A little over a year ago we took
our first trip to Bulgaria. Upon returning home, I wrote the following post. I
didn’t end up publishing it at the time because I didn’t feel like I had found
the right words. Those “right words” never came. I’m sharing anyway.
~~~
“People who say that international
adoption is an unwise use of God’s money just don’t know.”
I listened to my friend, the mother
of two internationally adopted children, and I nodded my head in agreement. I
thought I knew what she meant. I have been so frustrated throughout our
adoption process to hear people say that international adoption is poor
stewardship of God’s money. That we really should be adopting through foster
care because it’s free. Or that we should be using our money to support Gospel
preachers instead. Leave it to the orphanages to care for the kids.
I know these comments are made with
the best of intentions, but most of these comments are also made in ignorance.
People tell us, “Your money is better spent supporting orphan homes where they
can care for many children.” These good-hearted people have no idea of the
damage caused by growing up in an institution – even a “Good” one. They can’t
possibly know. Surely they don’t understand. If they did, they would never say
such a thing. Never.
I thought I understood.
When my adoptive friends relayed to
me the things they saw in orphanages overseas, I cried with them. When they
told me of little babies who lie in cribs staring up at the ceiling for hours
without making a sound, I got chills. When they described how the children are
lined up and force-fed a liquid diet no matter their age, and the bruises they acquire
simply due to malnutrition, I was angry. How could anyone hear of children
living in these conditions and not know that it is worth every penny it takes
to get them into a safe, loving home?
But I didn’t understand the half of
it. And in truth, I still don’t.
I thought I was prepared to walk
into the orphanage where our daughter has lived since she was born. They tried
to warn us. They told us that our daughter’s Center is one of the better ones,
but that it would still not be “Good.” I had read and researched and talked to
other adoptive parents. I thought I was ready. It wasn’t as if I have never
been outside the U.S. I’ve been to third world countries, and I didn’t think
this could be much worse than what I had previously seen. But I underestimated
what it would be like to walk into that building for the first time, knowing
this is where my little girl has been raised.
When we first arrived, a nurse
unlocked the front door and led us into a dark, musty corridor. There were no
lights. Concrete walls and floors surrounded us like a prison cell. We could
hear the screams of a baby coming from somewhere on the second floor. The unheeded
cries echoed throughout the building; the only sound to break the eerie
silence.
We waited with our translator while
the nurse went to get the Doctor who was on call in the Director’s absence. Down
the hall, a baby was swinging – the only other person in sight. It was as if
the orphanage was nearly abandoned. Yet, we later learned that there were
children in every room lining those halls. Children who never made a sound.
The Doctor greeted us warmly and
led us into her office where we met with her and the Psychologist. They told us
as much as they could about our little girl’s history and personality. They
were helpful, caring, and as open as they were permitted to be. Little Miss was
obviously a favorite, and they were more than happy to answer most of our
questions.
During this conversation we met
Little Miss for the first time. She was wheeled into the room, and the next few
moments were a mix of joyful tears and nervous giggles. To read more about our
first visits with her, click here.
Over the course of the week, we got
to see a good bit of our daughter’s environment. She lives on the second floor
with the young babies because of her limited mobility. There are eight children
in her ward, and she is the oldest by far. This has pros and cons. She rarely
interacts with any children, and she doesn’t know what to make of creatures her
own size. She also doesn’t know how to play with age appropriate toys, or how
to get attention without babbling like a nine month old (though she is
perfectly capable of communicating on an older level).
The pros are that, because she does
have more communication skills than the babies, the nurses talk to her more
frequently and give her more individual attention than she would probably
receive in the ward with children her own age. The nurses love the fact that
she can sing along with them, and they all get a kick out of her dance moves.
As a result, she interacts with adults really well and makes great eye contact.
She is particularly attached to one nurse who even our translator commented was
one of the best orphanage caregivers she’s ever seen. That is huge!
Children raised in orphanages are
often neglected not necessarily from a lack of concern but more often due to a
lack of resources and a lack of education on developmental needs. These things
were obviously lacking in our daughter’s orphanage, but the staff was doing the
best they knew how. The meals at this orphanage are varied in texture and
content, the children are fed slowly with bottles or spoons (depending on the
age of the child), and the Doctor and nurses pay decently close attention to
the nutritional value of the food they provide. Our daughter is definitely in
one of the better orphanages. I am extremely grateful that she has been given
such advantages and that she ended up in an orphanage with a very special
caregiver. The Lord has been mindful of our little girl.
And yet.
It’s hard to describe the haunting
realities of what we saw. The orphanage is dark, sterile, and bare. Broken
glass covers the playground. But that doesn’t matter because the children
rarely go outside. Bedrooms about the size of a small walk-in closet line the
halls, two cribs to a room. The babies sit or lie in these cribs until they are
taken out, on schedule, to be fed or changed. There is silence in the ward,
except for the rare cry of a baby who has not yet learned that his cries gain
him nothing. Most of the babies do not respond if you try to engage them. They
only stare at you with hollow, expressionless eyes.
One constant thought swirled in my
head.
We
must get her out of here!
But
who will come for the others?
No one who sees a place like that
can possibly believe that any amount of money used to get even one child out is
a waste. Surely, they cannot.
And what I saw is not the half. I
don’t know the half. I only know stories.
The stories of the family who
traveled to meet their daughter, held her in their arms, and committed to
bringing her home, but never got that chance. Just months before they were due
to pick her up, their daughter starved to death under the care of “doctors” who
were feeding her a very “special” diet. Their daughter was seven years old. She
weighed nine pounds.
The stories of the family who
adopted a little boy with almost exactly the same condition as our daughter.
Except he was in a much worse orphanage. His body was covered in scars and
sores. He was the same age as Little Miss, but he had no language and very
little communication skills. He was caged in his crib for days. He was the
subject of medical experimentation and abuse.
The stories of the little boy who
kicked and screamed in fear when his new parents took him outside because he
had never felt the sun on his face.
The stories of malnutrition, sexual
abuse, and emotional trauma.
Stories that are more the reality
than the rarity.
I’m not sure exactly what this post
is about. Mostly, I think I’m still processing. It’s hard to put into words
what it was like to visit Little Miss. Some of it doesn’t sound so bad as I go
back and read what I’ve written. That’s only because I’m incapable of finding
words to accurately describe the living conditions of these kids. It’s unlike
anything I’ve ever seen. Sure, I’ve been to third world countries. I’ve seen devastating
poverty. But in all those places I’ve been before, I also saw the love of
family. Walking into an orphanage where these children have no one to count on
but themselves… It was a different level of heartbreak.
Anyone who knows me knows I’m a
huge supporter of adoption, whether domestic or international. This is not a
post about how everyone ought to adopt internationally. Children in foster care
face some of the same harsh realities as do children in orphanages. This has
nothing to do with “adopt this way, not that.” This is a plea from my heart to
yours. Don’t tell me that international adoption is a waste of God’s money. When
you say that, I hear a forgotten baby’s cries echoing down the hall. I see the
prison cells that serve as bedrooms. I see the face of a mama whose daughter
starved to death.
And I have to believe.
You just don’t know.
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