One day a gift arrived.

I did not notice.

I was not looking.

This is a story about acquiring my divine vision and the little boy who ignited the torch that became the guiding light to the doorway of my very best self.

The story begins with a violent act, mine to her, “her” being my teenage daughter.

The comfort of our “close” relationship was shattered when I “guessed” she was pregnant.

We had fled the winter in Massachusetts to visit my mom in Florida. My daughter had been acting stranger than usual those cold, bleak months, never removing her teenage uniform,   (a hideous green plaid overcoat) and barely leaving her room when home from school. I thought getting away would open the gates of our clogged relationship, and put a little zip into her wilted persona.

My denial was sagacious, hiding the truth under a rock in my psyche and setting it free into the moment with a pummeling shove.  

“Are you pregnant”?  My saliva had turned to sand, was that my voice? 

Suddenly I was attacking her, screaming vile, horrible things into the dead air of my mother’s guest bedroom.. My daughter was cowering on the floor, almost fetal beside the bed, shielding her still tiny body from my obscene mother’s blows. She was five and a half months along, and she was almost eighteen.

Tomorrow and several tomorrows followed…and my daughter and I pretty much picked up where we left off, shopping in Marshalls for maternity clothes (any excuse to shop).  She and her boyfriend had decided on adoption feeling they lacked the necessary “everything” to bring up a child.

A good friend of my daughter’s knew a young couple who already had a son, but was unable to conceive more children as she had suffered several miscarriages.

The deal was sealed with many hugs and kisses, and sweet relief entered us all.

It was not to last.  Our adoptive mom became pregnant, and swore through guilt ridden tears that they would still take our baby unless she was having twins. Two days later she told us she was having twins.

My devastated daughter, just 2 weeks from delivery was thrust into a world without gravity, and she dropped like a stone lying on the ocean floor. An adoption agency quickly came up with another family, one that had 2 adopted little girls, each from different countries. The couple were both lawyers, with grampa a judge. The mom was not practicing, instead devoted her time to being with her girls and nourishing their intellect as well as their hearts. The family was wealthy and promised amazing opportunities such as travel and higher education for our boy. We were delighted.

One morning my daughter woke me with “cramps” that had been going on all night saying she hadn’t want to wake me but maybe it was time to go to the hospital.  I was reminded of her childhood habit of feeling sick, maybe running a fever, or vomiting in the middle of the night, and not telling me until morning. I always felt like Joan Crawford!

My daughter made giving birth look like a spa treatment, arriving at the hospital around 8am and delivering our boy at noon with enough time for a cut and blow dry with a seaweed wrap for fun!

The adoptive family showed up at the hospital with smiles and homemade cookies for all.

They next day they took him home.  I can still see the new family walking down the endless hospital hall toward the elevator, their backs to me becoming ghost like silhouettes, and “dad” holding the baby carrier with “him” in it.  The elevator doors slammed shut, sounding like a gunshot.

In the meantime, my daughter’s anguish radiated from her dried-up essence, a barrier of sorrow alerting me that her heart housed several layers of pain. I must attend to MY baby.

Later that day we exited the hospital in silence, stepping outside into the stale air of our private grief stricken worlds. Once home, my catatonic daughter and I camped out in the den, barely leaving its borders until we got the phone call.

It was the social worker from the adoption agency informing us the family was returning the baby (like new pants that didn’t fit). It had only been 2 days!  In her 40 years of doing this work, this scenario had never occurred, her professional camouflage failed to hide her disgust.

It seemed the adoptive mother had questionable thyroid cancer and decided the stress was too overwhelming. Did this happen before or after she baked cookies for us and the nurses?  I wondered.

My daughter’s fury stampeded throughout her body sending depression and inertia south.  “Bring him here!” she commanded into the phone from her headquarters on the couch, outrage spurting from her pores.

Later, resembling a drug deal, the “driveway exchange” ensued between the embarrassed caseworker and irate teenage mom.  I got the hefty trash bag containing our baby’s meager possessions. She was lucky to leave alive.

Let me clarify at this juncture that I left the decision on whether to keep the child entirely up to my daughter and her boyfriend. I offered no opinion and no help. However, when alone in the stillness, stripped of rules and religion, I wanted my daughter to give the baby up. Thankfully, adoption was still on the table.

What now? Caring for the baby in our home would unravel the tenuous threads of my daughter’s fragile nervous system, but she was adamant there would be no more access to strangers for her child.  A loving friend agreed to care for him until a new family stepped in. To show my gratitude and acknowledge her sacrifice, I offered to babysit during the week so her routine could be maintained.

Now, as far back as I can remember, I’ve played hostess to many a dark hole inside myself. Some contain my fears, and are locked away in the shadows of my existence. Eventually, a bit of illumination fights its way in and dissolves the fear that terrifies me.  My darkness disappeared as I was absorbed into the grandeur of my grandson.  Asleep in my embrace he was a soothing balm casting a blanket of serenity over us both. I sat for hours studying his delicate features, memorizing familiar sighs, imprinting his baby smells into my brain.

One particular afternoon, I noticed his cocked pinkie fingers, a family trait held by my husband and daughter. I wailed like a newly trapped animal into my friend’s empty house. Maybe if we kept him my daughter’s life wouldn’t be ruined, and maybe I could actually help give this angel a beautiful life?

 It was sometime after midnight when my daughter snuck into our bedroom to wake me up (the first time ever).  In 2 days, the third chosen family was picking the baby up at my girl friend’s home (my daughter chose this one with a new agency), and a page would turn.

We tiptoed downstairs into an intimacy provided by a moonlit sunroom. It almost seemed like a dream.  My beautiful girl curled herself into the couch cushions; her almond shaped eyes the color of cinnamon and porcelain skin made her resemble a little doll that betrayed her 18 yrs.  She spoke softly, hesitant at first, her sentences becoming propelled by the power of her conviction. The surreal scene quite suddenly became crisp and electric as the now young woman across from me talked about wanting to raise her son.

My response characterized the love I was waiting to liberate.  “I’m with you; I will do everything within my power to help you raise our baby!”  These were the words I never said. My heart photographed this precious moment between us, and this amazing young woman who was my daughter, my pride knew no bounds.

She would call me at work tomorrow with her final decision.

My co-workers had been of great support during this time and were waiting that day on pins and needles as I was.  A tenseness, like fog, was slithering around the desks and computers as we looked at one other with forced smiles. And then my daughter called, telling me she had named HER baby, and we should go fill in those blanks that were left on the birth certificate.

He was ours! ”I’m a gramma!”I sang out!  My office friends gathered around, and we were all crying and joyous. I suddenly remembered I had nothing for this baby except the contents that were in that disgusting trash bag! My friends said not to worry, they had everything. ”We’re your village,” said my boss.

Our baby boy is now 4 yrs old and continues to touch us all with his magical magnificence, and like Rumplestiltskin, he’s transformed us to gold!!  And why not? He’s in charge.  He picked us and made damn sure he got us!!

No words are needed in the language of the love between my daughter and her son. There is no vision in the universe that comes close to capturing the beauty I behold when gazing upon the two of them. Their souls transcend today and spark into the infinite as one, and so it is.

Linda Chernov is a nurse specializing in mental health and hospice.  She is also a daughter, mother and grandmother.

Posted in Voices