ONE KID AT A TIME

by Jake Dekker

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Although this story is based on true facts, I have recreated events, places and conversations from emails, public court records, interviews and my memory of events. Any errors made are my own. In order to maintain the anonymity of actual persons, I have changed most names. To protect my son’s privacy, I have written this book under a pseudonym. I have also changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and locations. In a few cases, I have changed the gender of an individual. All the details about my son’s background were taken from open court records, interviews, emails, letters and other direct sources. All of them, to the best of my knowledge and research, are true. No confidential files given to me by the State of Washington as part of the adoption disclosure were the sole source for any part of this story. My sources for statistics and facts in the narrative about foster care and outcomes for foster children are attributed by endnotes with a complete listing in the Notes section at the end of this book.

CHAPTER ONE

Danny

My son Danny was born January 1998 in Tacoma, Washington; I didn’t meet him until he was ten. Two months before he was born, social workers found his 22-year old birthmother, Wendy, living in an abandoned shipping container. Because she was pregnant, they gave her housing, medical care and food.

Her developmental delays had prevented her from raising her twin daughters, Emily and Ashley, whom she had abandoned at her mother’s when they were four.

Wendy didn’t have many options. The twins’ father wanted nothing to do with his daughters, and Danny’s father was uncertain. Wendy never knew her own father; she was the product of rape.

After Danny was born, Wendy moved into housing for low-income mothers. Social workers contacted her regularly, but caring for a baby proved too much. When Danny was nine months old, she abandoned him too at her mother’s.

Danny shared the house with Grandma Carol, her 39-year-old alcoholic boyfriend Eddie, their two children, ten-year-old Henry and eight-year-old Annie, and Danny’s twin half-sisters who by then were five-years-old. Grandma Carol’s 17-year-old son Steven, a known child molester, often stayed in her home.

They all lived in a four-bedroom, one-bath home that was infested with cockroaches and littered with dirty laundry and unwashed dishes. Chunks of ceiling plaster were missing in the dining room, several windows were broken, and the bathroom sink had no running water. The backyard was filled with old vehicles, abandoned appliances, broken bottles and a rusted swing set.

Danny’s birthfather, Stan, learned that Danny was his son after taking a paternity test while serving a long prison sentence. When Danny was two, his parents were married. Wendy occasionally visited her mother’s house and brought Danny gifts, but she ignored her twin daughters.

When Danny was three, he was taken to the dentist. He had six cavities. Fourteen months later he had 11 more. A social worker noticed black spots on Danny’s gums and insisted that Grandma Carol take better care of his teeth.

When Danny was four, his parents divorced and Wendy gave up her legal rights as Danny’s mother to Stan. Stan wanted to see Danny regularly, but Grandma Carol didn’t like bringing him to visit Stan in prison.

A custody battle ensued between Grandma Carol and Stan’s mother, Grandma Doreen. When Danny was five, a judge ordered that he live with Grandma Doreen for three months. After she picked him up, Grandma Carol called the police and reported that Danny had been kidnapped. No charges were filed, as Grandma Doreen had permission to take him. Because of the hostility between them, neither grandmother allowed Danny to talk to the other.

A private social worker was hired to recommend which family Danny should live with. The social worker was appalled by Grandma Carol’s house. She was concerned about Grandma Carol and Eddie’s inability to hold jobs, Eddie’s alcoholism and accusations that Eddie had sexually abused Danny’s mother and his own daughter.

Grandma Doreen’s house was neat (though it smelled strongly of cat urine) and looked like a better home. Grandma Doreen told the social worker she had worked many years for the state department of disabilities as an aide for handicapped children and that she had never been involved with the child-welfare system. The social worker soon discovered that Grandma Doreen lied; she had 14 referrals for child abuse.

Grandma Doreen and her 24-year-old daughter beat and bruised Danny regularly. Following a particularly brutal incident, his teacher contacted the police when Danny didn’t show up at school. Danny was taken into protective custody, and Grandma Doreen was arrested. Quarter-size chunks of hair were missing from his scalp, his face was scratched, several teeth were missing and his chest, back, legs, arms and groin were severely bruised. The doctor who examined Danny told police there were so many bruises she couldn’t count them.

The social worker determined that neither home was safe. She sent a 21-page report to the state. Despite her warnings, the state returned Danny to Grandma Carol under the conditions that she fumigate the roaches, clean up the trash in her house and yard, get water running in the bathroom, take parenting classes and keep her registered sex offender son away from Danny.

