Children of Dreams, An Adoption Memoir Read online

  I sat there for hours with Manisha, bored, watching other adoptive couples pass through while he refused to process us. A Japanese couple came in with a little boy in a knapsack on the back of his mother.

  He said, “Their baby is going to grow up Japanese. Your baby is going to grow up American.”

  I sometimes think about the little boy with his new Japanese mother and father. We were like ships in the night passing each other—two children from a poor country adopted into different cultures presented before a man who thought more of himself than he ought. I have wondered, though saved from a life of poverty and hopelessness, if he would ever come to know the real Hope Giver.

  The legal secretary said to me, “Your paperwork won’t be ready until tomorrow.” It was difficult for me not to be angry. I gathered Manisha and my things and left.

  Later that afternoon I took Manisha back to the Everest Hotel to go swimming, but she was fearful of the water. Only the tops of her feet made it in the cold, spring-like pool. She wouldn’t let me swim either. I had to settle for enjoying the pool from a distance.

  We spent a couple of quiet, peaceful hours relaxing. Manisha thought my purse was full of interesting things and loved dumping out the contents. She drew doodles in a little book of quotes for new mothers I had stashed away. Her little scribbles I later called my first “love notes.”

  My daughter now had a mother as a role model and she wasted no time in learning all about “girlie” things. When she discovered my makeup, she insisted on trying it out. She smacked the lip gloss on her lips, but found it more fun to smear it on her cheeks. The eyeliner gave her a “black eye,” but she fluttered her eyes anyway as if she were beautiful. She also tried out my sunglasses, taking them off of me, putting them on herself, and then putting them back on me.

  The noisy environment of Kathmandu faded into the distance as I enjoyed the peacefulness of the Everest Hotel. The Bleu was located in the heart of downtown Kathmandu. It was a maze of people, bikes, motorcycles, cows, and taxies. I had seen more dung than anyone would care to see in a lifetime. One little dog sitting in the street covered with fleas and mange reminded me of my dog Gypsy. He was pathetic and sad. I wished I could have helped him.

  On one occasion I got lost in the wrong place, ending up at the local meat market. Before I could turn away to avoid the gore, I saw bodies of dogs sliced in half dangling from ropes waiting to be sold for food. Goat heads stared back at me. The stench was nauseatingly gruesome with bright red blood covering the street. I tripped over people trying to avoid stepping in it. I supposed the trash trucks came by sometimes but not often enough.

  At the Everest Hotel, I tried to put things I didn’t want to remember in the back of my mind. Manisha and I could be alone without reminders of her father, particularly the door to his motel room that continued to cause anxiety.

  I wanted to escape from the culture around me but I couldn’t. In America I could change the television dial if something made me uncomfortable. I could ignore the starving children, the murders, and the rapes.

  “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asked God.

  I can hear the indifference to God about his brother in Cain’s reply. I didn’t want to be like Cain, but Nepal forced me to confront what was in my heart and I didn’t like what I saw.

  Friday night, as I put Manisha to bed, we looked through a magazine that I had brought from the States. It had lots of pictures of dogs and cats, and I pointed to a cat and went “meow,” as I had done all week. She was intrigued with the kittens and said her first American word that wasn’t just imitating my English sounds, but where she knew what it meant—an almost perfect “meow.”

  I scooted beside her in bed as she looked at me with her big brown eyes. I had no idea what she was thinking, but I could tell she was thinking pretty deep thoughts. Spontaneously she let out a big smile that melted my heart and I gave her a huge bear hug.

  Love has a way of conquering all. My worries for today, my fears for tomorrow, any mistakes I’d made in the past, and my sinfulness that would scar the image of God within me if it were possible—swallowed up in victory. God’s redemptive love turned my tears into joy. I couldn’t wait until we were “home.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  …when I am weak, then I am strong

  II Corinthians 12:10

  Saturday arrived making it one week I had been in Nepal. Today would be the first time we went to church together.

  A taxi dropped us off nearby, but I had forgotten where the building was. After much walking around in circles, somebody noticed us.

  “Are you looking for something?” A man asked.

  “I am looking for the Christian Church,” I told him.

  He showed me where it was and I thanked him. Could he have been an angel in disguise? I was surprised he spoke English.

  After leaving our shoes at the door, Manisha and I walked in and sat down on the floor among the women.

  “Namaste,” I greeted them with, the traditional hello in Nepali. Several ladies smiled at me and spoke to Manisha in her language. I had looked forward to the sermon but today it was delivered in Nepali so I didn’t understand the message. I bided the time keeping Manisha quiet, which wasn’t hard to do. Uncharacteristically, I felt tired.

  We had been invited for lunch after the service by the Reeses, so we hitched a ride on the back of the bikes of their children. As we were riding over to their home, Manisha told Doug Reese about her new shoes. Everyone she met got an earful about them as she was not shy.

  After stepping through their front door I felt like I had been transported back to America. A taste of familiarity to a homesick traveler is like sweet apple pie and vanilla ice cream to a starving soul. Their home seemed like a palace compared to what I had seen of Nepal. Debby Reese kept busy as a doctor and Doug was active working with the students at the University of Kathmandu. They were affiliated with one of the organizations on campus and had been in Nepal for several years.

