I was afriad. I was very afraid.

Friday, September 6: A story about a time you were very afraid.

Time to get serious for a moment. Because you can't really talk about being very afraid and not get serious, can you? 

The most afraid I've ever been... (I know it didn't ask for the MOST afraid, but I don't really get afraid often. Unless you count the time I came home and my dogs' snouts were covered in porcupine quills. THAT'll freak a person out.)

I Was Very Afraid. 

Fear filled my body, my soul, as I walked out of the hospital. I had just said  goodbye to my son... and left him there, with his new parents.  

Little Bitty, at our 11 week ultrasound.

I did not know what the future would bring. I did not have my husband there, or my friends. I honestly don't even remember who drove me away from there, or what I was wearing, or if it was then that I went to sign parental termination papers or if that was the next day. I don't remember any of it. Fear will do that to a person. It was kind of like an alcoholic black-out. You function, and everyone thinks you're awake... but your brain and memory receptors have turned off, and you're basically a walking zombie. Your brain keeps your eyes open, and performs all the basic functions (walking, talking, using the bathroom), but nothing is recorded.

What I do remember is sitting with my newborn, two day-old son, in the nursery at the hospital, rocking him, kissing his face, telling him to please be good for his parents and make them proud. 

And then, I left. I walked out. There was no wheelchair. No balloons. No loading the car with all the gifts that are brought to the hospital when you have a new baby. There was no "Congratulations" or "Good Luck." There was just me, with my body that still looked pregnant, leaving my son in a hospital nursery, where his mother - not me - would hold him and love him and take him home.  


I was not afraid to leave him with his parents. I had come to know them. I trusted them. I loved them. 

I was afraid of what would come next for me. I had a daughter to care for. I had a husband that lived states away, trying to recover from so many hard things. And I was giving away my son, the one who had lived and grown inside me for nine months. The one who I'd felt move and kick and grow. The one who had hiccups and gave me heartburn. The one who I had labored to deliver, and who tore my body and filled my heart.  
 
And I felt very alone, and very afraid.

Little Bitty, with his big sister and his birthmom (me).

There was no regret in placing him for adoption. There was, and still is, regret that I ever put myself in the situation to begin with. Though there was no regret as I left the hospital that day, there was fear.

The fear that filled me the day before his birth was a different kind. It was nervous anticipation, fear of labor or delivery complications, fear that he wouldn't be healthy. It didn't even occur to me that I'd have to face the biggest fears after his birth, when it became real... when I saw his face, and held him, and had to let him go. When I would have to leave him at the hospital and pray that he was in good hands. When the questions would flood my mind and reel for days...

What will people think of me? 
What will he think of me?
Will he hate me? 
Will he ever be able to understand?
What will Annie think of me?
Will she hate me?
Will he have a relationship with his sibling? Or siblings, if I ever have more?
What does my husband think of me? 
Will he hate me?
What do I do?
How do I get over this?
How does anyone get over leaving her child? Walking out on her life blood? Giving her son... away?

Those questions filled me and struck fear into my heart.
I cried so many tears of distress and trepidation. 

I did not know what to do, what to expect, how to feel. 
I was out of control, trying to gain control, trying to figure out how to figure out the unknown. 

The unknown has invoked fear in me before, and since then, and it will again. 
It happens when I lose focus on trusting that God has a plan for me... when I forget that I can screw up over and over and over again, and that He will adjust His plans for me over and over and over again, so that I can still live a life of joy. It happens when I know these things, but the human in me just gets scared. It happens when I try to figure out something that cannot be figured out, but can only be solved with time and prayer. Fear will happen. 

How I react to that fear, I've learned, is the important thing. 

Just the two of us. We can make it if we try...

I could have dived into a deep depression. People would have understood. (And I did battle with depression for some time, but I pulled out.) 

I could have turned back to drugs and alcohol. People would have disagreed, but understood. 

I could have become angry and filled with hate. People wouldn't have liked it, but they would have understood.

What is so surprising to me is that, when I talked about my son and our adoption journey with peace and with joy... people did not understand. To be honest, sometimes I couldn't even understand.