Two years later, Danny and his sisters were placed in foster care because Grandma Carol kept allowing her sex offender son to be with them. Danny was separated from his sisters. Despite requirements that siblings in foster care have monthly visits, he had little communication with them for the next three years.

In one of his first foster homes, Danny kissed a six-year-old girl on the cheek. When asked why, he replied, “She’s like my sister, and I always kiss them goodnight.” The state labeled Danny “potentially sexually aggressive,” and he wasn’t allowed to be unsupervised with children.

Danny seemed hyperactive, so the state requested psychotropic medication to slow him down. The more pills he took, the wilder he became. He was quickly kicked out of his first two foster homes. Danny was angry at school and cried when he was frustrated. He developed a reputation as a difficult kid.

In Washington State, foster children are assigned one of four levels. The level is based on the child’s behavior. The easiest children are assigned a level one, the most difficult a level four. The level determines the monthly payment a foster parent receives. For example, in 2007 caring for a level-one child Danny’s age paid $475 a month, and caring for a level-four child paid $1,250 a month.

Danny was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), reactive attachment disorder (RAD), post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), oppositional defiant disorder (ODD) and possible fetal alcohol spectrum disorder (FASD). Within months of entering foster care, Danny was transformed into a heavily medicated, level-four foster child. He was difficult to control, impulsive and angry.

Because of Danny’s labels and behaviors, his social worker struggled to find a foster home. She put him in a home intended for stays of fewer than 30 days. He lived there almost two years. He was fed cups of noodles and frozen cheese pizzas and was usually confined to his bedroom.

Danny’s ADHD stimulant medication suppressed his appetite for 12 hours, so he was hungry every night when it wore off. His foster mom wouldn’t feed him outside of meal times, so he stole food and hid it in his room. The state’s psychiatrist decided to treat Danny’s food hoarding by adding Prozac to his other medications. No one realized they could solve the food hoarding concern by simply feeding Danny dinner after his appetite returned.

Whenever he left his room, an alarm alerted his foster mom. She was reprimanded by the state for locking Danny in his room like a cell. He was rarely allowed outside or taken on walks (his foster mom was obese and had mobility issues), and he had little contact with his sisters.

During Danny’s first Christmas with his foster mom, she kept him confined in his room while her grandchildren opened gifts and ate their dinner. She told him they didn’t want him spoiling their holiday.

He regularly peed in the corner of his bedroom because he didn’t want to be yelled at for going to the bathroom at night. Though he was eight years old, he was forced to wear diapers every night so he couldn’t wet the bed. His grades and behavior at school deteriorated.

In fourth grade, he was expelled from the school bus for choking and kicking a kindergartener. He was suspended nine times for violence, foul language, stealing food and disrupting class. The school recommended placing him in a special classroom with other emotionally and behaviorally disturbed children, but his teacher asked that Danny remain with her. She argued that placing him with other troubled kids would magnify his problems and that his behaviors were caused by trauma, abandonment and neglect.

She created a special area in her classroom known as Danny’s Corner. Danny sat alone, surrounded by three-foot-high walls, with a chance to learn but less opportunity to disrupt the class.

After almost two hellish years in his “temporary” home, Danny escaped by vandalizing his foster mother’s new Cadillac. His social worker struggled to find him a new place to live.

When the state took custody of Danny, he was a cute seven-year-old. His mother had abandoned him, his extended family couldn’t care for him, and his father was serving a long prison sentence. By the time the state made him available for adoption, almost three years had passed. Danny was a heavily medicated ten-year-old who had been kicked out of three foster homes, had a terrible school record, multiple diagnosed psychological disorders and a well-documented history of bed-wetting, fighting, compulsive stealing, food hoarding and lying.

While he was in the state’s care, Danny never experienced life in a loving home or bonded successfully with a parent figure. Danny was described to me as “a ‘thrownaway’ kid who needs a miracle.” The more I learned about his background, the more I realized that without a miracle, he was doomed.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Jake

For years I thought it would be impossible to become a dad because I was gay. Watching my friends and family have children was bittersweet. Though I was happy for them, it reminded me how much I wanted to be a father. I imagined myself holding my son or daughter, reading stories, singing, playing and laughing with my children the way my parents did with me.

During the 1990s, more and more gay men became parents. I started to believe that having a child might be possible. I told a friend who was a single parent that I wanted to become a dad.

