better when I was sick, and I couldn’t do the same for you.

Dad, this is all wrong. Six years have now passed without you. There’s been an empty spot in the bleachers at your grandkids’ ball games. You would be so proud of them. Sweet Caroline has come along. We named her because of the last good memory of you and I watching Neil Diamond, high- fiving. That was just weeks before your diagnosis.

Mom seems to be happy now. She has a new husband, volunteer work and a church to keep her busy. Your sons are busy with their wives and lives and kids, too. Your sons and I don’t talk anymore, but that’s another letter. I know you wanted us to be close, but it didn’t work out that way. You were the glue, Dad. You were always the glue. Your close friend Bob died too. We couldn’t believe it either, but at least he’s keeping you company up there. You guys are probably running quite a tab at Heaven‘s Bar & Grille.

Dad, you weren’t supposed to die. I really never saw this one coming. I’m sorry for the things I didn’t say when you were dying. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it all better. I’ll remember that fair in our basement forever.

With love and gratitude for you,

Kristi

~~~

Four years ago, you gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Five days later, you abandoned her on the steps of a hospital in Yiyang City. It was February and must have been a chilly night underneath the southern Chinese moon. I wonder how many blankets you owned with which to wrap your delicate newborn baby. Maybe you sacrificed your own garments to fortify the only threadbare cloth used to insulate her tender skin.

What were the last words you uttered to your flesh and blood? Did your baby understand? Could she even hear your tone pleading for forgiveness over her own desperate cries while she begged to return to familiar warmth?

I wonder how many times you stopped and looked back, making mental bargains with yourself and the dictates of your society.

In the end, you bowed your head and disappeared into the dark night, leaving your baby alone to face her uncertain future.

The nannies of the Yiyang Social Welfare Institute named their newest orphan Chun’an–“Chun” because she was born in the spring, “An” for the peace she brought to the unrest of their poverty-stricken orphanage.

Little An An was examined by a doctor, and it was determined she had congenital heart disease–mild pulmonary stenosis. Now tagged with a diagnosis, her file was placed with the other imperfect ones on the bottom of the stack.

It was sixteen long months before Baby An An became eligible for adoption. My husband and I saw her photos and read her profile online through an American adoption agency. She had wild spiked hair, wide dark eyes, and delicate toes. The nannies said she liked music and was “a little stubborn”. We knew immediately we were meant to become her parents.

The adoption agency agreed and chose us out of fifty other couples. I cried for hours when I was handed the news that I was to become the mother of this perfectly imperfect child… your child… our child… my child….

The child I now call Jade Chun’an.

I think of you often and wonder what became of you. Did your future yield a son to uphold the family? Do his well-tended tears carry a haunting of his baby sister crying out in the empty night? Your outstretched arms must ache for remnants of your forfeited infant. Transported into that dismal scene, I would happily fly into your arms. My lips would devoutly praise your name, as I shower you with blessings and gratitude. You gave my daughter what I could not–her first breath of life.

Today Jade is full of that life, a life you started and a life I sustain. The delicate toes you gave her now carry her with grace through her ballet classes. Her Chinese blood is jubilant as she performs with the local Asian Dance Troupe, and her tongue is relearning the language of her birth with a Mandarin teacher. She tumbles in gymnastics class and executes a perfect “Victory” pose afterward. Her stubborn Olympian spirit has overcome all odds, even though it should have been broken long ago.

I promise, her congenitally imperfect heart is more perfect than you could ever imagine.

As Jade learns about life and love, she will learn about you. We will never know your name, but she will understand the sacrifice you made for her and your family and my family. Though you cannot be a part of her life, Jade will come to appreciate the gifts you bequeathed to her… her Chinese blood, her Olympian spirit, her delicate toes, and her perfect heart. She will honor you with each tumble she executes and each “Wo ai ni” she utters to her father and me.

I will honor you by protecting your gift of life with my own life.

Would I have made the same choice, had I followed your footprints? Would my fate force me to yield to another mother for the greater good of that child and my expectant family? I humbly thank the universe for sparing me the torment of a life that requires such a decision.

With Gratitude,
Jade’s Mother

Dear Daughter,

There was a time when I thought I would never be able to write those two beautiful words.

While I watched the rest of the women in my small universe all giving birth to daughters and sons, I remained barren. For a woman who loved children with such ferocity and who longed to hold a child of her own and who had years of experience caring for all ages of children, the blow was hard to take. I mourned. There was not going to be a daughter to pass the antique locket to. It had gone from eldest daughter to eldest daughter since the 1800s.

