THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, December 31, 1994 TAG: 9412300107
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY JUNE ARNEY, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 371 lines
THE BABY ROOM was the hardest to face. There still was no baby. Now, suddenly, there was no husband.
The happy stencil of zoo animals chased one another in a circle around the room at crib height. Yellow lions, green zebras, blue giraffes and red elephants. We had painted them there one Saturday afternoon.
But, as I stood there, the room felt cool, drafty.
It was June 23, 1993. My 35th birthday.
Only hours earlier I had watched the clock tick its way to midnight so I could open my presents. I didn't know then that I was wishing myself headlong into a day that would haunt me forever.
I didn't know, Chuck, that you and I had laughed for the last time.
I knew you'd want to watch me open my birthday presents. But when I tried to wake you, I couldn't. Neither could anyone else. Not the rescue squad workers who you'd worked with for years, not one of your best friends who volunteered to drive the ambulance, not your fellow police officers, not the emergency room doctors. You simply went to sleep and never woke up. You were 44. A sudden, unexplained death.
I said goodbye to you, and friends drove me home, back to the house we had shared. I didn't want to go inside. Not ever. But our friends coaxed me in. The house was strangely silent.
I wanted to sit. But our friends told me to make phone calls. So I did. Then I wandered the rooms in disbelief. I expected to hear your Jeep in the driveway. I listened for your voice. You were just there.
In the baby room, I saw the white crib you put together for our baby. Red and blue teddy bears on the sheets and quilt made its inside look soft and welcoming. A blue rabbit wearing a jacket sat alone in one corner.
The room looked the same. But the dream was over.
For four years we had wanted a child but hadn't had one. We had decided to adopt and had completed the paperwork. We waited. Waited for a child who would come to us from far away - from a place like China or Russia.
Together, we got the room ready. Things would happen quickly once they happened. That was the way of adoption.
But what was I supposed to do now?
I didn't want to be in that room, or to be anywhere. But there was a funeral to plan.
Soon the house would fill with people.
Flowers arrived downstairs. They were bright colors, happy like the zoo animals. One of the cards said, ``Happy Birthday.'' My father had sent them. The room got fuzzy. Time blurred.
But it was still June 23. Still my 35th birthday. Still the day I became a widow.
And in this room we'd created, other thoughts crept in. Would I ever get to have a child of my own? More than anything, you wanted that wish of mine to come true. Now you wouldn't be around to make sure it did.
Just two months later, in August 1993, I was sitting on the living room couch with a social worker for the second time in my life.
Somehow I had to convince her that I still wanted to adopt a child. That I was ready. Even though Chuck had died a few weeks ago, even though I would be a single mother.
I wasn't even sure myself.
In the weeks since your death, Chuck, everyone had advice. They told me to cry whenever I wanted to. They told me to go out on dates. They told me to slow down and forget about the baby for a while.
But I didn't want to forget the baby. I had already lost you. I couldn't bear to lose the baby too. It would be like abandoning our final dream.
I knew I would have to redo paperwork for the adoption agency. It would almost be like starting over. I wanted to be ready when the telephone call came saying there was a baby who needed a home.
But this time I had to convince her to let me go ahead with the adoption as a single mom. I had to prove that I could afford to raise a child alone and had my head together enough to do it right.
I wondered if she'd figure out that I was afraid to come home to the dark, empty house, that I didn't know how to run the lawn mower. I wondered if she'd be able to tell that I slept only about every third night - when exhaustion took over - because I couldn't get used to being alone.
She wanted to see the baby room, to know how I planned to make up for the baby's having no father. I gave her an answer that she seemed to like. I told her I would make sure the child had good role models. Inside, I asked myself for the millionth time if that would be enough.
I told her, when she asked, that I thought I'd like to marry again one day. Yes, I had thought about having a child with another man. I didn't know how long all that would take. But I did know I was ready for a committed relationship with a child.
I told her what really matters is the love.
M y best friends rewrote their reference letters. This time, they talked about my husband's death, about the friends and family who had surrounded me with love, about the stepdaughters - one on either side - whose hands I held through the memorial service.
It worked.
In her written report, the social worker stood by the department's original recommendation that I be allowed to adopt - this time alone.
With a new intensity, I watched every baby I saw. At the mall. At the grocery store. The church. They were everywhere.
Weeks later, in October, an early morning phone call got me out of the shower. It was the man who ran the Russian program for the adoption agency calling from California.
``June, this is Orson. I have all your papers. Everything is fine. I want to tell you about a little girl. She's 4 1/2. She's Russian, and she's beautiful. . . .''
