One of the books I read recently about adoption describes the long period preceding adoption as an “emotional and administrative pregnancy”. Being in the middle of such a pregnancy now, replete with its forest of paperwork and psychosocial autopsies, it can be disorienting to expect a child without the typical gestational signposts, like inflated knockers or cravings for chocolate-covered pickles. Sometimes, in fact, there are entire days when I deny forget that we will soon be parents to a living, breathing person who’s shamelessly dependent on us.
Naturally, being two women in a relationship together, we talk and talk –
–and talk and talk and talk to deal with our disorientation. There’s no passing time singing to a belly in this house. Nope. We mark abstract, intellectual milestones through good old-fashioned conversation. Especially as we get closer to Placement Day.
We talk everywhere. In the car, in the bathroom and, apparently, in our sleep.
I can only assume that my lobster’s latest sleeptalkingadventure spawned directly from all of this recent discussion of family-making.
[12:07 am. The room is dark and otherwise undisturbed when Jenn bursts to life with the gusto of an Ethel Merman encore. Her arms stretch above her like she's unrolling a giant, imaginary scroll from the days of yore.]
Jenn: Look at this. I want one of these!
Erika: What do you want?
Jenn: Hasn’t it been awhile? I don’t know. Family.
Erika: Yes, it has been awhile.
Jenn: Don’t you want to get one?
Erika: Okay.
Jenn: I’m not sure about this. [pause] I really want to get one!
Erika: Let’s get one then.
[pause]
Jenn: [cackling] I don’t even know what you’re on!
That’s all I said when Dr. John told me I have a two-surface cavity on numbers 14 & 15.
Since my catastrophic injury & sickness insurance doesn’t cover dental, nevermind preventative medical care of any kind, we charged the $170 and scheduled the appointment to return for the $140 filling next week.
Not having an income and benefits of my own adds a whole new dimension of stress to every physical anomaly that appears. Is that thing on my toenail a bruise or is it flesh-eating bacteria? Is my sore throat allergy inspired or the genesis of a strep virus that will infiltrate my organs one after the other? Did I sleep funny or do I have TMJ? Am I tired because of the weather or am I tired because I have cancer?
The last time I had good health insurance with a reasonable deductible was 2003. The health insurance I have now is similar to the student coverage I had through grad school — catastrophic injury & sickness — the one major difference being that I no longer have access to the free student health center when these anomalies arise. Currently, we pay $70 a month for my individual plan, which is an 80/20 PPO and has a $2,500 deductible. Basically, if I get sick or injured, I’d better get really sick or injured to get our money’s worth.
I love preventative care. I believe it’s my duty as an inhabitant of this body to get a complete blood count, pee in a cup, and allow the doctor to feel me up once a year. Ironically, not being able to maintain myself this way because of cost will likely generate enough worry for me to get sick and have to use my injury & sickness insurance.
I’d been staving off this worry pretty well, floating peacefully on my back in the shallow end, gazing dreamily into the blue sky of ignorance before this damn cavity came along. When I told my mom about the $170 cleaning and the impending $140 filling, she offered to help and reminded me that, had I not gone for the cleaning, this would’ve turned into a far more expensive ordeal. (That I’m 32 years old with a master’s degree and still need my mom’s help to pay my medical bills is one thing; that she’s painfully right about the necessity of preventative care despite our inability to afford it is another.) It was only at her urging and with the promise of her financial assistance that I set out to schedule an appointment with my OBGYN, the same OBGYN I’ve known intimately since 2000 (minus the last three years because I haven’t had insurance to pay for our intimate time together).
Like any good consumer paying outright for medical care, my first question for the Appointment Lady on the phone was:
‘ How much will it cost for an annual exam?’
Appointment Lady at the main hospital had no clue, so she referred me to the clinic where the doctor practices.
I called the clinic where the doctor practices and Clinic Receptionist Lady referred me back to the main hospital billing department.
I called the main hospital billing department and Main Hospital Billing Department Lady said she would pass my contact information and question along to the appropriate people and I would hear from them within 48 hours.
My phone rang shortly thereafter. “Hi,” said the voice. “I’m Pathology Lab Lady and the cost for the pathologist to read the pap smear is $81, but please know that the pathologist only reads less than 10% of pap smears depending on what the technician finds, so you may or may not be charged this $81.”
I clarified that this $81 was the reading fee and asked what would be the charge for the pap smear itself. Pathology Lab Lady had no clue, so she referred me to the Client Services Lady at a different lab and told me to ask her for the ‘technical charge’ of a pap smear.
Before I could call Client Services Lady, however, my phone rang. “Hi,” said the voice. “I’m the Billing Manager Lady where the doctor practices and the cost for an annual exam is $189.”
‘What does that mean?’ I asked.
