Children of Dreams, An Adoption Memoir (15 page)

I Fed Ex’d Manisha’s latest MRIs to Yale along with the original ones done a year ago, and in October, I shared with Dr. Hostetter all my concerns. She was warm and
receptive in trying to help in any way she could. She made herself available on weekends and at night to talk over things and review Manisha’s case in as expeditious a manner as possible.

Dr. Carney, who had recently taken over as Manisha’s pediatric neurologist, was helpful in providing all the medical information needed. An accurate timeline of events was required for the consults Dr. Hostetter had called in for the workup of Manisha’s case.

I also offered to bring Manisha to Yale. She thought it would be helpful to examine Manisha personally and we scheduled a trip to New Haven, Connecticut, on November 16, 1999. Dr. Hostetter had arranged Dr. Sze, Dr. Cappello, Dr. Otez, and Dr. Baltimore, all experts in infectious disease and neurocysticercosis in childhood, to be available as consultants from November 16 through November 21.

We booked our plane tickets and I prayed God would do the impossible. I didn’t know what that was. I could see no way for everything to work out. I wanted Manisha to be well and I thought God had called me to adopt another child. It didn’t seem that either one was possible, at least not before Y2K, January 1, 2000.

Many years ago when my ex-husband was doing his residency in radiation oncology, I had been a volunteer at the Ronald McDonald House. I was told there was a House near the hospital so I made reservations. I never imagined that I would need to stay in one. The Ronald McDonald House was under renovation so they put us up in a hotel. The blessings I had given years earlier to so many families I was now to receive ten-fold in return.

My mother offered to fly up also and planned to meet us at the airport. Shortly before we left, the elders and pastor of my church laid hands on Manisha for healing and I prayed for a miracle.

We left early in the morning and arrived at the New Haven Hospital in New Haven, Connecticut, around 9:00 p.m. An hour later, a whole entourage of students and medical faculty walked in, following Dr. Hostetter on her “rounds,” as she came to meet and talk with us about what would happen over the next few days. There were many tests she had scheduled. The most important was another MRI with CNS imaging, including thin cuts of the area. I was thankful to have my mother with me for emotional support.

Manisha was a trooper undergoing some complicated and at times painful tests, but the big one was the MRI. I accompanied her as they wheeled her downstairs. She did not need to be medicated, which enabled the test to be done more quickly.

The MRI machine was built differently from the one at Shands. The tube was much narrower. After she had been inside the tube for a couple of minutes, she became claustrophobic and scared. Because of the thin cuts, it took longer.

I prayed as I stood outside the clanging machine, clasping her foot that protruded from the enclosure, “Dear, God, please get her through this test without moving.” If time could be measured, it would have been called “The Longest Minute.”

The banging mercifully stopped and the scan was done. The nurse rolled her out of the MRI and I hugged her as she cried in my arms.

“Thank you, Lord,” I spoke softly in my heart, “for helping us to get through this.”

All the tests were done within two days so the third day was a long day of waiting. The doctors needed time to go through the results and examine the MRI. I knew I had done all I could. I had to leave it with God...

There is an old poem written by an unknown author called
Broken Dreams
. It goes like this:

As children bring

Their broken toys

With tears for us to mend,

I brought my broken dreams to God

Because He was my Friend.

But then instead

Of leaving Him

In peace to work alone,

I hung around

And tried to help

With ways

That were my own.

At last I snatched them back

And cried,

“How can You be so slow”

“My child,” He said,

“What could I do?

You never did let go.”

This poem hangs in my home as a reminder to me that I must give God my dreams. If I hold on to them, God can’t fix them, and if anybody has a laundry list of broken dreams, I would surely fit the bill. Not because I am “bad” but because God is not done yet. The final chapter hasn’t been written. For some of us, it won’t be written until we get to Heaven.

Everybody has heard the cliché, “God has a wonderful plan for our lives.” My life did not seem wonderful, but that was also because God wasn’t done. My ex-husband told the judge in our divorce hearing, “I took away her dreams.” Maybe he thought he did, but I refused to give him that much credit. God had to delay fulfillment of my dreams until I was ready to receive them, gift wrapped by suffering, that could only be opened by willing, submissive hands for His purposes.

I had always wanted to be a writer. I wrote poetry all through school and wrote my first unpublished book when I was fourteen. I relished the thought of writing a term paper and never received less than an “A.”

My dreams to be a writer were dashed when I was told by my parents, “You have to do something where you can make money.” The old, well-played tapes still threaten to drown out God’s quieter voice that speaks to my soul. I have to turn the volume down on the world to make sure I don’t miss what God is speaking to my heart.

After my dreams to be a writer were crushed, I dropped out of college and enrolled in court reporting school. I was writing, just not the kind of writing I had envisioned, but God wasn’t finished.

I spent a few minutes with my calculator to discover something interesting besides how much I owe in taxes. After twenty years of court reporting and ten years of captioning, I figured I have written about one million pages in the last thirty years.

Meaningless! Meaningless!’ Says the Teacher. ‘Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

Probably ninety-nine percent of all those words, flowing from ten fingers that thump effortlessly on a magic keyboard turning funny-looking symbols into words, will burn up in the final days of God’s judgment. Many of them are words I don’t want to remember dating back to my court reporting days filled with depositions of people I have long forgotten and never wanted to know in the first place. I also wish to forget intimidating lawyers who argued over exhibits ranging from where to store backyard dirt to a dead cricket uncovered in a can of beans.

