Just Breathe. Honey Perkel
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were beginning to wonder if I could carry a pregnancy to term like other women. I began to question it myself. We’d been married nearly six years now. Not many couples had to wait that long to begin their family.
Most people were kind enough not to voice their doubts. However, some were not.
“You don’t have any children? Why is that?”
“What’s the matter? Can’t you have babies?”
Besides being shocked by their blatant and rude questions, how could I give them a reply? The truth was I just didn’t know.
While some women had babies as easily as dogs had puppies, there were other women like me who had a difficult time.
Months rolled by. Bob and I moved out of our rented duplex and bought our first house. A large four bedroom Cape Cod. The house had a family room off the kitchen and a large party room downstairs. Nearly twenty-six hundred square feet of house and a big fenced-in backyard to boot. It was in a good neighborhood with good schools. It would be a wonderful home in which to raise a brood of children. But so far no babies were on the horizon.
We bought a puppy to fill up our house ... and our hearts. A tiny brown mutt we named Punim. A puppy would have to suffice for now.
One day I was having a cup of tea in my neighbor’s kitchen. Her three-year-old daughter, Kari, was playing at the end of the table. Laura and I were telling each other about the difficulties we’d had becoming mothers. After I told her about my successions of miscarriages, Laura explained her own situation — months of tests and procedures to become pregnant.
“Well, see?” I said with a triumphant smile as I gestured towards her daughter. “Your determination paid off.”
With a quick shake of her head, Laura smiled. “Kari’s adopted,” she said without hesitation.
I stared at her, shocked. I’d never known anyone who was adopted or a family who had adopted. As I studied the beautiful child sitting at our table, I thought about what a normal, happy family this was. Father. Mother. Child. Complete with a pet cat named Henry and two goldfish. I would never have guessed this little girl hadn’t been theirs from the beginning. I told this to Laura.
My friend laughed as she got up from the table to refill our cups with hot water and offered me another tea bag. “Some people think that,” Laura stated. “They really don’t get it, though.”
Later when I was home preparing dinner for Bob and me, I kept thinking about what Laura had said. Some people don’t get it. I was the “some people” she’d spoken of. What was it that I didn’t understand?
Then it hit me. I GOT IT! I wasn’t supposed to see a difference between an adopted family and a biological one. If it had been so obvious, there would’ve been a major problem in the household!
I had never thought of adoption in my own case. As a child one doesn’t think of growing up and adopting a baby. At least I never had. But I’ve learned through the years that life takes us all on unexpected journeys. And all we can do is hang on for the ride.
I became excited about this new possibility. Once again my heart soared with hope of having a family.
Chapter 2
As an only child I grew up pretty much a loner. Painfully shy, I always felt more comfortable with adults than with my own peers. My parents’ friends would make a big fuss over me, something any child would love and appreciate. They made me feel important, special. But I never thought of myself as being special. And that point was always reinforced by my father.
While he spouted sarcasms at me, telling me how disgusting I was, I became lost in a world of make-believe and dreams. I spent a lot of time in my princess pink bedroom with the flowered cafe´curtains and matching twin spreads. There with my collections of dolls and stuffed animals, I dressed and undressed them, told them stories, and put them to bed. I pretended they were my babies. I played my 45’s on the portable turn-table and danced around my room. And I wrote stories.
From the time I was seven writing was a huge part of my life. Spending summers in Seaside, Oregon, with my mom, grandmother, and uncle, I made sure I packed a suitcase full of paper and pencils. I wrote about the beach town and its people and dreamed of being an author going on book tours across the country. It was just another dream.
In May of 1972 I met Bob at a Jewish “singles” party next door from where we lived. Though the gathering was for young people ages twenty-one to thirty-five and I was only twenty, I was invited to come.
The party was in full swing when I got there. Music. Laughter. Chatter. I knew no one. Standing self-consciously in the corner and then sitting on the couch, I finally decided I’d look more sociable if I had a glass of punch in my hand. I made my way to the refreshment table. There, I spied a man a few years older than I. Handsome, laughing, talking to several young women. Everyone seemed to know him and he knew them.
He turned towards me and smiled, handing me his glass of punch. We began to talk.
In June of 1973, Bob and I were married. We had a big wedding. Over two hundred guests. I walked down the aisle in a long white dress and veil, my arms filled with sweet smelling blooms. There was a string of bridesmaids dressed in pink tulle. A sit-down dinner. Live orchestra and dancing. It was everything I had ever wanted.
Every minute of every day brought so much joy just being Bob’s wife. We shared the belief that life would always be like that. Living in the clouds, as it were. Together. Forever. In time the routine of everyday life moved in with us in our small, one bedroom apartment. We welcomed it. Life was good. Bob went to work just five blocks from where we lived and walked home everyday for lunch. On weekends we took our clothes to the laundromat and did our grocery shopping together. We went on long drives. Went to the coast. Visited our friends and families. Only one thing could make our lives more perfect. A baby.
Chapter 3
Every new step we took in our lives was an adventure, an education, and the subject of adoption was no different. Bob and I needed to get on as many waiting lists as we could to better our chances. Adoptions were not as prevalent as they had been in the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s. It was now late in 1979 and the stigma for unmarried mothers had greatly diminished. More young women were keeping their babies, so not as many infants were available. And we wanted a newborn. Having had three miscarriages, I felt as though Bob and I had been cheated out of a lot. We wanted it all — to lose precious sleep at night, to change smelly diapers, to see our son or daughter take his first step, and to hear his first words spoken.
Bob and I remained hopeful. We made countless phone calls and were told by agencies we may have to wait up to two years for a baby. We filled out the necessary papers, sat through interviews, and underwent physical exams. Then we dug our heels in and prepared for the long wait. My mom was thrilled, my father not so much. Bringing in another person’s child to the family, “someone else’s mistake”, as he put it, and raising him as our own, well ... he wasn’t sold on the idea.
In January of 1980 there was a big ice storm in Portland, Oregon. Bob and I had an appointment with a case worker at the Boys and Girls Aid Society, which we canceled as driving across town was too dangerous. I changed the appointment for later that month when we met with Darren Warren, a social worker assigned to the Placement Department.
During the interview Darren told us of an instance when a couple came to him, desperate to have a child. They had filled out the paperwork, had their medical exams, and home studies, all the time lamenting how badly they yearned for a child. When finally Darren called them to say there was, indeed, a baby available, they cried with happiness. However, when they saw the newborn, the prospective parents were consumed with disappointment. The baby had red hair!
“‘No one in our family has red hair!’ they told me. ‘This will never work.’ Her husband readily agreed.”
“So what happened?” I asked Darren, mesmerized by his story. “Did they get another baby?”
“Oh,