“Why don’t you get a dog first?” she suggested. “Kids can be a lot of work, and if you can’t take care of a dog you certainly shouldn’t adopt a child. At least you can take a dog to a shelter if it doesn’t work out. Once you get a kid, you’re stuck.”

My business was thriving and I didn’t have time to take care of a child or a dog, but I knew she was right. A few months later, I bought a Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier. Because his fur as a puppy was brown, I named him Rusty.

Two months after I brought Rusty home, I was offered a job with an Internet startup in California. It was 1999, technology was booming, and the stock options were going to be worth millions. All I had to do was abandon my dog, work 14 hours a day and turn my local business over to my partner. I decided that if the new company let me bring Rusty to work I’d do it, but they said pets weren’t allowed. When I realized I had to abandon my dog to become financially successful I decided the price was too high. For the first time, I decided to pursue quality of life over earning money. I don’t abandon children, friends, family or dogs.

My mom and dad met at Brigham Young University and married in 1958 in the Salt Lake City Mormon Temple. Three years later, they both started teaching on an Air Force base in Germany, where I was born in 1963. My parents wanted children, but my mom couldn’t get pregnant. I was the result of fertility doctor visits and prayers.

In 1964 we moved to Palo Alto, California, where my younger brother was born and my dad finished his doctorate at Stanford. Two years later, we moved to Ashland, Oregon and my other brother was born. In 1970 my dad accepted a teaching position at a university in Washington State, where my sister was born.

When I was one, my mom quit teaching to be a full-time mother. When I was four, we were both bored, so she taught me to read.

One of her techniques was writing a word like “LOOK” in frosting on a cookie. If I read the word, I got the cookie. Soon my ability to read was greater than the space she had to write in (it’s hard to write “UNDERSTANDING” or “CALIFORNIA” in frosting), so we read books. We read, played, listened to records, laughed, cooked and cleaned house. I loved being with my mother and was delighted when my dad, an immigrant from Holland, came home and read us stories of Brownie Bear, the Dutch version of the British Rupert Bear.

In kindergarten I was placed in second-grade reading. In first grade, I was working beyond the class and after a few months the school moved me to second grade.

I hated the move. I was small for my age, and the older kids resented me. I learned that second-graders don’t like first-graders showing them up.

After moving to second grade, I wasn’t allowed to eat lunch with my first-grade friends. My new classmates often made me look bad at baseball, kickball, running and P.E. That wasn’t hard; my coordination was below average, and I was more than a year younger than my classmates. I learned to hate sports, recess and going outside. My safety was found in classrooms, libraries and books.

In third grade, my teacher sent two bullies and me to an unsupervised textbook storage room for 15 minutes a day. My job was to “tutor” them. I was only seven. The eight- and nine-year-old bullies threatened to beat me up if I didn’t do their assignments. When they learned I usually had money, they demanded I pay them to “protect” me. I hated myself for being weak, but I was little and didn’t know what else to do.

In fourth and fifth grades, I avoided bullies. I often dodged sports or P.E. by pretending to be sick or injured. I didn’t want to do anything I couldn’t look good at.

In sixth grade, I fell in love with my locker partner. Though I didn’t realize it then, I was gay. I adored him. We talked every day, ate lunch together, spent weekends sleeping over at each other’s houses, listened to Casey Kasem’s American Top 40, read science fiction and shared our dreams of the things we’d do when we were older. We were inseparable. I had never felt happier. This lasted three months.

In January he told me he was moving. I’d never felt such depression; I cried every night. I couldn’t imagine living without him. My mom felt sorry for me and took me to Woolworth’s to buy him a going-away gift. I gave it to him on his last day. He acted strangely, but I assumed he was traumatized by the move.

The next day I started to tear up when I saw his empty desk. I noticed a couple of boys laughing at me. At break I noticed a few other kids pointing at me and laughing. I assumed it was because they could tell I was sad. Still, I sensed something was wrong.

My class went to the choir room, and a half hour later my friend came in. I was elated. He was supposed to be gone. All my sadness vanished as quickly as bright light fills a dark room. I left my seat to talk to him. “What happened?” I whispered. “Why are you here? I’m so glad you’re back!”

“I was never moving. I just had a dentist appointment.” His voice echoed through the quiet classroom as his eyes informed me our friendship was over.

The music teacher told me to return to my seat and sing.

