As an adoptive parent, November is a month of Thanksgiving. Not just because of the traditional holiday, but because of the blessing of adoption.
My life was a series of punctuated delays: college, grad school, med school and then residency. I finally got married at age 37 and then immediately attempted to start a family. However, fibroid tumors wreaked havoc on my uterus and the surgeries to get rid them made things worse. The moment of truth came at age 42. The callousness of the infertility doctor still haunts me. The procedure he performed confirmed that I had blocked fallopian tubes. He briefly said “sorry” then rushed off to see the next patient. I vaguely remember calling my husband from my car in uncontrollable hysteria screaming that I was a “barren” woman. This was NOT supposed to happen to an obstetrician-gynecologist.
I went through the classic Kubler-Ross cycle of grief: anger, denial, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. I retreated into self-imposed exile, feeling like a social misfit. The ability to conceive is the most fundamental core of being a woman. How could my body betray me?
I subsequently threw myself into my work. My patients and their babies became even more precious. As the years wore on the word adoption kept creeping into my husband’s vocabulary and finally into mine as well. It is said that when you take the first step on a difficult journey, God will ultimately take two. That journey ended in Ethiopia via a stellar adoption agency called Wide Horizon for Children. We have been the proud parents of Mamush and Kayamo Galloway for over one year.
Life has changed dramatically. My tenuous relationship with my mother-in-law has healed. My relationship with my husband has deepened. The walls of our home reverberate with children’s laughter. An exclamation mark of happiness stands boldly behind my name.
Thanks Wide Horizon, for the miracle of adoption. Each day I give thanks for the children I thought I’d never have.