I have answered some of the questions that so ailed me, but only time can answer the others. Though I still don't know what the future holds concerning my relationship with my son, the unknown doesn't look so scary any more. 

God walked with me every moment of that journey, and still does. He held me up and kept my head high when I walked out of that hospital, even though I felt like collapsing in hurt and fear and shame.  He brought me the perfect parents for my son, and gave me and my husband, and our daughter, the chance to live again. He gave my son the chance at a good, a really good life. 

He gave me parents, siblings, and a couple close friends with strong, strong backbones. They were not ashamed of me. They did not hide me or hide from me. They loved me, and helped me, despite my anger and depression and fear. They loved me through it. And He helped them help me. 


He helped calm my fears about what people will think of me, even to the point where I could really care less. He showed me that I did the most important thing - gave my son life, in the midst of a terrifying storm. He gave me the strength to carry that baby for nine months, answering questions of "what will you name him" and "how far along are you?" all while knowing that the child I carried was not mine. 

When asked "How could you give away your son?!", He gave me the strength to stay calm, knowing that the person asking was blissfully ignorant and could never possibly understand my situation, or to answer with "You're right. I guess I could have aborted him. Perhaps then you'd think I was a hero for exercising my rights." (Yes, I was asked that question by "pro-choice" friends, acquaintances.  I was called selfish and cold-hearted. But I KNOW, had I aborted, I would have been accepted and told "You did what you thought was best, what you had to do for yourself and your daughter." I KNOW it. And it - and the life of my son - is one of the main driving forces for my involvement with the pro-life movement.) 

He gave me the strength and grace to hold my head high and face the people who had seen me pregnant, then saw me un-pregnant and without a newborn. He allowed me to ignore their whispers and answer their questions. He made me starkly aware that they whispered and reacted because THEY are afraid of the unknown. They are just as tripped up about the unknown as I am. And I don't hate them for it. (And how to act around a woman who has just given her son away is a big "unknown.")

He gave me the peace to know that my son will understand someday. He might even love me in return. He gave me the peace to know that, even if my son hates me someday, I still did what was best for him.

He gave my daughter the innocent wisdom to understand that she has a brother (who she loves, adores really, and who she asks to see often) who has different parents... and to forgive me and her dad for not being in the position to care for him. 

He gave my son's parents the grace and strength to maintain a relationship with us, even to the point of coming to visit a couple times over the years. He gave them the hearts to love us, and to allow their son to know us, neither of which they had to do. 

A visit from our son and his parents when he was just little.
Hanging out with his cousin.

He gave me and my husband the opportunity to start over, to fall in love again, to find hope in each other again... to reunite. He brought our family back together, and we now have two more children who will know their brother from another mother someday. 

Starting over together.

What do I do? I go on. 

How do I get over this? I don't. I use it to drive me. I use it to stay focused and on track, to make good decisions. To try to help me not do anything I'll ever regret, ever again. But, in conjunction, I rely on God's free and sufficient Grace to carry me when I fall, when I fail, when I hurt, when I am sad, when I remember walking away from my son and feeling like it is too much to bear... when I am afraid. 

How does anyone get over leaving her child, her lifeblood? 
The same way anyone gets over anything. The same way I did. She realizes that, once a choice has been made and carried out, there is no going back. There is only moving forward, step by step, to try to find joy and create a life of happiness. She realizes that she must ask God to forgive her for her decisions, and then, she must forgive herself. She seeks a relationship with Him, knowing, very clearly, that without Him, she is sad and fearful and fails. Knowing that WITH him, she is sad and fearful and fails, but that she is LIFTED UP AGAIN with JOY and STRENGTH and ANOTHER CHANCE to do good. 

I was very afraid. 
I could not see a joyful light at the end of my tunnel. 
Fear crippled me. It hurt me. It captured me. 
And then, when He held me, I was set free. 

And I wasn't afraid anymore. 

Our family in 2011. This is what forgiveness, grace, hope, and love looks like.