Chris sailed through his fifth and final surgery this last Monday.  The first night was rough but he stuck it out with calm and bravado.

They opened his nose completely, broke it, aligned the septum after removing part of it, used the excess to replace missing cartilage, lined up his septum, which was slung to the left, centered his nose with his cupid's bow and sewed it into place.
 
The staff in Nationwide Children’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio was beyond fantastic in their care of my 18-year-old boy.  In fact, each and every one asked for information to come and see him play at a local restaurant near where we live.

Today he took a walk around our lake, made himself a tasty lunch and is now watching the Toy Story special on ABC Family Channel.  He is out of pain, his nose looks beautiful and he is anticipating returning to the restaurant where he plays backup for a talented singer/song writer and beginning his job with an upscale Japanese restaurant where he will be personally trained by the owner.  Life is good.
 
It's funny how Children's Hospital has been a part of a major portion of my life.  At two months and then at four, I was admitted with a fractured skull, age four years found me again admitted with fourth degree burns and age nine for neurological study.  Age 15 found me practically living there with my friend, Patsy, one of the few female hemophiliacs at that time and age 16 saw me visiting her the final time a few days before she died.
 
That last evening, as I was leaving the hospital, a sound made me glance to my left.  In a small room sat a nurse feeding a baby.  What caught my eye was the fact that the baby was sitting upright.  I looked again.  The infant, hungrily eating, had a hole where his or her mouth should have been.  I remember saying a quick prayer and thinking I hope that baby has a mother who loves it.  Now I realize that what I had witnessed was a nurse feeding a baby born with cleft lip and palate.  God had given me a glance into my future.
 
It is odd when I reflect back on my 50 plus years journey with Children’s hospital.  It began with my healing, followed by the death of my friend.  Within the tragedy of losing Patsy lay a promise: a promise of a sweet babe who would need a home.

We seldom realize that we are witnessing what is to come.   It wasn’t until we got the call that a beautiful baby boy, born with cleft lip and palate, was looking for a family, that I realized my blessing and I knew, I just knew that he was meant to be mine.  I knew that it was destiny that made me visit Children’s that last, fateful night:  I was meant to say goodbye to my dear friend who I thought would be a part of my life for many years to come and I was meant to witness something that would help me a full 24 years later.
 
Perchance my odyssey with Children's ends here:  Chris' final surgery.  An era has passed; a chapter has closed.  Perhaps, when my sweet son moves on to make his own life and create his own family, I will return to Children’s…this time as a volunteer instead of a patient, visitor, or parent.  Life is good.

My son came home at seven-days-of age.  Fifteen years later, I am still in Nursery Nirvana. From the moment I first held him in my arms, I have felt a deep pride in him and how he came to be my son - and he knows it.

We have always discussed adoption naturally and openly, and with great joy.  I call him my Very Special Child and even wrote a book by that title for him.  He is giving a copy of it today as a present to a young girl who is also adopted, because he is proud of it and is proud to share his specialness with others.

In discussing your child’s adoption openly, just like you would discuss your child's birth had you carried him or her, you make it a common every day thing: I have two eyes, two ears, a nose, I'm adopted, I'm a boy, I live in Ohio....no biggy.  On the other hand, by hiding it, you make it seem like something to be ashamed of, something to push to the back of the closet, something that you wish had never happened.

More importantly, you are basing your entire relationship on a lie - a lie of omission.  How is your child going to trust you in any other area of life if you have deceived them about the very core of your relationship?

I have a cousin who was adopted and his parents never told him.  He found out on his own at age fourteen.  He ran away from home and refused to speak to his parents.  They reconciled, after a fashion, but their relationship was damaged irrevocably.  My cousin never trusted his parents again.

I say speak of adoption to your child.  Show them the pride you have in choosing them out of all of the other children in the world.  Encourage them to adopt when they decide to have children.  Tell them openly about waiting for them, praying for them and that glorious moment when you finally got THE call.  My son knows the story backwards and forwards and loves to tell it to others.  When he speaks of it, his face lights up and he smiles.  He even wrote a book about it which is coming out soon.  Here is a quote from it which I think clearly makes my case:

From Just Chris by Christopher Shiveley Welch

I am adopted.  That feels good.  I like being adopted.  If it weren’t for my parents, I don’t know what I’d be like.  They are here for me.  My mom and dad tell me that I am beautiful, so I believe that I am.  They tell me I’m a good kid, so I accept that I am.  They tell me that I’m loved, so I know that I am.

            I have learning differences.  Mom says I am not learning disabled, I just learn differently, and that’s okay.  I don’t mind having differences.  I just want to learn.

            Mom says that a child sees themselves in their parent’s eyes.  I want to put this poem of my mom’s in here:

            Mom uses this poem a lot in her interviews.  She tells people about adopting special needs kids and that makes me feel good.  I know she is so happy that she adopted me and she just wants people to know how it can make them happy too.


[1] Son of My Soul – The Adoption of Christopher, Debra Shiveley Welch, Saga Books, page 118

  Every spring, Chris and I order butterfly caterpillars.  We have an inexpensive, one gallon aquarium, where we keep them safe and snug, while they munch themselves to ten times their size, finally go into chrysalis, and then - the butterfly.