As the enormity of my friend’s betrayal hit me, I saw our mutual friends laughing and clapping him on the back. They knew he wasn’t moving—he just wanted to hurt me.

At that moment, at ten years old, I decided to use my head to make sure I was never hurt again and to seek revenge on anyone who ever hurt or betrayed me. That day I began sitting by myself at lunch. I avoided contact with kids at school and allowed only a little interaction with kids at church. I quit begging my parents to buy me fashionable jeans and shirts to wear to school—I didn’t care what I wore—I knew I didn’t fit in. At church I hung out with social misfits. I didn’t want to grow close to anyone again.

In seventh grade, my parents and I were called into the school counselor’s office.

“We’re concerned about your son’s grades. He is getting C’s and D’s, and he doesn’t turn in assignments. His test scores, however, are among the highest in the school. We think he needs a psychiatrist.”

The psychiatrist I saw for six months was physically and emotionally intimidating. He asked questions about my feelings, sexual urges and my mother. When I didn’t answer, he continuously stared at me. Sometimes five minutes passed without either of us speaking. I felt uncomfortable seeing him and added his name to my list of people to seek revenge on.

There were some older kids in my neighborhood who stole bicycles, burglarized houses and smoked marijuana. They made me feel welcome, and I hid from my parents what went on in their house. After a year of watching them get high, I tried marijuana. At 14, I discovered that getting high took my pain away. My anxiety, fear and shame all disappeared in the cloyingly sweet smoke. By 15, I was getting high every chance I could.

At 16, I refused to live at home and ended up in a group home for troubled boys. I stayed there almost six months before returning home in time to graduate from high school. That summer I joined the Army National Guard. After nine weeks of infantry boot camp at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, I started college. Other students introduced me to LSD, cocaine and shots of tequila. The next few years were a long spiral into the depths of addiction.

I don’t know why I felt such intense pain. My parents did their best to love and support me. My siblings tried to befriend me, but my feelings were overwhelming. Drugs kept them at bay, but eventually the pain returned. I felt bad taking drugs, worse without them.

When I was 19 I was suspended from college for not going to class. I gathered hallucinogenic mushrooms and LSD and went alone to the woods and had a vision. I imagined myself being part of a totalitarian movement in the United States. Under the guise of security, protection and “the greater good of the country,” I imagined fascism in America, with ethnic minorities and unpopular religions as scapegoats.

I felt there was potential for such a movement to go further than Hitler, as the propaganda in the United States in the 1980s was more sophisticated than 1930s Germany. I believed a fascist movement in the United States would ultimately fail, but destruction and chaos were my goal.

A few weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night and heard a voice inside say: You’ve gone far enough. You can kill yourself if you want, but this isn’t your destiny. You need to stop now.

I knew the voice was true. I decided to commit suicide rather than pursue my evil vision. Life as I knew it collapsed. I started stealing because drug dealers had quit giving me credit. I repeatedly forged my parents’ checks and stole from them to buy drugs. When they finally turned me in (after forgiving me the first few times), I was convicted of forgery. I was sentenced to serve 30 days in work release. One day while serving my work-release sentence, I left my job early to get high with some friends. I became so intoxicated that I couldn’t return to jail and was convicted of felony escape. My friends abandoned me, my family didn’t trust me, and I almost died from an accidental overdose.

A judge offered me a choice between a year in substance-abuse treatment or a five-year prison sentence. When I learned I couldn’t have cigarettes in treatment, I asked for prison so I could smoke. Eight months later I was paroled and spent the next four years bouncing in and out of drug-treatment centers, jails and 12-Step meetings. I couldn’t stop thinking about using alcohol and other drugs.

Because of my addictions I couldn’t hold a job. To support myself, I forged checks and stole money anywhere I could. To avoid returning to prison, I carefully planned my crimes and moved to different states frequently. I spent several years living under fake names and having little contact with my family. Though I didn’t return to jail, the life I created was as confining as any prison.

I often thought of my grandma. I knew she unconditionally loved me. To avoid disappointing her, I lied and told her my life was going well. I didn’t want to hurt her or the rest of my family by committing suicide so I killed myself slowly with my addictions.

I started attending 12-Step meetings sporadically. It was the only place I felt hope. I began working on my recovery with a sponsor and made friends with others struggling with the same addictions. It took me nine years from the time I attended my first meeting to finally quit using alcohol and all other drugs. I kept trying, even though I believed I would fail. I had never succeeded at growing up, and I had never learned to handle emotional pain.

