Rich in Love: When God Rescues Messy People (8 page)

And I would desperately need that lesson in the years to come.

PART 2

Compassionate

chapter 6

Esther

1981

My life was filled to overflowing with love and happiness, and I was continually rejoicing in the many blessings God had given me. Yet, in another part of me, an emptiness began to grow. I believe it was the Spirit nudging me toward the next step in our lives.

I was beginning to get lonely with the boys constantly at their dad’s side. I wanted so badly to have a baby girl. Someone I could pass down all the things my mom taught me and her mom taught her.

I talked with Mary Barshaw about my desire to adopt a girl and that I didn’t think Domingo would ever consider it. She encouraged me to share my heart with Domingo, so I did. She also told me that if God had put the desire in my heart, it would happen. That thought excited me. Later I shared my desires with Domingo. He was not happy about my idea, but he listened.

“I don’t want to be tied down with a baby, Irene. We’re having so much fun with the boys. They’re at a good age to get out and do so many things. Think of all the things we’re doing. Do you really want to be tied down?”

“Okay, Mingo,” I said, trying not to let on how disappointed I was. I knew he was right, but nothing could take away my deep desire for a little girl.

Then one morning, as I handed him his coffee, he said, “Go ahead and look into adopting a little girl.”

“Are you kidding me, Mingo?” As someone who can’t contain her emotions, I danced in circles. Then I hugged and kissed him. I was afraid he was going to change his mind, so I immediately started making calls.

About a month later we met our social worker, a kind woman who suffered from dwarfism. She shared the many struggles she encountered due to her disability. As she spoke, I could see she was making a connection with Domingo. I’m sure she saw his soft heart as he leaned forward, hanging on every word she said. He asked some questions, but mostly he listened. Then she moved on to tell us about our options. There was a big need for Mexican families to adopt, so we were put at the top of the adoption list. Within months we were qualified.

The agency brought us a questionnaire that asked what kind of child we wanted. We could check boxes next to what was important to us. The list was amazing. I felt like we were putting in an order to buy a child. It asked questions like: Would you take a child whose parents were drug addicts? Were illiterate? A child of mixed race? One who has siblings? Is hyperactive? Has tantrums? Is mentally disabled?

My only request was for a baby girl. I didn’t care about anything else. Domingo, being more logical, thought it would be hard for us to take in certain children. We talked about it for a long time. We decided we could handle many disabilities in a child, but we couldn’t sacrifice our new life to take in a mentally disabled child. So I agreed to request a healthy older girl as Domingo wanted—but the real truth was I wanted a baby, and I would take her regardless of her issues. We were told the waiting process for a child could take a few years, so we prepared to wait.

It didn’t take nearly that long to receive the anticipated phone call. “I have a baby girl. She’s six weeks old, is a failure-to-thrive baby, and there is a strong possibility she has brain damage.”

I only heard
baby girl
,
and Domingo only heard
brain damage
. When we got to the social worker’s office, she told us that the baby’s fourteen-year-old mother had been raped while in a foster home. The doctors thought the baby’s issues were so severe that she wouldn’t make it more than a year.

Then the social worker explained why she felt we should have this baby. She sounded like a salesman trying to talk Domingo into buying used goods. I sat there feeling nervous and sick, knowing how much Domingo did not want a mentally disabled child. I couldn’t really hear their words. All I could hear was the thumping of my heart that also beat inside my head. I didn’t want to say no to this baby. I thought this might be our only opportunity.

My natural bent would be to talk Domingo into my way of thinking. But this time I was smart enough to remain silent. I knew I couldn’t make this decision for Domingo, nor pressure him into it. This was a decision that would impact the rest of our lives, and I didn’t want either of us to have regrets. I had to honor Domingo, whatever the outcome. Still, I prayed he would change his mind.

“Before you decide,” the social worker finally said, “I want you to meet her.” (Smart woman!) She began to gather her things. “Why don’t you two go get something to eat while I get the baby?”

At the restaurant, after our server put our plates of food in front of us, Domingo took my hand so he could pray and give thanks for our meal. He opened his mouth to speak—and then all of a sudden he stopped. He had a strange expression on his face. My heart dropped.

Oh no, here it comes
,
I thought.
He’s going to tell me this isn’t going to work. It’s not the beginning like I’d hoped—it’s the end.

A rush of words came out of Domingo. “Oh, Irene. I see it now. Here I am professing to love God, but I’m saying no to him. That I don’t want to take this innocent child. It’s like God just hit me with a bat. I get it. She didn’t ask to be born. She’s an innocent victim. And I’m so selfish that I don’t want to take her because it’s inconvenient for me and my family. God is giving me a child. A beautiful gift. Who am I to say no?” He put his head down and took another deep breath before he looked at me and spoke again. “I have been so selfish with my family. I’m so ashamed.”

Then he confessed that from the beginning he thought no one would give us a child because of our history. He figured that if he went along with the adoption, the agency would deny us and he wouldn’t have to be the bad guy for saying no.

He continued. “While we were in the office, all my thoughts were about how I was going to graciously talk you out of taking this baby.” Domingo grabbed my other hand. “Lord, forgive me for my selfish ways. Your Son died for me, and I was not willing to take this child. I promise you, Lord, from this day forward I will take care of this baby. If I have to push her in a wheelchair, walk for her, talk for her for the rest of her life, I will. I commit to provide, care, protect, and love her my whole life. Amen.”

It took me a moment to get over the shock. Then excitement shot through me. Neither of us could eat now. We wanted to get back and meet our baby girl.

