The Hardest Thing To Do

Goodbyes

We would generally do our shopping together, my wife, Mary, pushing the cart and me holding Tommy, our foster baby, in the pouch. He would look around and stare at the people who passed by. People would look at him and fall in love. “What a cutie. How old is he? Does he look more like you or your wife?”

“Oh we’re foster parents. We’re just taking care of him until his parents get their act together.”

They always said, “Oh… it must be hard giving them up.”

Tommy was leaving. The departure date was getting nearer and nearer. I’d like to say I was the cynical rock and Mary was the opposite, but we were becoming a lot more alike. I was crushed, but she was devastated. I felt like I was getting a couple of fingers amputated, but she felt like she was losing an arm.

I remember driving over to the pizza parlor for the farewell party. Here’s where the Complete Memory Displacement occurred.

When I think back on the day I remember dark strato-nimbus clouds blanketing the sky from east to west. The wind was blowing heavily, knocking over trashcans and scattering garbage in the streets. When the lightning flashed I could see through people’s bodies, catching a glimpse of the bones inside of them like an unholy X-ray. Some kind of evil hovered over the land, and no matter how hard we tried we couldn’t exorcise it from our hearts.

The reality was different. It was a typical June day in southern California. Everyone who remembers the day tells me it was bright and sunny without a cloud in the sky. Complete memory displacement did the trick. Jose and Kate cuddled and fussed equally over the baby, smiling over their new addition.

I came home from work one day, and Alex the baby boy was gone! “What happened?” I asked.

“He went to live with his mom,” Mary said.

“What! That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?”

“Mom’s living in a half-way house.”

“Yes,” answered Mary slowly, knowing I wouldn’t get it unless she spelled it out. “But she was in trouble over her boyfriend’s drugs. She tested clean after her arrest. She’s getting help in the halfway house, and after she gets out she’s going to live with relatives.”

“There’s no way that will work,” I almost said, but some strange nagging voice in the back of my head stopped me. I had a good feeling about Brianna. I still remembered the way Brianna cried as soon as she saw her baby boy. I had a hard time disliking her. Maybe it would work, I thought without much hope. Overall the world seemed like a bleak castle surrounded by mist and covered by dark thunderclouds ready to burst forth with pounding rain any minute.

By the way, it did work out in the long run. Briana still has her baby, holds a job and went back to school.

We wanted to adopt baby Neesa. We had her for two stretches, once for six months, and when family problems arose, she came back to us. My wife thought it was fate. We were destined to adopt this baby girl. She was a classic “Daddy’s girl” and crawled after me wearing a vulnerable grin as soon as she saw me.

Bad news from the court: Our request for de facto parent status regarding baby Neesa was denied.

There was an aunt in the picture—relatives emerge out of the family woodwork in custody cases. This one avoided the rest of the dysfunctional, extended family. We found out that she had contacted Social Services, letting them know she wanted Neesa.

She sounded like a good person.

That was good.

She wanted to take Neesa away from us.

That was bad.

She didn’t have anything to do with the birth parents.

That was good.

She had preferential treatment under California law.

That was bad for us.

Good for her.

And probably good for Neesa.

We got the call from Social Services. We were directed to bring Neesa to the office on Geffers Street and turn her over to the aunt.

Memory is a funny thing. I remember the car rides to turn over the babies as drives through a tunnel or under the dark clouds of an apocalypse. Nuclear bombs were going off in the distance signaling the end of the age as we drove towards the appointed destination, baby in the car, ready to hand her off. The sad look was back in Neesa’s eyes, but that didn’t mean it would stay there forever. You tell yourself things like that very forcefully at times like this.

We arrived at CPS headquarters, looking around hoping for a glimpse of the new parents but saw no one. I held her close as we walked inside.

I felt like I was abandoning the baby, like I was betraying her. I knew that there was no reason for doom and gloom. Everything I heard about this particular aunt led me to believe that she was a decent person who would do a good job. But it was hard to shake that drained feeling. Once I gave blood, and the needle was poked through both sides of the vein. I remember feeling a little sick to my stomach when I saw red splotches up and down the length of my arm where the blood had leaked out and I remember feeling fatigued. I felt helpless and bereft of energy now.

We met the family. Mom was a pleasant middle-aged Hispanic lady. Some of the kids were there including a girl in her early teens. Mary hugged Neesa one last time and left the room, crying. I slowly handed little Neesa over to her new mom. Neesa reached out for me, staring at me with those sad, beautiful, brown, eyes. The new mom smiled as she cradled the vulnerable little baby in her arms. The memory of Neesa’s outstretched arms and panicked eyes remains an indelible imprint on my mind.

“Just keep Ronnie for two weeks,” the social worker pleaded and promised.

We had a lot going on with another youngster, a toddler named April, and two weeks were all we thought we could handle. Two weeks turned into six months, and we eventually had to write the letter asking for Ronnie to be placed in another home. We originally said we would only take him for fourteen days, but Social Services held on to us with a death grip. Yes we felt guilty, but we had other promises to keep. We were running out of energy, and crystal meth was out of the question. I had another Family Meeting to attend. The woman who presided over the gathering asked if the parents were following their program. The social worker said, “They are as of today.” Better late than never, right?

They were given six more months to work a program, while Ronnie was placed in a different foster home. Mom wound up back in jail for violation of parole, and dad couldn’t stay the course either. Ronnie is now with an adoptive family. While he was with a foster family we could go see him every once and a while, and he and April could play. Now that’s not possible.

One day April wanted to know when she could see him again, and we explained things as best we could. She finally understood Ronnie would not be coming back. She sobbed like she had never sobbed before. It’s hard to understand this as a child. Hell, it’s tough for adults to comprehend.

“It must be hard giving them up.”

We were to hear that one over and over. We had no idea how hard it would be, but the first time I heard it I got that ominous premonition that made my feet feel numb, tingly and frozen.

Mary eventually came up with a good rejoinder, “If everybody thought that, then nobody would ever volunteer for this.”

She’s right. The End