I have always lamented that so much of what I wrote would burn up when God cleanses the earth of sin. It was and still is a rather depressing thought that most of my court reporting or captioning is so displeasing to God. (Not the occupation, but the adversarial nature of the proceedings that take place in court and the horrid stories that captioners write reporting the news. In deference to my captioning professional friends, captioning gives the hearing-impaired public an equal opportunity to be informed in real-time, which could be life-saving. I am not casting dispersions on the profession, which is how I make my living, but just the emotional toll it can take to provide those captions. As far the court system, I know those twenty years I slaved as a court reporter God will be redeem in a future book.)

. I long for the day when I won’t have to write sensational stories designed to tickle the ears of gullible listeners and satisfy the insatiable desires of appetites gone awry, stories that we fancy only perverts enjoy.

Broadcast captioning opened my eyes to a suffering planet that groans under the weight of greed, lust, and envy, along with a host of other sins that creation as well as human kind must endure a little while longer until Jesus’ triumphant return. I could no longer turn the channel to avoid unpleasantries that I didn’t want to see. I suffered immensely and still do from stories of tortured animals, murdered children, and governments who care nothing for their people. I felt in my bones the horror of 9/11 as I captioned the New York news, tears falling on my overworked hands as I tried to remain composed long enough to do my job, numbed by the evilness of terrorists who could fly planes into tall buildings.

I wanted God to take my dreams and refine them and turn them into something that would not only be bound on earth but bound in heaven. Words of hope, words of redemption, words that wouldn’t burn up, wouldn’t be forgotten, and would eventually reach the uttermost regions of the earth, no matter how corrupt the government. I got a glimpse of what that might mean when I was in Nepal.

God gave us His word, the Bible, so we can remember. We need to remember God’s little miracles that happen every day and not be ashamed to give Him the glory. It’s only through His Son that we can dream, live, hope, and breathe. We all deserve death. Now that’s a story I would like to see make news headlines.

Today I have my chance to write what God wrote on my heart nine years ago at the New Haven Hospital, Yale College of Medicine. I was called down to Dr. Hostetter’s office around 4:15 p.m. in the afternoon. I left Manisha with my mother and went alone. I had no idea what to expect. When I walked into her office, she welcomed me and asked me to sit down. She cut to the chase without any delay.

“The edema is gone!” She said. “There is only one small lesion with no edema whatsoever. There is no reason why you can’t either take Manisha with you to Vietnam or leave her here and go pick up your new daughter.”

Dr. Hostetter detailed in a letter written on January 3, 2000, her expert medical opinion, in consultation with experts not only at Yale but from around the country, including Patricia Wilkins at the Centers for Disease Control, and Dr. Clinton White, Chief of Infectious Disease at Baylor College of Medicine: Manisha’s medical history was consistent with neurocysticercosis and not anything else; among the differential diagnoses being TB and tumor.

Something happened in my heart. I was changed and became a believer in miracles. God used Manisha’s condition to bring glory to Himself. So many people had prayed for her, I wanted to tell everyone what God had done. I did not want to be like the nine lepers where of the ten that Jesus healed, only one returned to thank Him. Not only did he thank Jesus, he praised Him loudly and threw himself at Jesus’ feet. (Luke 17:11-19). Jesus said in response, “Your faith has made you well.”

I could never have gone to Vietnam if Manisha had swelling or edema on her brain. As long as she stayed on anti convulsants, Dr. Hostetter said she would be fine.

Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out His love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom He has given us (Romans 5:3-5).

I had given Manisha the middle name Hope when I adopted her. I believe God speaks to us when we name our children. As I told the doctors that night in the Shands emergency room, she was named after Proverbs 13:12, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when dreams come true at least, there is life and joy.” Joy was soon to follow, but not in the way I expected.

Chapter Twenty-One

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart…

Colossians 3:23

I have always been fascinated with trains. My adoptive father, Gene, was a train collector. He liked what I call the “oversized” ones that were antiques. Although many in his collection had chipped paint and dents or otherwise looked “used,” their battle scars didn’t take away from their sense of intrinsic value. They represented something from the past worth remembering. Shortly after mother and Gene married, my new dad wanted to have a special father daughter day for just the two of us. A one day “Fall Leaf Special” train trip from Atlanta to the North Georgia mountains had been advertised in the newspapers.

Dad purchased the tickets and I counted off the days. I told all my friends in school that I couldn’t wait.

At last the day arrived and Mother woke me up early that morning to see us off. She packed us a brown paper sack lunch and bid us a good time. We drove in Dad’s 1964 white Chevy to the train station in downtown Atlanta on an early Saturday morning in September. Just as we arrived, the sun poked out from behind the clouds, promising to be a beautiful sunny day.

We gave the train conductor our tickets and climbed aboard. Dad let me sit in the window seat, and I peered out waiting impatiently as other people made their way to their seats.

Eventually everyone was seated on the train and we waited. We waited some more. Nothing happened.

Suddenly we heard the crackling of the intercom and a loud voice speaking, “We are having some problems with a coupler, but we hope to have it fixed soon.”

More time passed. I sat in the train staring out the window, imagining what it would be like to leave the station behind. In my mind I could hear the revving of the loud engines, the whistle blowing, and feel the lurch of the train as it moved forward, while things outside would start to peel away.

But the minutes stretched into an hour or more and the train remained still and quiet. My hopes began to fade as the long anticipated train trip seemed to slip away. The crackling of the intercom broke the silence once more as we all listened for the final verdict on the broken coupler.