I couldn’t believe how tiny this six-week-old baby was. She was this itty-bitty thing who weighed less than six pounds and was losing weight. She could have fit into a shoe box. She was precious and delicate. And so lethargic. A six-week-old baby should have had some sort of response to being held, and yet she had none. Tears rolled down our cheeks as we held her. My heart ached for this little baby. And yet I thanked God that her mother didn’t get an abortion.

The social worker told us that most babies are easy to place, but this one couldn’t be placed at all.

I didn’t care what list she was on or what the world thought of her. This was my daughter, and she was perfect. To this day I tell Esther that she is more than I could have asked for—beautiful, truly a gift from God.

That didn’t mean life with her was easy. Esther was very sick, but her dad kept his word. He held her and loved her continually. I used to get jealous because she wanted to be with him more than me.

We all loved her so much. The boys took her everywhere with them. I wanted to be with her all the time. This little thing was the center of the Garcia family.

One day when she was eighteen months old, she cried so hard she stopped breathing and lost consciousness. The boys called 911, and I panicked. I started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. As I blew air into her tiny mouth, I was thinking,
Small, soft breaths, small, soft breaths
, but I was blowing as hard as I could. Nothing happened. She wasn’t responding. In my panic, I picked her up and ran out of the house with no plan of what I was going to do. I guess I thought running was going to help. I ran to my neighbor’s house and pounded on the door. The man opened the door, liquor on his breath. “My baby’s not breathing,” I said, then shoved her into his arms and ran in another direction.

I know it’s crazy and doesn’t make sense, but all I can say is that when your child isn’t breathing, your brain cells leave your brain.

My neighbor put her on the floor, bent down, and gave her mouth-to-mouth. As I watched from a distance, panic still streaming through me, all I could think about was the liquor on his breath being pushed into my baby’s lungs.

Finally the paramedics showed up.

I rode to the hospital in the back of the ambulance, wondering if she was going to die. “Domingo,” I said, “why would God take our precious baby?”

“Irene,” he said in his soft, controlled voice, “we need to be thankful we had her for over a year. She knew she was loved. She is God’s child, and he can do whatever he wants with her.”

I was astounded that this was
my
husband talking—the one who had been a Christian for only a little less than two years.

At the hospital, the doctors were able to revive her. They told us they suspected she’d had a grand mal seizure and referred us to Children’s Hospital.

The doctors at Children’s Hospital told us that not only had she had a grand mal seizure but she was also mentally disabled and had Léri-Weill syndrome and some sort of bone disease. They also used the word
dwarf
in there somewhere. They said she would be lucky if she grew to be four feet tall.

We didn’t care about the gloom-and-doom words they used about her disabling conditions because she was our girl. The only things that mattered to us were these seizures. And they mattered greatly because they started happening more frequently. As a result, we had to be careful to stay within a certain radius of a hospital and became frequent visitors to the emergency room.

We quickly learned what triggered her seizures. When she cried hard, she would hold her breath and not let her air out. You can imagine—every time she cried we panicked. It didn’t take long for her to learn that she could get her way by crying. None of us wanted her to go into a seizure. Even so, she was soon having over five seizures a day. Hoping to stop them, the pediatric neurologist medicated her more and more until she was like a zombie.

Not wanting her to have to live in a bubble, I prayed for God to show me what to do. “Please, Lord, give me wisdom,” I pleaded day after day. Then it came to me. I would teach Esther to blow on my finger. If she did that, she would have to exhale and let her air out.

Excited, I told the doctor about my plan and asked him what he thought. The look on his face said it all:
This dumb woman just fell off a turnip truck
. But what he said was a simple but firm “That won’t work.”

I smiled at him and didn’t tell him I had already decided to try it no matter what he said. What could it hurt?

I showed Esther what I wanted her to do, and she understood right away. “Like blowing on a candle.” We laughed and made a game out of it. Every so often during the day, I held up my finger and told her to blow on it. Esther was strong willed and didn’t want to do it all the time I told her to. It was a tough call, but I knew there had to be consequences for her behavior when she disobeyed. This was critically important for her health and survival. And I knew she would learn to respond quickly only if I was consistent.

The next time she started to cry and hold her breath, I held up my finger and said, “Blow, Esther! Blow!” It was a struggle for her, but she did it.

I couldn’t believe it! It worked! She didn’t have a seizure! I screamed and yelled like a crazy woman, and my boys thought I’d lost it. I was so excited, I called Domingo, who was just as excited as I was. We both knew it was God who had given us that wisdom.

From then on, every time Esther started to cry, Domingo, our boys, or I would put up a finger and say, “Blow, Esther! Blow!” and every time she blew she didn’t have a seizure.

When she hadn’t had a seizure in a long time, I decided to talk to the doctor about weaning her off her medication. He was not happy, but when he heard how she was doing, he reluctantly agreed.

She started to blossom and become alive. It was amazing! It was a miracle! She was no longer lethargic. We turned to God and thanked him for revealing not only the solution but also himself to us.

I made another appointment with the doctor, knowing he was not going to be happy and might not believe me. So I asked Domingo to go with me. When the doctor came in, we told him what we had done and how well Esther was doing. He looked stern and didn’t say much as we shared our story. He then stood up, excused himself, and walked out the door.

Domingo and I looked at each other, baffled. Where was he going? Was he upset? Panic swept through me as I began to fear that social services might take her away from us. Domingo looked calm and told me not to worry.

A few minutes later the doctor returned with some of his colleagues. He turned to them and said, “This is the little girl I was telling you about. She is the one
we
taught to blow on a finger so she doesn’t hold her breath and trigger a seizure.”

Domingo and I just looked at each other and smiled.