  A wonderfully delicious lunch was prepared that hit my sweet spot. Earlier in the week I had been craving a nice cold glass of milk. Ice trucks would make a daily appearance in front of the Bleu, loaded with milk and other things I didn’t recognize. One day I purchased a small carton, and after swallowing several gulps, I realized the milk had already soured. I gagged and held my nose to keep from throwing up. Even orange juice did not taste like orange juice. The bananas appeared oddly too small—only eggs seemed to look like eggs. I supposed chickens were the same everywhere.

  The Reeses had done what they had promised—treated me to a real American meal. We had ice tea, salad, chicken, beans and dessert that resembled ordinary food back home.

  For the first time in a week I was able to enjoy speaking English, at least using a few more words than dirty, cookie, and meow.

  When I asked to use their facilities, they hollered to me as I walked down the hall, “There is toilet paper.”

  I laughed. Ankit must have told them some things when I left the table.

  I enjoyed the lunch except I felt very tired. We left about 4:00 in the afternoon and headed back. A short time later I began to feel worse. After putting Manisha down early, I went to bed about 10:00 feeling like I had just come off the scream machine at Six Flags Over Georgia.

  I started thinking back to what I had eaten. Maybe it was the salad at the Everest Hotel. Could it have been the rice I ate on the way to Janakpur? How about rat feces?

  Manisha had chronic diarrhea so I thought I may have caught something from her. Every day I awakened to the ritual of people making unspeakable noises in the early morning hours. I tried not to be so loud.

  After several hours of misery, I called down to the lobby and asked if I could have a doctor come see me. The night attendant had someone sent up to my room. Manisha was still asleep.

  “You…stay in bed…take…pills … I write prescriptions,” he said.

  He handed me several pieces of paper containing illegible writing. Spe
aking in broken English, I didn’t understand half of what he said, and I did not know where to obtain the pills. I called down to the lobby again.

  “I send runner out in morning when it’s light to get pills,” the man said.

  A while later an errand boy knocked on my door. I gave him a tip but apparently it wasn’t enough. He didn’t seem happy but I was too sick to try to find more in my disorderly purse.

  Manisha was awake and I wondered how I would take care of her. She called for her father since I did not respond as usual. For the next couple of hours I got lots of exercise running back and forth between the bed and the toilet.

  I needed a better plan. I phoned the Reeses to see if they could take care of Manisha while I went to the legal office to check on my paperwork. I didn’t have enough strength to take her with me, and I needed to get the paperwork completed because it was delaying everything else.

  I had no plans to spend the day staring at the ceiling or reading on the throne. I threw the pills away so Manisha wouldn’t find them. The Reeses were happy to take Manisha. We made a plan that seemed simple enough, but then nothing in Nepal was simple. I would take a taxi to a school, call them from the school, and they would pick her up. The taxi would take me to the legal office.

  The front desk called a cab. Since the driver spoke no English, the clerk told him where I wanted to go, but he didn’t explain everything to him.

  He needed to wait for me in front of the school while I made the phone call. After Manisha was picked up, he would take me to the legal office. To make sure I wasn’t stranded, I didn’t pay him. I could hear him yelling loudly at me as I exited the taxi and briskly walked up to the school with Manisha in tow.

  I asked if I could use their phone but the woman said, “No, you can’t use the phone.”

  Why not? Nobody was talking on it. I felt too sick to argue with the woman.

  I walked out of the door in tears, crying to God, “Please help me.”

  I could hear her locking the door behind me.

  About that time, another lady walked up and asked in English, “What is wrong?”

  “I need to use the phone but the woman inside won’t let me.”

  “Come in and I’ll let you use it,” she said kindly. She unlocked the door and let me in. She took us over to the phone and handed it to me. I called the Reeses.

  The conversation took only a minute as they were waiting for my call. When I turned to thank the mysterious figure that had let me in, she was gone. I looked around the school lobby and out front but she was nowhere to be found. It was the second time I wondered if I had met an angel in disguise.

  The Reeses showed up a few minutes later and the taxi driver, still waiting for his money, followed them to their apartment. They took Manisha and she started to cry. I felt badly leaving her.

  I had the taxi driver—for once I was glad I didn’t speak Nepali—take me to the legal office. Upon arriving, I gave the poor, confused guy a nice sum of money for his trouble. I am sure he thought good riddance.

  I walked into the legal office and plopped down in front of the official, making no effort about my appearance.

  “What’s wrong with you?” He asked.

  “I am sick.”

  He could have cared less.

  I thought, maybe I will puke on you and then you will give me my papers.

  I didn’t have a Christ-like attitude, but I was sick and didn’t want to have an accident and bring humiliation on myself.

  After a couple of hours, he got tired of looking at me. He left and came back later.

  “You can go into this other room and wait.”

  He directed me to a dark room and I sat for another hour and waited. He probably put me there because he didn’t want to look at me. After another hour, he told me to go see another man and he would have all of my papers. I went into another room and faced another man. He glanced through my documents.

  “Everything is in order.” He said.