Usually, everything goes very well.  We watch them with awe...eagerly awaiting the beautiful painted lady butterfly that we know will emerge. They hatch…they dry their wings ... and then Chris, oh so carefully, places them on his finger, gently releasing them outside.   He always says, “Goodbye my baby.  Be happy!  Be safe!”

This year, things didn't turn out the way we'd hoped. We got our five caterpillars, and gave them a snug, safe “womb” in which to develop. We watched them with delight as they grew and grew, finally making that long journey up the sides of their jars to the lid, where they formed their “J” to go into the chrysalis stage.  With anticipation, we awaited the hatching, eager to see those beautiful orange and black wings spread out in flight. But, something went wrong.

Two butterflies were born with mangled, twisted wings. They couldn't fly. I waited a day, giving them sugar water, to see if the process was just taking longer than usual. Things didn't improve. Finally, I took them out into the bright sunlight, thinking that God's healing sun would dry their little wings. That's when I noticed they didn't have all of their legs.  Sadly, I told Chris to put them in the rose garden and leave them, hoping he wouldn't be there to see the inevitable: a bird swooping down to capture them to feed her young.  Such is the way of nature I reasoned. It's the only way.

As Chris was dutifully taking them down to place them by the roses, totally innocent of what I was asking him to do to his beloved butterflies, it occurred to me: nature doesn't HAVE to be this way. They don't have to be “perfect” in the literal sense of the word. If they couldn't pollinate and procreate, their right to exist wasn't automatically negated.  They could just be themselves, giving pleasure to a six-year-old little boy who loved them, and was willing to turn them loose simply for their own good.

Yes, their wings were mangled, and they flopped when they tried to walk, but they had their own beauty, their own value, their own perfection.

Chris and I are keeping the butterflies until they die a natural death.  I know it will be hard for Chris when they die.  He wont’ be able to look for them next spring, thinking that every painted lady he sees is his beloved Sam or Lou, but he will learn a very valuable lesson, and I'm pleased to learn it with him.

You see, Chris is adopted.  My husband and I were the seventh couple called.  Chris was headed for Children's Services because he wasn't “perfect.”  He was born with a moderately severe unilateral clefting of the lip, gum, and hard and soft palates. While he was carrying his butterflies down to the rose garden, I suddenly thought -- What if we had not been contacted, and Chris had not come home to me?  I would not be here, in this garden, enjoying the unique beauty and perfection of my son. I would not know of his goodness, his sweetness, his gentleness, and my life would not be as full and rich as it has become.

I called Chris to me, and oh so carefully, we returned Sam and Lou to their “womb” for safe keeping.  Within their imperfection dwelt perfection; their existence, a lesson so gratefully learned.  I looked at my son, and saw him smile.  I think that he understood long before I did.

One night, my then soon-to-be fourteen-year-old son grabbed his favorite afghan, dubbed Raspberry, and crawled onto the couch beside me.  Christopher had been sick all day, and like the four-year-old he used to be, he came to Mama for comfort.  Head on my shoulder, he began to doze.  I could feel the pure animal pleasure of human contact emanating from his soul: he felt safe, loved, warm.  

I sat very still, careful not to disturb him, as his breathing grew deeper, slower.  I leaned my cheek upon his head and breathed in the delicious aroma of Chris: young skin, freshly shampooed hair - his own special "Chris" scent which I had first drawn into my heart on the day he was placed in my arms.  Contentment filled my being, and my soul expanded with awe and gratitude.  Here was affection, love, camaraderie; a bond so strong that it could never be broken.

Chris shifted a little and I could see the curve of his still childish cheek, the sweep of his eyelashes.  I stroked his silky hair and breathed him in again.  Soon my son would leave this home to make his way in the world, and these sweet moments would be gone from my life forever.  They will be difficult to surrender, but necessary, if he is to have a life so different from my own: a life filled with love, joy and companionship.

So much of my life had been spent in loneliness.  Indeed, I had come to the conclusion that this life time was to be spent alone. I had finally become reconciled to my fate when this beautiful child came into my life – became my life. 

I acknowledged to myself that I have placed all of my emotional eggs into one basket, and someday I would return to my aloneness, but I also acknowledged that a love this sweet, this pure, comes but once in a life time.

Chris murmured in his sleep and snuggled closer.  Again my heart expanded, with the simple joy of holding my child.  Contentment, gratitude, and love leapt from within my being, and sped its way to the Universe – to Creator who sent me this special love.  I bore witness to that love and held it to me with all of the hunger I’d ever known for just these feelings, these emotions, these transports of pure happiness, and I bore witness to the miracle of that love. 

These feelings, these emotions, would someday take my son into a home filled with tenderness, gentleness and true partnership.  In learning to love his mother, he would learn to love the other women in his life.  I cradled this precious moment within my breast, reveled in the feelings of mother and son, and released them to the One who sent me this priceless gift. 

Perhaps my life will not hold many more blessings such as these, but my son’s life will stand testimony to what I have so freely, so joyfully given:  my heart, my hopes, and my dreams - for him.