The people in the meetings told me to “keep coming back,” so I did. The only time I believed I might change was when I listened to other addicts and alcoholics share their stories of addiction, loss and redemption. Even though their background, age, gender, religion, sexual orientation, race and education were often different from mine, their experience of how addictions destroyed their lives was familiar. I believe listening to them saved my life.

My continuous abstinence from drugs and alcohol began in 1990. In the decades since then, I have healed my relationships with my family, stayed active in 12-Step programs, achieved financial success, embraced being gay, cleared all my criminal records and participated on committees and government boards to help homeless, mentally ill and addicted people. I became a productive, responsible, respected member of my community. Yet, when I see conscienceless, evil people seeking to control and destroy others, I understand them. I was once one of them.

By the time I was 40, I believed that I could become a father. Though I didn’t know how it would work out or what it would look like, I told friends and family I intended to have a child. I read books about adoption and parenting and let my heart lead my head whenever a situation arose that could result in becoming a father.

Five years after the first of many attempts to become a dad, I met Danny.

 

CHAPTER THREE

The Birth Dad

In 2003 my partner Terry and I decided to adopt a child. My instinct to parent was strong and I knew if I didn’t find a way to become a dad I would regret it.

Our first step was to attend a weekend seminar on open adoption in Portland. When it was over, we knew we could spend $25,000 and wait many months, but we were excited.

A few months later a co-worker of Terry’s told him she was pregnant and she’d like us to adopt her baby. We got her a therapist and a lawyer, paid her rent and made sure she had good medical care. A month later she quit her job, disappeared and used the rent money to pay for an abortion. Terry was devastated.

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Remember what they said at the seminar. The only people who don’t get kids are the ones who give up, and we aren’t giving up. We just have to keep trying.” Over the next few years several women offered to have babies for us, but Terry refused.

“I don’t want to bring another kid into the world,” he said. “I want to help a child already here.” Although I was open to a biological child, Terry’s desire ruled out having a baby with a friend or a surrogate mother. We prepared to register with an open-adoption agency and told everyone we were trying to adopt.

A friend, Franney Mack, who practices family law in Seattle, had a pregnant client whose four kids had been taken away because she was found an unfit mother. The mother wanted to give her child up for adoption at birth because if she didn’t the state would take her baby away. We said we wanted to adopt the baby, finished our adoption home study and prepared to receive the child. After the baby was born, the mother decided to keep it and the state immediately placed the newborn in foster care. Terry was distraught and angry.

“Don’t be upset, Terry,” I encouraged him. “We can’t be mad at a mother who chooses to keep her baby.”

“I know, I know, but I am sick of this! We don’t know if we’re going to be parents in a month or if we will be waiting a year from now. I hate not knowing—it feels as if our lives are on hold.”

“Why don’t we try an international adoption? We know we’ll eventually get a kid, and if something else works out we can do that instead.”

Terry agreed, and I started researching. The only country I could find that allowed a single male to adopt was Vietnam, and none allowed foreign gay couples to become adoptive parents. I got an international adoption home study prepared and paid $5,000 to our new adoption agency. They said to expect to wait two years for a baby.

A year later I took an extended cruise in Asia with my mother and father. We spent three days in Vietnam and, while other passengers were touring museums and markets, we visited an orphanage. I had brought $1,000 worth of baby formula and food supplies for the orphanage and had a pleasant interview with the director. He seemed impressed that I brought my mom and dad and wanted to match me with a child immediately. But my file wasn’t approved by the Vietnamese consulate yet, so he couldn’t help. I emailed pictures from the orphanage to Terry, and we both got excited looking at the children.

In September, Franney called about another kid. She represented the boy’s birthfather, who had spent the past eight years in prison.

“How old is the child?” I asked.

“He’s nine. He’s been in foster care more than two years, and his dad won’t agree to termination of his parental rights until his son has a good home.”

“What do you know about the kid?”

She was quiet a moment. “He has an extensive history of abuse and neglect. He’s legally a special-needs kid, but all kids are when they’re his age. He’s been diagnosed with ADHD and takes medication, but that doesn’t mean anything—the state likes to drug them so they’re easier to handle. When I met him a few years ago, he was like many kids in the system—he’s overmedicated, anxious and needs a parent to take care of him.”