“That’s the physician’s charge for a head-to-toe assessment for an established patient, but it doesn’t include any labs or anything that might come up during the assessment or anything else the doctor might need to do.”
‘Okay. Would it be possible for you to put that in writing?’
“Absolutely not!,” she snapped.
I explained that it was to help me remember what she said, not to sue the doctor when a line-item for a miscellaneous swab appears on my bill. After skillfully disarming her, she acquiesced in an email loaded with legal disclaimers.
I took a breath and called Client Services Lady at the lab. I asked, ‘What is the technical charge for a pap smear?’ She said, “The technical charge for a pap smear is approximately $80, but that’s only if there are no abnormalities. If there are abnormalities, it will be more.”
I thanked her as I had thanked the half-dozen women before her, clapped my phone shut, and stared numbly at the manic shorthand on the notepad in front of me.
I’m looking at it now (two days later), in fact, and thinking about how much I miss the awesome insurance I had back in 2003, insurance that negotiated itemized train wrecks like the ones described above on my behalf.
I’m thinking about how my wife has the best insurance ever, but that her employer won’t let her include me on her plan because of my girl parts.
I’m thinking about how I could dump my catastrophic coverage for one year to become eligible for the public health insurance offered in Wisconsin …and I’m thinking about how I don’t even like to play the Pick 3 lotto for a buck a pop.
I’m thinking about the millions of people without any insurance, without generous mothers, or without the knowledge or stamina to advocate for themselves.
I’m thinking about the din of the health care reform debate and about how something needs to be done and that even the smartest guys in the room can’t figure it out, so where does that leave us.
I’m thinking about my brother in his fifth year of cirrhosis and shaking off fears that his eligibility for a transplant might be hindered by Medicaid.
I’m thinking about how I’ll probably forego the rapport I’ve built with the doctor who’s known me intimately since 2000, how I’ll probably get a free annual exam at Planned Parenthood with a random nurse practitioner, and how I’d rather not.
I’m thinking I still don’t know how much it costs for an annual exam.
I’m thinking about my filling next Tuesday and the $140 from my mom and how a visit to the OBGYN doesn’t even include a complete blood count and about how this post has given me a headache and now my jaw hurts and I need to take a nap.
I’m thinking ‘Thank God I’m a therapist’ because my catastrophic injury & sickness insurance doesn’t cover mental health and, when all of the above makes me crazy, I’ll need to heal myself.
It’s been difficult to conceal our disappointment since President Obama took office ten months ago.
Yes, you read that correctly. And, no, I have not suffered recent head trauma.
Obama, self-proclaimed ‘fierce advocate for equality’, courted us well during the campaign, referring to us in speeches, even naming the multiple ways in which our state and federal governments discriminate against us. Despite his support for civil unions (as opposed to marriage equality), Obama became the rainbow candidate by default, his rhetoric leading us to believe that he understands on a logical and constitutional, if not empathic, level what needs to be done. Promises to repeal DOMA and DADT were made, as were promises to pass the Matthew Shepard Act and an LGB and T inclusive ENDA.
In the ten months since Obama was sworn in, we’ve listened closely, waiting for his first bold move enacting any of the promises he made to us. The bottom line? We’re still waiting. For a President so emblematic of the Civil Rights movement, so iconified through grassroots agitation, Obama has proven himself to be a fierce advocate of the status quo.
First, he selected Pastor Rick Warren, known anti-gay California megachurch leader, to deliver the inaugural invocation. This on the heels of Proposition 8, which Warren endorsed via the megaphone of his pulpit. Not to worry, we were told; the Obama administration also invited openly gay Bishop Gene Robinson to deliver the inaugural prayer at the pre-inaugural festivities. Funny how his was the only speech not carried live by HBO due to so-called technical difficulties.
Historically, we are a forgiving bunch, so we gave Obama the benefit of the doubt and waited some more. It wasn’t long, however, before we scratched our heads again.
The White House issued, at best, paltry responses to the landmark wins for marriage equality in Iowa and Vermont. Example? “The President respects the decision of the Iowa Supreme Court, and continues to believe that states should make their own decisions when it comes to the issue of marriage. Although President Obama supports civil unions rather than same-sex marriage, he believes that committed gay and lesbian couples should receive protection under the law.” Notice the lack of the word “equal” in the part about protection. Following protests by the LGBT activist community, the WH revised their statement to include the word “equal”. Too little, too late. And what the heck happened to the federal action of repealing DOMA? Still, we knew Obama supported equality because he told us so. ‘He just believes it’s an issue best tackled by the states and he used to teach constitutional law, so he would know. We’ll wait some more.’
