There's nothing like time with good friends -- extended time, ideally overnights with lots of hours for dialogue without watching the clock too closely. Some friends have lived alongside us for our early adulthood, or adolescence, or even the years of elementary school, and if we're still in touch, it's because they not only know us from "then," but continue to add depth and beauty to our lives today -- as we are, now, in the present.
Confidants we invite into our middle-aged lives also "hand us back to ourselves" by awakening in us parts of our own mind and soul that had remained latent or neglected until that point. These friends can bring comfort and laughter, and a greater awareness of ourselves. They bring us to (and/or help us survive in) a slightly larger world. This past weekend we were blessed with a visit from just such friends -- the Griffith-Haskell family of Jean, Ross, and Alex, who we met on our first trip into Haiti.
Two years ago they helped us with pre-travel tips, shopped roadside vendors with our large crew, and provided us with amazing photos Ross took of our time on the island. The pivotal moment, however, was Jean and Ross' intensely warm support in the most humble moment of Chad and my lives. We had visited and cried with the birth parents of the children with whom we had been matched; we so empathized with the young couple. We used our body language -- kisses on cheeks, a touch on the knee -- in weak attempts to compensate for our embarrassing lack of Kreyol, to try to show the sincerity of our respect for them as people, as parents. We wished privately, yet desperately, that there was some possible way to keep those sweet children with their first mama and papa. It was an important meeting -- not required, simply significant for the dignity of all and reassurance for the birth parents -- from which I would not shy. Yet, it would be a gross understatement to say that it ripped my heart to a shredded mess. Chad and I felt so powerless to fix anything; we were humbled to the floor. With very few words and a firm squeeze to my hand, Jean and Ross conveyed a sense of knowing and a deliberateness. The perfect balm. They picked us up at our most vulnerable and became forever a part of our story.
Five months later, January 12th of 2010, trauma rattled the Cluver home and the Griffith-Haskell household, and the lives of many, many other adoptive-parents-in-waiting, as we watched CNN and linked with each other to see if the Haitian children we planned to bring into our families -- the kids we loved, the babies we knew and had held -- would survive post-quake conditions. We were relentless in our efforts over emails, calls, texts. Must keep the kids alive. Must get them to safety. Somebody would offer a contact on the ground in Haiti with access to water, another confirming the GPS coordinates of the orphanage, another suggesting they might have access to a plane. Chaos, terror, and absolute focus. By an endless chain of pluck, collaboration, miracles, and luck, 54 children touched down safely in Florida, and later arrived for further government processing at a children's hospital in Pittsburgh. Except for our two.
"Their parents came to the orphanage and took them, and we don't know where they are." This was the report we received from the agency Friday, the 15th -- three days after the quake. Don't Know Where They Are!?! Our first relief came two weeks later when we received another agency call relaying that the birth family had confirmed the children as well and their family's location in a relatively safe village far from Port-au-Prince. We rejoiced and we breathed! E x h a l e . . . While it was another two weeks before we got clear word that the birth parents confirmed their change in plans to parent the children, somehow we already knew. The healing from our personal loss has been slow, as it's been overshadowed in our hearts by the peace in knowing they are with their mama and papa and the lingering euphoria of knowing they are alive and safe.
On the night Chad and I arrived to check-in at the "parents'" staging area of the hospital in Pittsburgh, however, we were yet awaiting news on "our" children, and had traveled for the purpose of meeting two additional kids who were in need of a family. As unexpected as it may sound, we were prepared to grow our crew to eight. Jamie and Ali, ladies in the trenches of the orphanage who refused pay during their tenure, had promised the kids they would not leave any of them behind in the life-threatening conditions. And so, we met Anna and Jameson, whose birth mother had awaited an adoptive family for them for four years already. (Over 20 months of subsequent phone calls and two meetings with government officials she has confirmed this directly, clearly, and repeatedly.) As Chad and I first entered the scene at UPMC -- straight off a quick flight caught only after running from the van to the counter and asking for the plane to be held -- we approached the parent group, security guards, and processing personnel. Our complete beings were shell-shocked. All the parents were turned inside-out; everyone had been in hell. Chad and I were still trapped in the depths, awaiting word on "our" kids still in Haiti while preparing to meet "our" kids in Pennsylvania.