My husband had been dead only four months. ``I didn't expect this to happen so soon. Can I call you back in a few hours?'' I asked when he finished talking.
``I need to know your answer today,'' Orson said.
``It's just so much to think about all at once,'' I told him. ``She's older than I had expected.''
``I know. It's a big decision. Call me back.''
I pulled on some clothes and drove to the courthouse to cover a trial. During a break, I called a co-worker and told him, in a shaky voice, about the little girl. Later, we met at the cafeteria for lunch. I told him what I knew. I talked to other friends. But by the end of the day, I didn't feel comfortable saying yes. I called Orson and told him I wanted to wait.
Why couldn't I make this commitment? I'd convinced the social worker. I'd convinced the adoption agency. But I hadn't convinced myself.
Not yet.
In December, Orson called back. This time the little girl was 3 1/2. I looked at her picture and felt nothing. I looked for signs. Again, I puzzled and cried. I told Orson I couldn't do it, that I needed some time. I told him to take my name off the list, that I'd call him when I was ready.
``Of course I understand,'' he said. ``It's your life.''
By March, I was resolute again. I called Orson and told him to put me back on the list. I was ready. He told me he thought I could adopt by summer.
The next month, I invited one of my husband's daughters to Take Your Daughter to Work Day and realized all over again how much I wanted to be a mom from start to finish, full time.
On June 28, the phone was ringing as I walked in the door from work.
It was Orson.
He told me about a 15-month-old baby boy with blue eyes and blond hair whose parents couldn't take care of him. He would send a picture, a video and what little medical information was available in the overnight mail.
I had not been planning on a boy.
I called two friends who grew up without fathers.
``So I'll just learn to throw a football,'' I told one of them. ``Don't bother,'' he said quickly. ``You won't do it right. Just do what my mother did, find people who can teach him. Don't be one of those mothers who tries to be a father.''
Will it be harder to be a little boy without a father than a little girl without a father I asked my best friend. ``It will be hard either way,'' she told me. ``It's not ideal. But it isn't impossible. You'll do fine.''
My gut told me I should say yes.
I tried to sleep. I couldn't.
The next day, when there were only a few people in the newsroom, Orson's package arrived. I opened the envelope at my desk and pulled out the baby picture. I was afraid to look at it - afraid to say no again - afraid that this time I'd say yes. Would this be the child?
I looked down at the picture and a little boy stared back.
You didn't smile. You had little to be happy about in your short life. Your skin was pale, almost translucent, marked with splotches of a red rash.
Tentatively at first, I showed your picture to a few friends. I still hadn't seen the video. I didn't want to watch it at work, so a friend suggested we take it to her house after work. We settled in on the couch, and she froze frames over and over again in the 1 1/2 minute tape. We analyzed your eyes, your hair; we talked about why there were no toys in your playpen.
She handed me the phone.
I dialed Orson's number and told him I wanted to adopt you. He told me to meet him in Moscow on July 26 - less than a month away. From there, we'd take Aeroflot to Tashkent, Uzbekistan, to reach your orphanage.
It sounded so easy. I got congratulatory hugs from my friend and her husband, and she and I headed off to a welcome back party for a co-worker. Surrounded by friends at the Mexican restaurant where we gathered, I dissolved in tears.
I was scared. There would be no going back now. No guarantees.
The next day, I called my mother to tell her my decision. ``I'm going to go get him, Mom,'' I said calmly.
``You are? You are!'' she said. Just a year ago, she'd been the calming influence. She'd spent two weeks with me after the funeral. She'd tried to slow me down. Now it was fast forward.
Days later, I went to a department store to buy you a hat. I wanted to take good care of you, and I wasn't sure how many times your little blond head had felt sunshine. I practiced being a proud mom and pulled out your picture as I told the clerk about the adventure that would bring us together. I told her your first name would be Kyle. She smiled at my story. Like everyone, she was intrigued. She studied your picture and looked up at me - dark eyes, dark hair, olive skin - and then back at the picture. She proclaimed that you looked just like me. ``Do you really think so?'' I asked.
For an instant, I think I believed her.
I napped fitfully on the plane. Over the intercom, a man with a heavy German accent said: ``Ladies and gentlemen, we are making our final approach to Moscow airport.'' The words jarred me to consciousness. What was I doing half way around the world with a diaper bag at my feet?
On my knees in the hot parking lot outside the rundown orphanage, I rummaged through my suitcase looking for baskets of soap and bubblebath - required gifts for orphanage administrators. I looked for the bags of children's Tylenol - an item in short supply in Uzbekistan. I'd brought enough to relieve the pain of every child there for at least a year.
