Stinky, Tired, Jaded

Writing from the train, after a whirlwind 24 hours that began in Kiev, travelling overnight to Odessa, a 4 hour car ride to (pardon my French) B*mf*ck, Ukraine, back in the car another 4 hours, and back on the train overnight to Kiev.

It started at our second appointment. We went through 2 binders full of the very sick kids we had previously seen, a handful of new files of more sick kids, and then when there was nothing else to review we asked to see the files of 5 year olds just for the heck of it- though our homestudy specified (by our own request) for approval of a child up to 4 years old. The last file in the last binder was a little girl with an impish smile taken when she was about 2. There was very little information in the file on her medical history, and we were already past the hour of our appointment, so our translator phoned the orphanage to see if she could get more information on the girl, while the psychologist at the Dept removed her page from the binder so nobody else could see her until we figured out what to do- which is stretching the rules of what’s allowed, truth be told.

It turned out the Director at the orphanage refused to tell anything more about the girl, which is within his right, other than the fact that she had just been transferred from the “baby house” (which is where kids under 4 live until they age out and then enter into more of a boarding school/orphanage environment) 2 weeks ago, and had some delays. We needed to decide pretty much immediately if we wanted to visit her to obtain more medical information, so we decided to go. In less than 3 hours, we had train tickets booked and purchased, we had to have our permission letter from the Dept, and our apartment cleared out. These guys work fast! We boarded the overnight train and arrived in Odessa at 6am this morning where we were picked up by our driver, who then took us the 4 hours to a tiny, tiny village literally in the middle of nowhere. Like, goats and crumbling houses and National Geographic territory. We first had to meet with the regional inspector who would check out our paperwork and accompany us to the orphanage with our translator. At her office (again, it’s hard to explain how basic we’re talking- the office toilets were literally an outhouse outside the building with a squat hole in the ground) it was hard to read body language but it seemed like she didn’t think too much of our “big city” translator coming into town, however practically all quickly-spoken Russian sounds like arguing anyways, so who really knows?

We all drove to the orphanage through the town center with literally everyone staring at our car and the “outsiders” inside it. The orphanage from the outside was as nice as it could be in the circumstances- the patchy brown grass was cut, there were a couple of climbing structures in the yard, a path to the entrance of the building. We were ushered into another office and sat down waiting for the Director to come in. When he arrived, we were surprised to meet a guy that appeared to be about our own age, dressed like he was running an Eastern European nightclub. Somebody began reading information from the little girl’s file, which wasn’t much other than the fact the girl was abandoned in the maternity ward, the mother had no idea who the father was, and she wanted to relinquish all parental rights from birth. So she had been in care since infancy. This was alarming right away and one of the things our social worker said to pay attention about- to question why wasn’t this kid adopted when she was a cute little two year old in the system. First red flag. We asked our translator to ask about the fact she had an older brother- where was he? The Director said he had no information. We asked him if there was any medical info on Mom, and could he tell us how the little one was adjusting in the new orphanage and who were her friends? This provoked a loud arrogant snort- like we were idiots- and we were told she had only been here about 2 weeks so of course she had no friends. Later we found out from the caregivers that she had arrived with 5 other children in her playgroup, and they were all transitioning into the new environment; at least they all shared a little room together with all their beds in a row. At this point I think we both felt that we had more information given to us when we went to the SPCA to adopt a kitten, yet we were being asked to take on the irrevocable responsibility of another human life. We were really put off by the Director in this place- his body language, the tones of voice, the fact that he leaned against a wall the entire time than to sit down and make eye contact and talk about this kid like her life actually mattered. One of the women asked us if we wanted to meet her, of course we said yes. After what seemed like an eternity, a hysterically sobbing child was brought into the office of stern looking adults and my heart broke for her, it must have been terrifying. She was too upset so a caregiver carried her out and returned a minute or two later with a beaming, calm child who ran into the room like a tiny cyclone and was instantly into everything! She ran to the bookcase and began trying to pull books off the shelves. She ran to the desks and tried to grab papers and pens- she was a whirlwind of activity, babbling every now and again. She really was cute. The thing that all had us in stiches was when I said her name and she abruptly turned to look at me, stuck out her tongue, and then gave me a fist up in the air like a comic little international “fuck you!” I thought what a funny story to tell her one day if we were able to adopt her! Honestly, it was a thing she probably learned from a frustrated Baba at an orphanage and it was so unexpected, it truly was hysterical. The caretaker attending her nearly died of embarrassment. She had a small cloth she carried around and was trying to clean everything, and kept folding and refolding her little handkerchief. We had brought some tiny stuffed animals and had hidden them in a pocket so we tried to get her attention by calling her over to look but she wasn’t too interested. The caretaker said she didn’t like toys and didn’t really play (red flag #2) she just preferred to put things in order and wipe stuff with her little cloth, I guess she had seen adults do this so many times it was what she was mimicking. The next thing that is difficult to communicate to you all is just how tiny this girl was: she was about the size of maybe a 3 year old. Her language skills were also hugely delayed, she babbled incoherently like a toddler. This was not a child who would be ready for kindergarten next year, nor probably the year after nor possibly even another year after that. Once that reality sunk in, we began to relate to her more as an infant. I picked her floppy then flailing little body up to see if she would accept contact OK, and I rocked her a bit and carried her around like a baby, pointing out things to look at, and speaking in a hushy-hush voice. This was OK for about 3 minutes then she wanted to get down and scoot around again, exploring. It was pretty exhausting after about 35 minutes, she really had zero attention span. There was no way you would even be able to go to the bathroom for 2 minutes without bringing her in with you and locking the door- she was just tearing into everything but also without having any sense of the word “no” either, which was frightening. She seemed so all-over-the-place that this would be the kind of child you would legitimately be frightened of having her drink a bottle of bleach one day if you happened to answer the phone for a minute. We already knew we would not be the right parents for bringing out the potential best of this little girl; it certainly would not be fair to her or to ourselves, but we did want to see the conditions of the rest of the orphanage. We were led around to the play room, bedroom and meal room by a teenage boy who was a resident there. He was wearing what looked like hospital scrubs, though it was really probably homemade clothes and it broke our hearts. His feet did not fit his shoes so he wore them like slippers with the backs crushed down. The conditions in the building were much better than what you would expect though, lots of sunlight, the rooms were comfortably warm and very basically furnished. They even had a rug. In the bedroom 5 other caretakers (an assortment of grandmotherly and young mom types) were playing with the other 5 children from the group, we were happy to see such a ratio of obviously very dedicated, and warm women who had a genuine connection to these kids even in the short period of time they were there.

