Good enough

Good enough

 

It was a winter’s day when I first met him.  A dreary, dark and cloudy afternoon in the sterile reception at the Noarlunga office of Families SA.  A woman was at the counter speaking to a worker protected behind glass.  She was arguing in slurred tones about her visitation rights. She seemed to be willing herself to remain calm and focussed, an edge creeping in to a voice that was struggling to form full sentences.

We waited, Leon and I until they said we could sit in the family room. The family room was a generous description, it was more like a waiting room. With a red couch and some old and soiled toys in one corner.

We’d seen a photograph. A curly haired boy with blue eyes. I thought the scan may have picked up a coffee stain on the original because there was a small latte coloured smudge beneath his left eye.

But to tell you this story I need to go back.  Back 15 winters,

I was in another office in a reproduction centre. The doctor was talking about the poor quality of my eggs. I saw those eggs in my mind’s eye, like seeds floating in a pomegranate. Looking at me apologetically.

Just not good enough. Your eggs are not good enough. You are not fertile enough. You are not young enough. Not woman enough. Not enough.

And you. Your sperm are a bit lethargic. Some have two heads, two tails. Simply not good enough. Not strong enough. Not man enough.

“But we’ll try again” he sighed, resigned. Like he was offering a poor consolation prize.  Here’s your winnings – 2 weeks of daily hormone injections, some ovulation retardant, nasal spray and some mighty mood swings. Congratulations.

****

He was watching TV. I was in the kitchen staring into the fridge at the vials and the sharps.

Will you sit with me while I do it? Watch me?

Why would I want to do that?

Rage. It’s powerful. I don’t know about you, but it starts in my belly, feasts on hormones and disappointment, grows until there is no room left for it and commando crawls up to my throat. I screamed. He put his hands on my shoulders roughly, “calm down” I pulled his hair.  We were like kids on the playground. We caught ourselves in an illusory mirror and we laughed at our foolishness, tumble onto the couch. And then we cried.

When two brave eggs managed to split into two and then four and then 8, they called me in.

“Will you come with me.”

“I’m working”

Rage.

So there I was in a room on a chair with nothing on my bottom half, feeling the cold whoosh under the plain white sheet. My feet appeared comical, stuck up in the air on stirrups at eye level, in a pair of rough socks.  Should have worn new ones.

The doctor appeared.

“Let’s get started shall we. Don’t seem to have the right cone.”

His head bobbed up and down between my legs. Up over the sheet. Now back down.  Like a bearded puppet master checking on his audience before the show is about to start.  Here can you hold this. It’s the ultrasound. He wants me to press it into my abdomen where he’s smeared the gel. The husbands normally do this part, he apologises.  Rage.

They went in. They stayed there for a couple of weeks but must have decide the accommodation was not up to scratch. Bad reviews on womb bnb. Because they left in a painful morning just like every other month, amidst the sickly, thick blood of menstruation.

I have their photos still somewhere. Those two embryo, figments of children.  They would be teens by now.

Then I feel the lump. It’s in my right breast. “ Probably just a cist” says the doctor. “Let’s check it out”.  But it’s not a cist. Its cancer.

I tell the reproductive doctor.

“How are you” he says.

“I have breast cancer” I say.

“Well no one told me!” he says, indignant.

 

I am no one.  Not good enough. Not well enough. Not lucky enough. Not human enough. Not enough.

I start to cry. He observes me, objectively like a sample though a microscope.  “We have counsellors right down the hall to the left. Perhaps make an appointment on your way out.” Because attending to emotions is clearly not in his job description.

After a few winters have passed, we start talking about adoption. We apply for China.  There is a nine month wait, but there are a lot of unwanted girls in China.  The adoption services counsellor says we must attend workshops.  He can’t spell. He blames his teachers. I’m a teacher. He says he wishes he could have a more robust conversation with us.  But we are being judged. Watched. After 18 months we demand to know what is happening. The worker regards my tears and says,

“This is a long and arduous process, if you can’t hack this you need to consider your suitability as a parent.”

Not strong enough. Not controlled enough. Not enough.

After 6 more winters we get the letter.  China says if you have one speeding fine you will be disqualified from the process of adoption.

Not law abiding enough.

Have you ever tried scream therapy.  My neighbours must have wondered what was happening that day. I slaughtered a wild beast and ate it’s remains. And I washed it down with fine wine. Lots and lots of wine.

“China don’t want to lose face so they change the rules to make it more difficult. There’s nothing we can do. It’s a diplomatic issue you see.”

But I don’t.

I went to the press. I went to the minister. I scaled and climbed that jagged, cliff of wrath and regret and I screamed at God, I HATE YOU. I threatened to jump off. I made a fuss.

This will not do. No fusses can be made.  Fit parents do not make fusses.

So here we are back where I started. In the family room. Leon had made sure he wasn’t working that day. He held my hand. He was here with me. With us.

Then the boy walked in. This 3 and half year old.  Wearing jeans and a Spiderman jumper many sizes too big.  Rolled up sleeves. Rolled up jeans. Sneakers. He beamed at us.  His teeth were jagged and black. But I was already in love with him.  The coffee stain beneath his left eye remained. A big latte coloured tear drop making it’s way down his face.  A tattooed droplet. Containing all of his and our grief and happiness.

He made a beeline for the Dora doll in the corner. It was plush toy as big as he was.

The worker explained.  This is Karen and Leon. One day you might call them mum and dad.

We took him for a walk. He tossed the Dora as he walked. We bought him some snacks and a drink and we tried to chat.  We understood about every fourth word.

And now on this winter’s day, let me explain.  When they say “You are so good to take on a kid like that, with an addict for a mum and special needs, it’s not easy” or “he’s so lucky to have you” or “Don’t you wish his mum would just overdose or something, so you could adopt?”

I take another sip of the wine. Contemplate that ruby liquid, that could have so easily swallowed me. I hear it, a familiar refrain, Beyonce, singing ave maria –  “there but for the grace of God go I…

“No” I say. It is he who took my hand. He who lead me out.  Took my tired old hands in his chubby grip. Lead me out. Showed me the way.  Became my GPS for the soul. Allowed me to say to myself, finally.

You are enough.