The lack of sleep and relentless sun made everything surreal: the urine stench as we boarded the Aeroflot plane, the chicken and rice the airline served for breakfast at 4 a.m., the bureaucrat who issued visas as he watched some Uzbeki version of MTV.
More rummaging and I found the little blue rabbit wearing a jacket - the one in the crib - the one that I stared at the day Chuck died.
It was finally time.
A smiling man with a heavy accent introduced himself and guided us to a room where we waited. Pinnochio characters formed a vibrant mural across the walls. Around the room was a semicircle of little chairs. A few dolls looked down from a shelf. White lace curtains covered the full-length windows that took up half of one side of the room.
The minutes slowed. The air was warm and still. Words in a tongue I didn't understand swirled around me. Then, time stopped.
A nurse appeared in the doorway with a baby whose Russian name was Andrey.
Was that really you? Kyle Andrey? You look so much older than in the picture - more a little man, less a baby. You look foreign, scared, thin. What have I gotten myself into? Who are you really? And perhaps, more importantly, who am I these days? You won't look at me.
Finally, I take you in my arms and sit you down on my lap with the rabbit. You timidly touch the stuffed animal. You keep your eyes focused down. You have no reason to trust me. Over the months of your short life, several people have let you down.
Your mother left your father and you. And your father decided he couldn't take care of you alone. It was the militia who found you on the street in Tashkent, along with the letter your father had written. They went to his house, and he told them he would give up his claims to you. He wanted you to have a better life.
I wondered how cold it was in Tashkent in mid-February. What were you wearing? What was it like to be 11 months old and out in the street by yourself?
You'd been alone and so had I. As you and I got acquainted, cameras flashed. Orson captured the moment on film and videotape. It would be weeks before I was grateful. People watched. There was no quiet place just for us. I was terrified that I'd make you cry.
Another woman, Linda, was with us in the room, where she had just met the little boy that she and her husband would adopt and name Bobby. The nurses studied us as if trying to decide if we childless Americans could be good mothers.
We took you boys outside, where there was a hint of breeze. You methodically picked up the toys we'd brought, handed them to us and took them back again. You did it over and over - as if to confirm that the game wouldn't change - as if it were a game you had waited your whole life to play. Our trust in each other would only grow.
As Linda and I drank hot tea and fed the babies cookies, I looked at Linda and told her that I was happier than I had ever been. She understood.
We would not get to bring our children home with us until the paperwork was completed in another week. We hated to leave. But it was clear that the nurses did their best. When we had to go, it was a relief. I was happy, confused, frightened. All I wanted to do was sleep.
My driver took me to meet my Tashkent family. Jane, my hostess, smiled, hugged me and showed me my bed. I would go back to the orphanage the next day.
I'd be ready then.
A week later, I listened to Whitney Houston sing ``I Will Always Love You'' on the final car ride to the orphanage - the place my Tashkent family called ``baby house.''
The drive was bright, the breeze hot. I tried to memorize the moments. From this day on - mother and son. The gas lines looked shorter than usual. Cows grazed lazily by the wide avenue on which we drove. It was so permanent, so awesome, so daunting, and yet fear was not one of my emotions.
I thought back to one of our visits when I carried you to your room and saw playpens big enough for 25 children and a child whose face was covered with red and green spots like war paint. I looked closer and realized the red places were open sores and the green were dabs of medicine to help them heal.
I remembered laughing children at your orphanage who each day lined up outside to go for a walk in underwear, with bare chests and sunhats perched on their heads. Many of them could not be adopted because their families had not given permission.
When we got to the orphanage, I dressed you in American clothes for the first time - royal blue overall shorts with sailboats on the front, sneakers and a baseball cap. We got in the car, and you trembled as it started to move.
Later that night, I sat in a chair across the room and watched you play in your crib, the ring of the pacifier in your mouth. You clutched the little blue rabbit. You're so resilient. I love you. It slipped out so easily. It seemed right. I knew I would dress you, feed you and worry about you from then on. You were my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. I knew what my mother must have felt. The circle was complete.
In the evenings that followed, I sat at the kitchen table with my Tashkent family and heard your happy babble from the crib in the next room. Some of the sounds were indistinguishable. But others were distinct. ``Da da,'' you said clearly.
It was Sept. 6 and Kyle had turned 18 months old. We'd been home in America nearly a month. It also was the day I went back to work - resumed my life as a newspaper reporter.
Or at least some semblance of it.