In June, we met with the most degrading insult of all. The Obama Administration’s Department of Justice had filed a brief defending DOMA. (Note: for those who don’t know, DOMA is the Defense of Marriage Act, signed into law by President Clinton, which limits marriage to a man and a woman at the federal level and prevents our legal marriage in Iowa from being recognized in our home state of Wisconsin.) ‘What? What kind of hypocrisy is this?!’, we wondered. ‘This can’t be! Obama promised to repeal DOMA!’‘. In fact, it was true. And worse, the brief cited legal precedent likening same-sex marriage to incest.
It was around that time that we stopped waiting and started to feel angry.
So did the LGBT activists.
His defenders were at the ready, though, and reminded us that Obama entered office with a plate more full than most Presidents. He barely had time to break in his leather, swivel chair in the Oval Office before going head-to-head with the economy, two wars, and health care, issues that effect ALL Americans. Not to mention teabaggers and birthers and wingnut generalists. ‘He’ll get to you,’ his defenders assured us. ‘Be patient.’
(By the way, to anyone who’s ever said this, bite me.)
More and more, LGBT Americans began to pay attention. Anger churned over the Obama Administration’s complete 180 on even acknowledging us, let alone fiercely advocating on our behalf. In recent months, contemporary activists have blogged their nuts off. Activists from the Harvey Milk era came out of the woodwork. Gay families posted youtube videos and visibility increased at every level. The WH press reporter from The Advocate continued to implore Press Secretary Robert Gibbs for substantive answers on DOMA and DADT (and he continued to evade her).
The first ever National Equality March was planned for October 11, 2009. The same day as the annual Presidential Cup golf event in California. We held our breath when we learned that President Obama would not attend the golf event, but instead would speak at the annual Human Rights Campaign dinner as an unofficial precursor to the National Equality March.
‘Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere.’
Still, we awaited the speech with trepidation as the HRC is reputed more for kissing ass than kicking butt regarding LGBT issues. We watched the speech online, biting our bottom lips and nestling into each other to quell our anxiety. Here it is so you can watch it yourself.
I confess to being moved by this speech. He hit all the relevant points in his customary thundering, musical cadence. I quivered, I tingled and, when he talked about the America where I’ll be able to walk down the street holding Jenn’s hand, a tear might have leaked out involuntarily.
‘THIS is the man I elected!’ I said to Jenn.
Then it ended.
He boomed ‘God Bless America’ and I felt used.
See, this was a speech. Words delivered by a man so powerful and so charismatic that the audience to which he spoke had no alternative than to be rapt, if not enamored. With each minute that passed after it ended, and particularly as we dissected it over the next 24 hours, we felt more and more duped.
Some things to consider:
This speech aired only on cable news networks on a Saturday night. A fierce advocate would have delivered it on the major networks (ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX), from the White House, on a weeknight, to mainstream America.
This speech reiterates promises we’ve heard before. Some of the lines echoed almost verbatim sections of his campaign stump speech. A fierce advocate would have woven in personal stories, as he did so successfully with the economy during his campaign and as he’s doing now with health care.
This speech offered no new information, no timelines, no plans. A fierce advocate would’ve vowed more than to say he’ll sign the Matthew Shepard Act, a law eleven years in the making, if and when it reaches his desk; a fierce advocate would have vowed to use the bully pulpit to pass an all-inclusive ENDA and to repeal DOMA and DADT.
Better yet, a fierce advocate would have introduced his own bills on DOMA and DADT.
At the very least, a fierce advocate would have announced that he will sign an executive order immediately stopping all dishonorable discharges from the military due to DADT.
This speech, with all its flourish and its carefully lifted soundbites, did nothing to usher in equality. As a stand alone occurence at a black tie affair on a Saturday night, this speech reached barely a fraction of the people it could have reached.
Let me ask you this.
Did you watch the speech before seeing it here? Did you know about it? Did you know about the National Equality March? Did you know about the DOJ brief or the White House’s sad, sad responses to two of the greatest civil rights milestones of our time before reading about them here?
If you spend vast amounts of time trolling the internets for political tidbits, maybe you did. If you’re LGB or T, and this speech impacts you directly, maybe you did.
I’m guessing that, unless you fit into one of those two categories, this is the first you’ve heard about the facts I’ve itemized in this post.
The National Equality March drew 250,000 Americans who support equality. Not merely “tens of thousands” as the major networks quipped in their obligatory three second statements of fact the next morning. A quarter million people in one place at one time, marching for equality, not to mention the millions of Americans unable to attend, us included, who attended satellite marches, watched CNN all weekend, or blogged the rest of their nuts off.
Catch that? Millions of Americans.
President Obama, whatever your reasons for dawdling, the jig is up.
True, the burden to be fierce rests with us, also, and we’re holding up our end of the bargain.
True, you have delivered more than your predecessors by appointing openly gay individuals to federal posts, but given what you haven’t delivered, those individuals cannot serve openly in the military, marry, protect their children, or provide their partner with full health and retirement benefits.