“I’ll talk to Terry, but we’re looking for an infant—we don’t want an older kid with a bunch of issues.”

“Will you consider meeting the dad? He’d love to talk to you. It would mean a lot to him.”

“Does he know we’re a gay couple?”

“Yes, and he’s fine with that. He just wants a good home for his son.”

Terry and I reluctantly agreed to drive to Seattle and meet the father. When we arrived at Franney’s office, he was already sitting at her conference table. His fingers were dirty, and his nails were chipped. I could tell he had tried to scrub them; his hands said he did hard work. He stood up to greet us.

“Hi, I’m Stan.”

“Hi, Stan,” I replied. “My name is Jake, and this is Terry.” We shook hands and sat down.

“I don’t know how much you know about Danny,” he began.

“Not much. Until now I didn’t know his name.”

“Well, he was with his mom for about a year. Then she left him with her mom—his grandma. She already left her other two twin girls with her mom when they was little. She don’t really like kids after they start moving around and crawling. She likes little bitty infants. She’s sorta slow in the head. I didn’t even know I had a son till she came to the prison and said I should take a paternity test. I wanted to do right by him, but I was locked up and all. I took parenting classes and made recordings of me reading books to him, but I couldn’t do much. Here’s a picture of him.”

He handed us a photo of a brown-haired six-year-old boy. I didn’t feel any connection to the photo—it was just somebody else’s kid.

“His mom and I got married while I was in the joint, and I started seeing Danny more regular. After we divorced, she gave up her rights to Danny to me and I sent him to live with my mom so he could get to know his other family…but that got really messed up. People were saying all sorts of shit—I mean stuff—about my mom and sister, how they beat him up and hurt him. When my mom got arrested over it, he ended up back with his other grandma until the state took him away. Her place was just a pigsty with cockroaches and bugs everywhere. She wasn’t good at taking care of him at all!”

“How long ago was that?”

“Maybe two years ago. I don’t want him in foster care. I’d like to raise him, but I just got out of prison, I don’t have a permanent place to live and I work long hours in a wrecking yard. I can’t take care of a little boy with Danny’s needs.”

“What are his needs?” Terry jumped in. Stan suddenly looked evasive.

“They say he’s real active and don’t sit still in school. He has a hard time focusing, but he’s a good kid.”

“Anything else?” I asked. His attorney gave him a pointed look.

“I heard he was suspended from school for beating up a kid on the bus, and he don’t like foster care… I just want to do right by him. The court wants me to give him up, but I won’t sign the papers unless there’s a good home for him. I don’t want him growing up in foster care.”

“That’s why you’re meeting with us?” I asked.

“Yep. That’s why. She said you’re good people,” he nodded toward his attorney. “And that you want to adopt a kid, so I asked to meet you and tell you about Danny.”

“Thanks, Stan. We appreciate your considering us. We do want to adopt a child, and I respect that you’re doing what you can to help Danny.”

We talked a few more minutes, answered a few questions about our jobs, home and pets, and agreed to get back to him within a few weeks. Neither of us said much as we began the long drive home.

Finally, I couldn’t stand the silence. “What do you think?”

“He seemed cute in the picture,” Terry said cautiously.

“Most six-year-olds look cute in pictures. How old is he anyway?”

“I think Franney said he was nine.” We were quiet. A troubled nine-year-old was very different from an infant. “I don’t know, Jake. I just don’t feel like this is a good idea for us. He already has a family, and it seems like he has quite a few problems. What do you think?”

“I think you’re probably right.” We turned up the music and made our way home. A few days later I called Franney and told her that though we appreciated meeting Stan, we didn’t want to meet Danny. We were going to be matched with an infant in Vietnam soon, and we didn’t want to adopt Danny—he was just too old.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Hallelujah’

Four months later, Terry and I broke up. We had been together eight years, and our separation was painful. He said the biggest reason he was leaving was his fear that I would leave him stuck at home with a baby when we adopted a child together. Most of my life I’ve been free of depression, so experiencing the end of a long relationship was heartbreaking and new.

I talked to my 12-Step sponsor and shared my conflict about adopting an infant as a single dad. “I don’t think I can do it. You know how much time my business takes, and I’m constantly involved in recovery and community events. Besides, I don’t even like infants that much; I find older kids more interesting. And I’m 45. If I take an infant, I’ll be collecting Social Security when my kid turns 20!”

“Don’t do it then,” he suggested.

