Stephen Berg
is a stay-at-home father and blogger
It was pure serendipity that we adopted our son from Cambodia. While working in human resources at Marshall Field Co., I befriended an 80-year-old children’s department employee named Annie Carr. Though deeply religious – a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic – Annie wanted nothing more than to see us boys have a baby. Scott and I were exploring an adoption from China.
One afternoon I returned from lunch to a frantic and breathless voice mail from Annie: “Steve, I’ve found a baby for you and Scott. Do you know where Cambodia is? I know a lady who is leaving tomorrow to adopt her baby. Call me right away!!” A client had come into Annie’s department to buy baby clothes for her adopted baby girl from Cambodia. She was leaving the next day but was willing to tell me about the agency. Cambodia was never on our radar, but I sent an e-mail to the agency and, surprisingly, received a response within minutes. Unlike China, in Cambodia being a gay couple was not an issue and the anticipated wait was considerably shorter. There was something about how everything lined up so neatly that told us that Cambodia was our destiny.
Initially, everything moved quickly and without incident. That summer, the home study was completed and we amassed the mountain of documents necessary to set the wheels in motion. By September, we were sent a referral and a picture of Kat Min, a nanny at an orphanage in rural Cambodia holding our beautiful baby boy, Sitha.
It’s really true what they say when you first lay eyes on your baby’s sonogram. You see that baby growing inside and your life changes forever. And so it was with this photo. For both Scott and me, it was absolute pure love at first sight.
We anticipated travel within 90 days to finalize the adoption and to board a flight to pick up little Sitha. And like everyone who plans for the arrival of a baby, we chose a name, Henry Sitha, and began to emotionally assimilate this little boy into our hearts and minds. A nursery was carved out of a sunroom, painted grass green with the feel of a sunny tree house.
The first clues of a problem happened in early November, just hours before the start of a baby shower. In Cambodia, the actual adoption happens before travel. By the time family members arrive in country, they are considered by the Cambodian government to be the adoptive parents of the child. Upon arrival, you immediately go to the orphanage and take custody of your child. You spend several days finalizing things, and the final stop is to the U.S. Embassy for a visa stamp allowing you to bring your child into the United States.
In early November, a number of families ahead of us in the process had their child’s visa rejected. At first there was no explanation. But soon it was clear that the U.S. government was investigating allegations of the trafficking of children. Suddenly, parents were stranded. They had to either relinquish children to foster care or send them back to the orphanage. Others made the difficult choice to stay in the country with their child, while waiting for government clearance to travel. The waiting was agony and those of us who had yet to travel watched in horror, as the fate of our own children became more and more uncertain.
The first reprieve came compassionately by Christmas from the Bush administration. A special decree granted these dozen families documents to travel home. But for the rest of us, the wait became an endless march of waiting, rumors, Internet searches, phone calls, and letters to congressional officials.
Some news brought hope. At other times it was suggested we consider withdrawing our adoption request, as it was unlikely that Henry’s adoption would clear any time soon, if at all. We were heartbroken, fearful of our son’s fate in a country that had one of the highest infant mortality rates in the world. We were the walking dead, zombies forced to maintain some sense of normalcy in our lives. Instead of the joy of anticipation, each new day brought only dread.
Through it all, Scott and I had each other. At night, after a day of e-mails and calls we’d decompress everything we’d heard. Sometimes we’d just lie there in the dark, holding each other, silently praying for little Henry so far away. The empty nursery, adjacent to our bedroom, held baby clothes that we feared would no longer fit him. It was difficult to explain the loss we were feeling, as we had bonded with a photo and the idea of making a family. But our friends and family were great, and we were buoyed by our faith and a belief that our adoption was meant to be.
One particularly dreary day, I happened to look out our dining room, toward our next-door neighbor’s second-floor window. In solidarity, she had taped to the pane a simple little sign fashioned out of construction paper. There it was, a lit candle with “Henry” neatly printed above it. In that lowest of moments, we knew we were not alone. It brought comfort, and hope was rekindled. We knew that, someday soon, Henry would be home.
Eleven years ago today, Scott walked into my office grasping a bouquet of flowers with a grin that collapsed me into a puddle of purest joy and relief. Within 36 hours, we were aboard Singapore Air, the first leg of what would be a nearly 40-hour trip to bring home our precious son.
Follow Stephen Berg at http://nicholsberggallery.wordpress.com, or e-mail him at sberg1961@hotmail.com.
"Right away," then ...
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