  After stamping them, he handed them to me. After all the waiting, it took five minutes. I thanked him and left.

  I managed to get out of the building and took a few steps away from the pedestrian walkway before collapsing on the ground. I tried to be discreet about my situation as people walked by.

  At least the Nepali side of the adoption was done. I wouldn’t have to deal with the legal office anymore. I just had to give the U.S. Embassy proof that everything was legal so they would issue Manisha a U.S. passport.

  I got a taxi back to the Bleu and called the Reeses so they could return Manisha. Shortly they arrived, and although I was feeling awful, I refused to let them keep her for the night.

  “I can’t do that to her,” I told them, “no matter how badly I feel.” I tucked Manisha into bed early again and collapsed on the bed. The phone rang about 9:00 p.m. and the light displayed it was the front desk.

  “Manisha’s father is here in the lobby and he wants to see Manisha.”

  I wondered what he was doing in Kathmandu. I thought he had returned to his village.

  I politely told the attendant, feeling guilty, “Tell him he can come tomorrow. I am sick and can’t come down tonight.”

  I overheard him speaking in Nepali to Manisha’s father.

  He came back on the phone, “He says it’s okay.”

  I was relieved and hung up. Manisha had seemed exceptionally quiet since returning from the Reeses. I saw confusion in her eyes.

  The next morning when I woke up, I realized I could hardly move. I willed myself to get us dressed and walked downstairs to meet Ankit and Alisha in the lobby. They had come over to finish the paperwork.

  “Are you okay?” Ankit asked me.

  Handing me a piece of paper to fill out, I started filling in the blanks and realized I couldn’t read the questions.

  Ankit grabbed them from me. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  Alisha took Manisha, and fortunately, she didn’t protest this time.

  We walked a couple of streets over to the Himalayan Clinic run for Westerners who frequently get sick. The clinic had just opened for business. We walked in and I slumped down in a chair. Ankit spoke to the receptionist in Nepali.

  After a few minutes they took me to the back. Ankit asked me if I wanted him to come or wait in the lobby. I wanted him to translate.

  Fortunately the doctor and nurse spoke English fairly well. The doctor poked on my belly and said, “You need fluids. You are very dehydrated. People die here all the time from dehydration. You are very sick.”

  The nurse took me into another room and hooked me up to an I.V. I was relieved to see that it looked like an American clinic. It appeared sanitary and reassured me I wouldn’t die in a dirty Nepali hospital. Ankit had told me stories about the medical care and it sent shivers down my spine.

  As the hours passed and the intravenous fluids coursed through my veins, I began to feel better. I relaxed on the cot from 9:00 in the morning until 4:00 in the afternoon with six bottles of I.V. fluid being pumped into me.

  Ankit later returned to check on me. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Much better.”

  “You need to come with me to one place,” he said. “You have to sign something I can’t sign for you.” He had spent the day trying to finish paperwork so I could return home. The doctor disconnected me from the I.V. and I felt strong enough to accompany Ankit.

  We took a taxi to a government office where I signed one document and then he brought me back to the hotel. We decided it would be better for Manisha to stay with Ankit and his wife for the night to give me more time to recuperate.

  After Ankit dropped me off, I began to feel sick again. I headed back over to the Himalayan Clinic before it closed. The nurse gave me another shot of something to ease the nausea and I left hoping I would feel better.

  Back at the hotel I tried not to be anxious, relaxing in bed and sipping small amounts of water, but I couldn’t keep it down. I was getting better but not f
ast enough. Patience had never been my greatest virtue. Considering how close I came to dying from Cholera, I needed to be thankful I was alive. How dreadful it would have been had Manisha lost two mothers from the same disease.

  The next morning, although I felt weak, I did not feel sick. I wanted American food to soothe my achy stomach.

  I called the Reeses and asked them if there was a Western-style grocery store close by. I couldn’t handle the local food market anymore. I knew the sights and smells would trigger a return of the nausea from the previous day.

  They told me about a little grocery store down the street for trekkers and hikers. I left the hotel and headed in what I thought was the right direction and found it. I wondered why I couldn’t have found the place a week ago. I got exactly what I wanted—Saltine crackers.

  I munched on the crackers and began to feel better than I had felt in a couple of days. Ankit called and asked if I felt well enough to take Manisha.

  I couldn’t wait to get her back. He and Alisha showed up in a little bit to drop her off, but Manisha was angry and would not come to me. I was disappointed but understood her reaction. In some ways we would have to start over again.

  Only a few things remained to be done before we could leave. I had to pick up Manisha’s Visa at the U.S. Embassy. We went there first. Manisha fought with me the whole time and screamed loudly for her father. Her outburst worried me that the Embassy might not grant me her Visa, but they didn’t pay her any attention.

  After a longer wait than expected, they handed me the precious document. From there we headed over to the Thai Airlines to get my ticket changed from May 16th to May 6th. The only way to do it was to spend two nights in Bangkok.

  “Can you put us in a nice hotel?” I asked the ticket agent.

  “Do you have a Visa for your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  He was asking about a Thai Visa, but I was referring to the American Visa. I would later wish that, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” (Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, 1594) .