“But I’ve been trying to have a kid for five years! Any day I’ll get a call saying ‘We have a baby for you.’ What do I say? ‘I don’t know?’ They’ll think I’m a flake!”

“Why don’t you tell them you’ve had a personal situation arise and you can’t accept a child for the next six months. By then you’ll have had enough time to make a decision when you’re not in so much pain.”

His advice made sense. A week later I got the call. “Is this Jake?” The voice on the other end was enthusiastic. It was a gray, rainy day, and I was driving through downtown Seattle.

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Susan from Grace International. I’ve got great news for you. We have a little girl that we’d like you to consider adopting!” For most prospective parents who have run the gauntlet of the adoption process, the call that there is a child is cause for celebration. I wanted to cry.

“That’s great,” I finally answered. “How old is she?”

“She’s two and a half and in good health.” I knew I needed to hang up the phone or I’d start crying.

“When do we need to get back to you? I am out of town and have to talk to my partner.” The words escaped before I remembered that I should have said I was single now.

“Could you call by Monday? We need to move quickly. If you aren’t interested, we have other couples who are. You’re fine with a boy or a girl, right?”

“Yes, we are. I’ll get back to you Monday. Thanks for the call.” I tried to sound like a happy adoptive parent, but I felt like ramming my car into the concrete median.

Terry always wanted a girl, but my preference was a boy. I like girls but know nothing about raising them. I worried about helping a daughter with her friendships with other girls, her boyfriends and her first menstrual cycle. I thought my experience growing up would be more useful with a boy.

But now, by saying yes, I’d be a father. What if you never get another chance? My inner voice was scared and convincing. But it felt wrong. My head kept wrestling with my desire to say adopt her, but my heart felt it was a mistake for both of us.

I left a message for Terry that we had been matched with a little girl. I hoped he would call, tell me he was sorry, move back home and then we could go to Vietnam and bring back our daughter together. He never called. On Monday, I followed my sponsor’s advice and phoned the agency.

“Hi, Susan. It’s Jake. I’ve spent all weekend agonizing over this, but I’m sorry. I need to pass.”

“Is everything OK?”

“Yes, overall it is. The timing just isn’t right. For about the next six months, I can’t accept any matches. I want to leave my file active though. Can you do that?”

“Oh, sure. We can keep it open. I’ll make a note. Just keep in touch with me and let me know if anything changes.” When I hung up I felt sad, but I sensed this little girl needed to grow up in another family. It wasn’t my destiny to be her dad, and I felt liberated saying no.

A few days later I received a voicemail from Franney. “Danny’s CASA¹ (court appointed special advocate) wants to talk to you. I told him you weren’t interested in meeting Danny, but he still wants to call. May I give him your number?”

I ignored her message for a few days. I wanted to say no, but couldn’t. When I was with Terry, he had strong feelings that we should refuse to consider having a biological kid, to use a surrogate mother or to raise the child of anyone we knew. Although I went along with Terry’s decision for the sake of our relationship, I didn’t feel the same. All along my journey to becoming a dad, I felt that however it unfolded would be right. Whether that meant adopting an infant, having a biological baby, raising a friend’s child or adopting an older kid, my goal was to become a father, and I believed if I stayed open to all possibilities, my child would appear.

A week later I went to a k.d. lang concert in Seattle. When she started performing Hallelujah, an intense feeling moved through me.

“I’ve heard there was a secret chord… ” As she started to sing, I was filled with a connection to love greater than I’d ever experienced. The lyrics moved me as tears fell down my face. I no longer felt I was at a concert; I was in the presence of sacred beauty.

You have to take him, said a calm, wise inner voice.

Take who?

Danny. He’s your destiny. He’s your son. I wanted to object and say no. But although I knew I could ignore it, I couldn’t deny that the voice was true. As the music continued, a surge of déjà vu struck me so powerfully I was nauseated. I felt that in some other life or at some other time I had said no to being a dad.

I won’t make that mistake again! In the intensity of my fierce intention, something clicked. My tears transformed to smiles of resignation as I was swept in a current of relentless love. I’ll take him. There was no answer.

“Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.” As the final notes of the song ended, I knew that life as I knew it was over. But I felt proud. I passed this test.

The next day, I let Franney know she could give Danny’s CASA my number. Despite my willingness, I hoped he wouldn’t call. The memory of the song was fading fast.

Copyright © 2012 by Jake Dekker