So it looks like Foster Baby will go to her birth father. After some initial dithering, he's gotten his act together and, it appears, done everything which social services has asked of him. Recently, Mrs. Curmudgeon and I had a meeting with him, his fiancee, the baby's caseworker, and her guardian ad litem (court-appointed attorney), and a week later the juvenile court judge signed off on the reunification plan. We are now in a 6-week (or thereabouts) transition. Around the middle of June, then, she'll be out of our home and in his. Permanently.
So we've begun mourning, even though Foster Baby is still very much present in our lives. Actually, crying in the middle of the night again, after a couple months of allowing us more or less reasonable amounts of sleep. Of course, this is part and parcel of what we signed on for; we were warned; we knew this was a possibility from the beginning; blah, blah, blah. No less painful for all that. I have been up with this child nearly every night since she was born. As far as I'm concerned, she's mine.
Accordingly, the sense of loss is palpable. It's hard to describe what it is I feel I've lost, exactly. On the one hand, she's still here. On the other, she's a baby and changing rapidly. I don't know what she'll be like as she grows older, and so in that sense I don't know what it is I'll be missing. We haven't lost anything we've already experienced with her; what we are losing is the relationship we might have had.
That may explain why this feels familiar. While the comparison may be trivial, this feels very much like the end of a relationship that I had hoped was headed toward marriage. You fall for someone, you allow yourself to begin arranging your mental and emotional furniture around that person, and then she's gone. We had begun to expect our family to look a certain way, and now we're trying to adjust to it looking entirely different. It's a sort of emotional vertigo in which you know your world has been radically altered, but everything around you looks the same. Perception and reality just don't match up.
In the end, you can't describe mourning. If you haven't felt it yet, you will. For me at least, I have no question about God's goodness or his plan. I don't know what will come of all this, and I don't need to know.
What I need, and what I will probably need for the rest of my life this side of glory, is my daughter.
So we've begun mourning, even though Foster Baby is still very much present in our lives. Actually, crying in the middle of the night again, after a couple months of allowing us more or less reasonable amounts of sleep. Of course, this is part and parcel of what we signed on for; we were warned; we knew this was a possibility from the beginning; blah, blah, blah. No less painful for all that. I have been up with this child nearly every night since she was born. As far as I'm concerned, she's mine.
Accordingly, the sense of loss is palpable. It's hard to describe what it is I feel I've lost, exactly. On the one hand, she's still here. On the other, she's a baby and changing rapidly. I don't know what she'll be like as she grows older, and so in that sense I don't know what it is I'll be missing. We haven't lost anything we've already experienced with her; what we are losing is the relationship we might have had.
That may explain why this feels familiar. While the comparison may be trivial, this feels very much like the end of a relationship that I had hoped was headed toward marriage. You fall for someone, you allow yourself to begin arranging your mental and emotional furniture around that person, and then she's gone. We had begun to expect our family to look a certain way, and now we're trying to adjust to it looking entirely different. It's a sort of emotional vertigo in which you know your world has been radically altered, but everything around you looks the same. Perception and reality just don't match up.
In the end, you can't describe mourning. If you haven't felt it yet, you will. For me at least, I have no question about God's goodness or his plan. I don't know what will come of all this, and I don't need to know.
What I need, and what I will probably need for the rest of my life this side of glory, is my daughter.
3 comments:
As a barbarian who assaults the English language all day long I will keep my comment short. I want you to know we pray often, for your family during this difficult time.
Susan for the Tyler family
Very moving, son-in-law. I wondered, back when you were regarding yourself as an employee of the county and thus maintaining emotional distance, how long that could last. We once knew people who for nine months rejoiced over their new child. When he was born with severe spina bifida the family grieved over their loss: the one they had anticipated was not the one they received. In both cases, grief over loss: "my child" to "not my child." Of course, they still had a child and grew to love him just as he was. I hope and pray you will still "have" your daughter, even if under unwanted conditions.
I haven't had the opportunity to become much attached, except through you and Mrs. C. Still, I experience some grief too. You remain in my heart-felt prayers.
Really tough. And it's not going to get any easier fr anyone involve over the next few weeks. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
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