As I sat down on a couch loaded with stuffed animals, the loveliest little girl with sandy brown hair and clear blue eyes came up to me to show me a book about a teddy bear. She was chattering away in Russian, and she was just so immediately engaging and bright, it was an instant connection. Instant. We looked at her little book together and I smoothed her hair and felt bad that the other little girl we had come to see was bouncing around the room oblivious that we were even there, and I just didn’t feel any connection to her at all. Oisin was watching this new little girl too out of the corner of his eye, I could see him. I asked our translator what her name was, and her age. He passed the question on to the ladies and they replied she was 5. The contrast was beyond striking- this girl was probably almost twice the size and certainly was far more developmentally like a true kindergartener; it really hammered home the point of difference between the two. I think I was already in love with this kid- everything just felt so natural and “right” immediately. I could absolutely imagine tucking her into bed, kissing her warm little forehead and turning out her nightlight. Then one of the caretakers pointed out her disability which I hadn’t even noticed at all because she had learned to compensate so well, but her left arm was paralyzed and her left leg was very stiff, though she could walk pretty much normally. In any case, at that minute I couldn’t have cared less. It would have been like saying oops, she really has green eyes not blue ones, it made zero difference in picturing a life with her as our daughter. Expecting to hear medical terminology for whatever birth condition she might have had, I asked about the name of her disability so we could look it up immediately when we left and could get online, but I was utterly, utterly unprepared to hear the words, “Oh, her parents beat her until she became paralyzed on her left side. She’s had many surgeries, but it will be a lifetime affliction.”

I literally felt the room spin and the air was knocked out of me. The little girl continued smiling and giggling and reading her book out loud at my feet, while the caretaker just said the words as simply as she might have said what was for dinner that night. This gorgeous child who instantly came up to me to show me her book had not lost her ability to trust a pair of strange adults that could have been two more child beaters. Watching her sweet, open face and thinking about her laying broken and bloody in a hospital bed due directly to her own mother and father was more than I could take in. I had to leave the room to get myself together. My hands were shaking and I couldn’t see where I was going because of the tears in my eyes. I felt like I was going to throw up.

Back at the car, we asked our translator to find out more about this little girl. It was all I could do not to scoop her up and carry her out of there myself that instant. I was kind of shocked at his response, it seemed he was a bit put out for us asking him to do this- he just shook his head and said it was very unlikely she would be available, so there was no point. We were truthfully annoyed and said we didn’t care, and we wanted him to ask about it irrespective of what he thought “might be”. We figured it cost nothing to ask (which in fact is pretty ironic, because it *did* in fact cost something to ask, which we found out shortly) so why not do it while we were there, rather than phoning from Kiev later? At this point we had also refused to proceed any further with the first girl and were ready to leave anyways and start all the paperwork and legal stuff that is a requirement in Ukraine with a lawyer drafting a letter stating to the Dept that we had refused the first referral.

So he went back to the Nightclub Director while we waited nervously outside the car, pacing on the dusty road and staring into a dirty field. We could see them speaking outside then our translator came back with the following news: Apparently the Director couldn’t “remember” if the little girl was available or not, but for about $30 he could perhaps open his files. We just paid him. We didn’t care at that point if he was going to be in liters of Vodka and polyester ties for the next 3 weeks or not. We waited anxiously outside the car, I said prayer after prayer while black birds flew over the field like pepper being sprinkled across the sky. Our translator came back to the car and said that she wasn’t available for adoption, the state had tried to get her mother to relinquish her parental rights but she refused and threatened to take the state to court if she had to, to prevent this from ever happening. It was also noted that in almost 5 years, she had not bothered to visit her own daughter a single time.