Parents were debriefing informally -- so many people I had wanted to meet, but at that moment they were still strangers. Four familiar folks, however, approached us with compassion in their eyes and took turns wrapping their arms around Chad and I. Bruce and Jill Lear had been package pals, delivering goodies and pictures to each other's prospective adoptive children when we traveled to Haiti, and sharing photos upon return. The other couple holding us up . . . Jean and Ross. Having seen them days earlier on CNN (from their Kansas home) split-screen with little Alex in Jamie's arms in Haiti had been a psychological lifeline for Chad and I. (See "Orphan Crisis" link in right margin; scroll down to helicopter image.) To see them on the TV somehow made us feel less alone inside our own house. And to see them in person in Pittsburgh that night, to feel their tight embrace, gave immense comfort. We could also find joy, great joy, in being able to take some snapshots of them together, with their very much alive and healthy, beautiful son, and Jamie and Ali, and to wish them congratulations as they left the hospital, cleared by the federal agencies to take him home. It was a candle for us in an otherwise very dark place.
Despite being called to Pittsburgh at the request of a federal employee working the cases, we were sent home empty-armed. The government made a course adjustment, and the children were quietly removed from the hospital; we were left without process or direction. As we launched into full swing our campaign to have Anna and Jameson released from institutional care and brought into our home, Jean spent hours on the phone with me. Hours with me when she had Alex to whom to tend and her work to juggle in a time of quick and unanticipated change. She listened at length as I talked endlessly. She offered everything and anything she thought might be helpful, informative, motivating. I stepped down from a bit of the initial trauma. Toward the end of one of our earliest calls she insisted, "We won't rest until you rest." And they didn't, until we finally did.
Chapter One may be book-length in and of itself, but the nearly unbelievable story lines that culminated in the homecoming of Alex, Anna, and Jameson are for another time or place. At this moment, I share simply a critical element of the tale that brought to us hope when we needed it most. It goes without saying that the journey never ends, but Jean, Ross, and Alex's recent visit to our home was joyous closure on the first chapter, as we celebrated as two families that are now whole. There may be some scars, and some lingering wounds diminishing more slowly than others, but there is healing. Now, we parent and look ahead more than we look back.
In our friendship we are learning the simple things about one another -- the stuff you would typically discuss early on, whereas trust and loyalty usually build over a long stretch of time. Our relationship developed in reverse, with vulnerability and an extended hand on the front side. We spent time these past few days remembering. And hours on lighter topics -- laughing, at times hysterically. We discussed movies, food, and family vacations from childhood. And we watched our kids play together. Tossed around in our casual dialogue were suggestions of funny websites, must-see documentaries, and incredible books. Great fun, great people, and after a difficult first leg of the adoption adventure, Jean and Ross restored in Chad and I the ability to regain trust that some things, sometimes, turn out to be as good as they first appear.
Confidants we invite into our middle-aged lives also "hand us back to ourselves" by awakening in us parts of our own mind and soul that had remained latent or neglected until that point. These friends can bring comfort and laughter, and a greater awareness of ourselves. They bring us to (and/or help us survive in) a slightly larger world. This past weekend we were blessed with a visit from just such friends -- the Griffith-Haskell family of Jean, Ross, and Alex, who we met on our first trip into Haiti.
Two years ago they helped us with pre-travel tips, shopped roadside vendors with our large crew, and provided us with amazing photos Ross took of our time on the island. The pivotal moment, however, was Jean and Ross' intensely warm support in the most humble moment of Chad and my lives. We had visited and cried with the birth parents of the children with whom we had been matched; we so empathized with the young couple. We used our body language -- kisses on cheeks, a touch on the knee -- in weak attempts to compensate for our embarrassing lack of Kreyol, to try to show the sincerity of our respect for them as people, as parents. We wished privately, yet desperately, that there was some possible way to keep those sweet children with their first mama and papa. It was an important meeting -- not required, simply significant for the dignity of all and reassurance for the birth parents -- from which I would not shy. Yet, it would be a gross understatement to say that it ripped my heart to a shredded mess. Chad and I felt so powerless to fix anything; we were humbled to the floor. With very few words and a firm squeeze to my hand, Jean and Ross conveyed a sense of knowing and a deliberateness. The perfect balm. They picked us up at our most vulnerable and became forever a part of our story.
Five months later, January 12th of 2010, trauma rattled the Cluver home and the Griffith-Haskell household, and the lives of many, many other adoptive-parents-in-waiting, as we watched CNN and linked with each other to see if the Haitian children we planned to bring into our families -- the kids we loved, the babies we knew and had held -- would survive post-quake conditions. We were relentless in our efforts over emails, calls, texts. Must keep the kids alive. Must get them to safety. Somebody would offer a contact on the ground in Haiti with access to water, another confirming the GPS coordinates of the orphanage, another suggesting they might have access to a plane. Chaos, terror, and absolute focus. By an endless chain of pluck, collaboration, miracles, and luck, 54 children touched down safely in Florida, and later arrived for further government processing at a children's hospital in Pittsburgh. Except for our two.