After two massive surgeries that left me scarred and in pain, I knew it was not to be. Women close to me were afraid to tell me when they became pregnant. I couldn’t convince them that I was able to separate my own anguish from the joy for their miracle. I knew at least those children were going to be a part of my life. I was grateful for that. Yes, it hurt, but that should never diminish their own joy at their little miracles. I would never try to take any of that away from them. To any mother incapable of having a child herself, children are indeed miracles. There was not to be that particular type of miracle in my life.

What did irk me were the stories I would hear in the news about abandoned children or drug addicted mothers who abused their bodies and their children, and giving birth to their sixth child. I felt like my body had failed me. I had failed at the most basic natural thing: the ability to give birth. If a drug addict could carry a healthy child full term, what was wrong with me?

Seeing another mother drive her children into a river and drown them because she couldn’t take care of them, while I stood here with open arms and no child, just about crushed me. I would have gladly taken those children.

It seemed everyone had a child, except for me. Somehow I was defective. For some reason, God had decided I was not to carry a child in me. I had almost given up hope. I had accepted it as His will.

Then He sent me on a different path.

That was when I decided to try to adopt. I didn’t care if my child came with a handicap or had a different color skin than I do. I would respect whoever she was. I just cared that she would be my child, to teach and love, guide and encourage to be whatever she would dream. I only wanted a little girl to look to me and call me Mommy, to hear that word and know when she called it out, that it was aimed at me, and only me. I wanted a daughter to share my experiences with and to learn from. I wanted a daughter to love.

I hoped that I would be the kind of mother who would earn the same type of love I felt for my own mother, that swelling heart and glow inside me at the sight of her, wherever she was and whatever she was doing. She was the most beautiful woman in the world to me.

From the moment I saw two small photos and a two minute video of you at a month old, I knew you were mine. By the time I saw them, you were already three months old. The wait to get you was torture. The red tape and paperwork dealing with two countries, was enormous.

When I finally was able to go to Russia and arrived in Kaliningrad, my heart raced. Sitting in the hospital administrator’s office with the translator/liaison, knowing you were only a floor away and having to listen to a talk made me feel like bolting out the door and up the steps to find you, wherever you were.

I wanted my baby. You needed me. I was so nervous and so afraid that even after arriving there, they would say no and not allow me to adopt you for some reason.

Everyone was escorted up to the orphan wing of the hospital. There were three infant girls being adopted that trip.

Each child was in a tiny room of their own, with a window and a really small crib, sterile cubicles. On either side were glass windows looking into the other orphan baby rooms. Each room had a door with a window in it looking out to the central nursing and changing area.

Every parent had to wear a face mask because of the fear of the flu bug and other bugs going around out in the world beyond the orphanage wing. I had my glasses on too. As soon as I saw you, I teared up. Since I had the face mask on, my glasses immediately fogged over. I couldn’t believe I was finally there. It had been a long painful nine-month wait.

There were still days of legalities to deal with. Going to Russian court was a little intimidating. I stood as straight as a soldier, ready to answer the court’s questions.

It was a brave new world for me, entering a country that had been forbidden to me before. It was an experience I thrived on, a new culture to experience, a new part of the world to make part of me. The Russian people we dealt with were amazing. They did their country proud.

Then you were legally my daughter. No one could take you away or say otherwise. Even the Russian courts in the city you were born in had said so. My own government said so. I had a daughter, my dear precious daughter.

The first few weeks you were home, each time you would wake from sleep and I was there, you would watch me intently as if you were saying, “OK, you seem nice. I like you. Who are you exactly and are you sticking around?”

You were only seven months old.

After those few weeks, I went in one morning to get you up for the day. As soon as you saw me, your face lit up like sunshine had suddenly entered the room. You smiled and cooed. You beamed. In that moment, you realized that I was your Mommy, your forever, real Mommy.

In that moment you knew I was yours, I realized God had not wanted me to have a child born from inside of me because he had other plans in mind. He had you planned for me. He had made me wait for a wondrous gift, a daughter not born under my heart, but in it.

Now with a stepson too, I am doubly blessed. He made me wait for a different kind of family.

My daughter, adoption for me was my miracle. I am proud of who you are becoming. I am honored to be your Mommy who you still look at with that same look as the morning you realized I was your forever mommy, the same way I always looked at my mom.

I love you.

Mommy

~~~

Laurie Darroch-Meekis began writing stories, poetry and lyrics the moment she realized the alphabet had the power to create and to move people. She discovered that writing could take her anywhere she wanted to go, even if she had to create the places herself. She is the featured poet in Elements of the Soul, A Short Story Anthology, due to be published in 2009. You can visit her author’s website here: http://darroch-meekis.webnode.com/