We got into the car, and I cried silently all the way home.

This bright, smart, beautiful little girl will sit in an orphanage until her 16th birthday which will be attended by nobody, and then she will be put out onto the street to fend for herself for the rest of her life. Nobody will adopt a half-paralyzed child. Certainly no one in Ukraine, and certainly no one internationally will read her file, see the words “paralysis” and “age over 5 years old” and will choose to adopt her. Without meeting her ourselves, we wouldn’t have either, though it is perfectly clear that she is able to function like any other kid her age to the point that we didn’t even notice her disability until it was pointed out to us because of her ability to cope. I was furious at the selfishness of someone who would deny their child the chance for a life where she could be and do anything she wanted, and get the expert medical care she needs so that perhaps with serious physical therapy she might be almost 100% again one day. And I was sick at the fact that someone, somewhere thought it was OK to brutalise a defenseless child less than half their size to the point of permanently robbing her of her complete, bodily functions and that it was done most likely without punishment because there was no indication that either Mom or dad went to jail for child abuse in her file. And I was disgusted once again at laws both in Canada and abroad that seem to give lip-service to children’s human rights to live in safety and be loved and wanted; yet all the while the rights of their biological parents to perhaps one day trot on back to “parent” them if they feel like it, are still held in higher regard. It defies any morality or common sense in the world.

There is a whole other side-story to all of this too, which I’m too exhausted to go into at this point, but we also had a bit of a blow-out with our translator this morning when we FINALLY arrived back in Kiev. All I’m going to say is that it’s pretty evident that many people think that Canadians and Americans are all multi-millionaires and can be duped into opening their wallets without having the right to question it. We are painfully aware of the sad economic differences between having the pure, dumb luck of being born into a life lived in Canada, while other people have to pee in outdoor toilets in a hole in the ground. We have been extremely careful in our words and actions to show the utmost consideration and care and respect for this difference wherever we go, and the only place I have ever let loose is on this blog and even here I’m only giving selected bits and pieces to friends and family who are reading it. However, having travelled all over the world more than once now, neither of us like being taken for idiots who should pay any price just because we are resented for having more money. We may be Canadians, but our last name isn’t Trump. In reality, we will be paying off this journey for the next 5+ years whether we end up with a child or not, which we explained to our translator in no uncertain terms. Angry phone calls were made to the facilitator, we had no idea what was being said about us in Ukrainian but I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant. We made our own phone calls to the facilitator and asked for a face-to-face meeting to discuss how shit is going to go down, going forward about how expenses will be calculated. Nobody is happy, we can’t meet until tomorrow because evidently she’s ill, and it’s a tense, miserable ending to 3 days worth of stress and running-on-empty.

On Monday, we file the refusal paperwork at the Dept which is also a request for the third appointment. If stuff with our facilitator hasn’t gone completely and permanently tits-up, we’ll probably have to wait another full week in Kiev to get the last appointment, though we’re thinking of asking if it’s possible to get one sooner. Russian Roulette with available files seems to be Russian Roulette. If new files come every day, spending another entire week here vs another few days doesn’t seem like it would make much of a difference if all of this is up to fate anyways. When we started this process one of our main questions was, “Out of everyone that has worked with your agency, how many have returned home childless?” We were told it only happened once because the woman in question was unreasonable and looking for a “Barbie doll” child that didn’t exist in the first place. I’m beginning to get that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that eventually there will be a couple #2, and I’m terrified for it to end up being us. I tried to have a nap this morning, and when I woke up I was happy for an instant before I remembered everything again from the little girl we can’t adopt to the rotten argument with our translator and I just wanted to go back to sleep to escape it all. The thought of coming home to that room all ready and waiting only to have to take it all apart again and re-paint it like none of this ever happened is more than I can bear. But I guess it is a real possibility at this point. That, and completely blown life savings on top of it all too, ha.

Sorry I don’t have better news, you guys. But we also don’t want to sugar-coat everything in case it doesn’t work out, and then we have to explain it all again and again. Please just somebody pray for us that we find Mena, that she’s relatively healthy, that everything goes smoothly, that we don’t run out of money before it happens, that we get back home safely together without having to be here for 3 months.

Everything else will be gravy. xoxo

UPDATE: Just as I was finishing this, Nadia called us back from Montreal. We rang her at 3am (yikes) in a panic with all of this and felt awful and then said we’d speak to her at a more human hour. She said we did the right thing with the angry translator, and that she was going to call our facilitator to make that clear. We’re at nobody’s mercy over here, we’re decent people, etc. God, we feel like the piano isn’t hanging over heads by a string anymore. Yay for Nadia and her professional support!