I’ve endured this insipid refrain long enough and can’t believe folks still use it, as if infertile couples are compounding their lives needlessly when they could just head down to a nearby vending machine and scoop up a baby after picking up some take-out.
There is no understanding attached to those two words. Whether you choose a domestic, open, private, or international adoption, the process is a bruising bitch to get through, even without the woeful emotions that accompany it, some of which you wear on your lapel, but others you camouflage and stuff.
Chapter XIII – June 1998
“…We traversed through Juárez in one big messy lane heading toward DIF, past an office building that looked like a giant egg. It was a bright spot amid the blocks of empty junk and weed-filled lots. My favorite was the string of jewel-painted shops where the owners signaled the start of their day by washing down the sidewalk. The sound of bus traffic and the earthy smell of wet desert dirt and corn tortillas flooded my memory with perfect summer days at the home of my maternal grandmother, Nachu, in Sonora. Now I’d create our own memories.
“We’re finally here.” Marty took my hand.
I clasped his hand. My throat constricted. My eyes stung. Could I really do this? On my own?
“I wish you would stay longer.” That was the closest I came to confessing my fear.
“So do I, but Jannette will be here soon. That’ll be a big help.”
My younger sister, who, seven years earlier, had commandeered an emergency team during my ectopic pregnancy, was coming out from southern Arizona to help with the boys. I hung on to that.
My heart felt like a bag of cement one moment and light as meringue the next. Why was I so scared of what I most desperately wanted?”