For years, I'd been free to race to a train wreck when the copy desk called me at home at 10 p.m., or to hit the streets at 5 a.m. for the first glimpse of winter storm damage. I could wait out the murder trial jury until the verdict came in at 11 p.m. or take off for Northern Virginia, Pennsylvania or the White House on scant notice. I could work 12-, 14-, 18-hour days to track down witnesses, talk to killers. I could interview from home. I could build my life around chasing stories in a business that demands nothing less.
Our first four weeks in America we'd spent getting to know one another Walks in the park, splashing in the wading pool, trips to show you off to friends.
Now I'll arrive at work at 8 a.m. - hours before much of the rest of the newspaper staff. And most days, I'll leave by 5:15 p.m. I'll still make phone calls from home, but probably after you go to bed. I'll continue to stay late and take business trips, but it will require more planning.
I wonder if my co-workers and my editors will look at me the same way, or if I'll be relegated to some mommy track devoid of good stories.
I vow it won't happen. New mom. Single mom. Reporters' hours. Whatever it takes, I'm going to make it work.
Your role in all this is day care. To spend most of your wakeful, weekday hours there. Back in an institution. I cringed at the thoughts that would cross your mind. You must miss the children, the company. But would you think I had abandoned you?
You're not just any baby going to day care for the first time, and I'm not just the typical nervous mom. We had a lot more at stake.
I knew I'd return in a few hours. But you didn't. You've been down this road before. I knew this place would have balanced meals, construction paper and crayons. I knew there would be toys and ice cubes for your bumps. But you didn't.
You cried no tears when I left. You were captivated by the new toys and faces. You had seen this room briefly a week before, so it wasn't completely foreign. I kissed you goodbye and drove to work.
As the hours slipped by, I wondered what you were doing. Were you eating, sleeping, crying?
I was the last parent to pull up at 6:01. Yes, a minute late, even though I thought I'd left in plenty of time. He was standing there at the glass door. His tiny figure looked even smaller against ceiling-to-floor glass. A diaper bag was slung around his neck as he waved at me.
The day care workers told me you'd waved for about 5 minutes. It was your way of saying that you were ready to go. I'd seen you do it before. I cringed. I should have been there sooner. But you laughed and reached out for me.
By the time we finished eating, it was 7:15 p.m. Time to play a few minutes, read a book or two, take a bath and go to sleep. I worried about hustling you from one thing to the next too quickly. I knew we had lost something we'd had just the day before. It was the freedom to make our own schedule. It was time and space for us.
By my third day back to work, I was dragging.
I wondered why all the other mothers looked so put together and in control as they dropped off their kids. Is it because they have a husband to help them, are they more organized, smarter?
I checked a mirror when I got to work. Earrings, French braid, clean dress, pumps. It was all there. Were those other women just faking it too?
As 4 p.m. approached, I knew I couldn't walk out on my editor and teammates in another hour. There was a story to finish. A quick call to the day care and one of your teachers agreed to take you home with her.
When I got there, you smiled, ran to me and reached out to be picked up. During the half-hour drive home I heard your sniffling and sneezes and wondered when you had caught this cold. I must have missed it. The telephone rang as I walked in the house. By then, you were tired and crying. ``Can you call me back?'' I asked my friend. ``This is so hard.''
I got you to bed an hour past your bedtime and collapsed in a chair. I wasn't doing anything well. And there's still more to do. When do single moms sleep?
On Oct. 6, I found out that we needed a new $1,800 furnace. It wasn't exactly in the budget. I moped for a while but then I realized that what really counts is that you're here with me. That you are safe in your car seat in the back of my car waving a toddler-size American flag. What really matters is that your day care teachers heard you string two words together today.
You ran over to a little boy who had taken your teddy bear. ``My bear'' you told him. You snatched it back and then said, ``Thank you.''
This night it's 10 by the time I work all day, attend a juvenile justice forum and collect you at the baby sitter's.
You smiled at me sleepily as I laid you down in your crib.
What really matters is the love. ILLUSTRATION: Color photos by Tamara Voninski, Staff
June Arney adopted her son, Kyle, now 21 months old, this summer in
Russia. They live in Smithfield, and Arney is still adjusting to
being a single mom.
Kyle is learning to speak English and is getting over his timidity
as he adjusts to living in the United States.
Color photo
This photo from an orphanage in Russia was Arney's introduction to
the boy she would adopt.
Photo by Tamara Voninski, Staff
Arney and Kyle enjoy a game of hide-and-seek in the Smithfield home
that once was filled with sadness after her husband's unexpectted
death in 1993
Photo
Arney and Kyle...
KEYWORDS: ADOPTION SINGLE MOTHER by CNB