"Their parents came to the orphanage and took them, and we don't know where they are." This was the report we received from the agency Friday, the 15th -- three days after the quake. Don't Know Where They Are!?! Our first relief came two weeks later when we received another agency call relaying that the birth family had confirmed the children as well and their family's location in a relatively safe village far from Port-au-Prince. We rejoiced and we breathed! E x h a l e . . . While it was another two weeks before we got clear word that the birth parents confirmed their change in plans to parent the children, somehow we already knew. The healing from our personal loss has been slow, as it's been overshadowed in our hearts by the peace in knowing they are with their mama and papa and the lingering euphoria of knowing they are alive and safe.
On the night Chad and I arrived to check-in at the "parents'" staging area of the hospital in Pittsburgh, however, we were yet awaiting news on "our" children, and had traveled for the purpose of meeting two additional kids who were in need of a family. As unexpected as it may sound, we were prepared to grow our crew to eight. Jamie and Ali, ladies in the trenches of the orphanage who refused pay during their tenure, had promised the kids they would not leave any of them behind in the life-threatening conditions. And so, we met Anna and Jameson, whose birth mother had awaited an adoptive family for them for four years already. (Over 20 months of subsequent phone calls and two meetings with government officials she has confirmed this directly, clearly, and repeatedly.) As Chad and I first entered the scene at UPMC -- straight off a quick flight caught only after running from the van to the counter and asking for the plane to be held -- we approached the parent group, security guards, and processing personnel. Our complete beings were shell-shocked. All the parents were turned inside-out; everyone had been in hell. Chad and I were still trapped in the depths, awaiting word on "our" kids still in Haiti while preparing to meet "our" kids in Pennsylvania.
Parents were debriefing informally -- so many people I had wanted to meet, but at that moment they were still strangers. Four familiar folks, however, approached us with compassion in their eyes and took turns wrapping their arms around Chad and I. Bruce and Jill Lear had been package pals, delivering goodies and pictures to each other's prospective adoptive children when we traveled to Haiti, and sharing photos upon return. The other couple holding us up . . . Jean and Ross. Having seen them days earlier on CNN (from their Kansas home) split-screen with little Alex in Jamie's arms in Haiti had been a psychological lifeline for Chad and I. (See "Orphan Crisis" link in right margin; scroll down to helicopter image.) To see them on the TV somehow made us feel less alone inside our own house. And to see them in person in Pittsburgh that night, to feel their tight embrace, gave immense comfort. We could also find joy, great joy, in being able to take some snapshots of them together, with their very much alive and healthy, beautiful son, and Jamie and Ali, and to wish them congratulations as they left the hospital, cleared by the federal agencies to take him home. It was a candle for us in an otherwise very dark place.
Despite being called to Pittsburgh at the request of a federal employee working the cases, we were sent home empty-armed. The government made a course adjustment, and the children were quietly removed from the hospital; we were left without process or direction. As we launched into full swing our campaign to have Anna and Jameson released from institutional care and brought into our home, Jean spent hours on the phone with me. Hours with me when she had Alex to whom to tend and her work to juggle in a time of quick and unanticipated change. She listened at length as I talked endlessly. She offered everything and anything she thought might be helpful, informative, motivating. I stepped down from a bit of the initial trauma. Toward the end of one of our earliest calls she insisted, "We won't rest until you rest." And they didn't, until we finally did.
Chapter One may be book-length in and of itself, but the nearly unbelievable story lines that culminated in the homecoming of Alex, Anna, and Jameson are for another time or place. At this moment, I share simply a critical element of the tale that brought to us hope when we needed it most. It goes without saying that the journey never ends, but Jean, Ross, and Alex's recent visit to our home was joyous closure on the first chapter, as we celebrated as two families that are now whole. There may be some scars, and some lingering wounds diminishing more slowly than others, but there is healing. Now, we parent and look ahead more than we look back.
In our friendship we are learning the simple things about one another -- the stuff you would typically discuss early on, whereas trust and loyalty usually build over a long stretch of time. Our relationship developed in reverse, with vulnerability and an extended hand on the front side. We spent time these past few days remembering. And hours on lighter topics -- laughing, at times hysterically. We discussed movies, food, and family vacations from childhood. And we watched our kids play together. Tossed around in our casual dialogue were suggestions of funny websites, must-see documentaries, and incredible books. Great fun, great people, and after a difficult first leg of the adoption adventure, Jean and Ross restored in Chad and I the ability to regain trust that some things, sometimes, turn out to be as good as they first appear.