Months have passed since my last post about our adoption process. I blame this lapse on the death of our fantasy child.
If you’re a parent, then you know about the fantasy child. No matter how your children came to you, via fingerprints or shooting straight down the birth canal, the anticipation, the hope for what that child will be like as aperson is the same. This child, this perfect mail-order child resides in our imaginations, a sort of mental hologram blend of the best parts of ourselves.
Actually, we had two fantasy children. Twins. A boy and a girl, age 6. He liked climbing and triathlons and she liked reading and writing. They both had smiles that smashed our hearts to pieces, were well-behaved, and overflowed with intellectual potential. He liked to organize his collections and she spent time in her head reflecting, daydreaming, comfortably. Both could completely dismantle us with humor, both were even-tempered. Both devoured affection, curling into our sides all soap-scented and soft as we read them to sleep. They were –
perfect.
And now they are gone.
One of the requirements of the special needs adoption process is to attend a special needs adoption class. I feel like even this mere reference to it should appear in bold, on its own line, sedentary in its gravity.
SPECIAL. NEEDS. ADOPTION. CLASS.
We attended our class over two Saturdays last June. We met in a conference room with four other couples and one instructor for a total of 16 hours. It was, perhaps, the singlemost sobering educational experience of our lives.
Our instructor –who, by the way, had adopted over a dozen of the most severely disabled children on the planet, thereby making us feel like total heels in comparison as we pictured our one or two mild to moderate-needs kids waiting for us to scoop them up from foster care into our loving, storybook family, but I digress – our instructor told us from the start that her job was “to scare the stuffings out of you. ” She said it again and again, charmingly, scoldingly, musically, dramatically — any way she thought we needed to hear it to really hear it.
We were the only gay couple in the class, as well as the only couple without children already in our care. Two of the couples were fostering nieces and nephews and two of the couples were fostering through the state. We entered with the blankest slate in the room yet, somehow, wound up feeling more uncertain about what we’re getting into than anyone else there.
It’s not that the information surprised us. Jenn and I both have master’s degrees in counseling; Jenn has 11 years as a school counselor under her belt and I’m working with abused and neglected kids. It strikes you differently when you’re thinking about your own kids, the small people who will grow into tall people who, over a long period of time, will ask you for rides to the mall, emotional support, and for things we can’t even imagine this early on. It really strikes you differently when you think about how, someday, these small-to-tall people will have to take you in after your hip replacement surgery or, God forbid, bathe you.
Most of the kids in the foster care system have experienced some degree of abuse and/or neglect. In the class, we talked at great length about attachment disorders, ADHD, and even psychosis. We learned about how these diagnoses might play out in the classroom, at family gatherings, and at home. We learned that behavior is communication and that any diagnosis is merely a frame to help us understand our children.
We learned about the foster care system in our state. In particular, there was a flow chart in our handbook depicting the system. It was five pages long. There, in simple black and white boxes and arrows, we saw our children bounce from bio parents to foster parents, from home to home to home, back and forth, and round and round. Not until page five were their best interests even considered. Until page five, all that mattered were the bio parents’ rights.
The system alone is enough to traumatize a child.
We left our classes feeling deflated.
Still totally committed to the process, we reassessed the “specs” we’d chosen for our future kids. We started out being open to kids age 0-10, up to three siblings with moderate emotional behavioral needs. Following our class and, especially, following the change in our financial plan when I didn’t get that job, we narrowed our preference to kids age 0-6, up to two siblings with mild to moderate emotional behavioral needs. After consulting with my clinical supervisor, a therapist highly experienced in working with kids in foster care, we revised our preference one last time to one kid, an infant, with or without one sibling up to age 4, mild to moderate emotional behavioral needs.
Basically, we want a baby. If a slightly older sibling is part of the deal, okay.
The guilt over this gradual decision engulfed us at first. We wanted to be different. We didn’t want to be another cookie-cutter couple seeking the Gerber baby. But, really, the more we learned, the more we accepted how much we’re willing and able to welcome into our lives. We know enough about attachment and abuse to know that the younger the child, the better chance we have of undoing the damage they’ve endured. We know the time and expense required to undo such damage. And we know that this commitment is forever. This is not a pair of jeans we wear once and return. This is our family. We want to give it a chance.
Our adoption worker emailed us a few weeks ago to let us know that she plans to finish our home study report in early November, at which point we sign it, she sends it out to the counties we’ve specified, and we wait.
It could be a week. It could be a month. We don’t know.
Eventually, our phone will ring and our hearts will pound and we’ll hold hands all the way to the first meeting where our kid(s) will be waiting to dispel all of our preconceived notions, the fantasies, the realities, the flow charts and, stuffings or no stuffings, we’ll become a family –
Copyright 2009, Be gay about it. All material, including the title and acronym, is the work of the author of this blog, unless otherwise specified. This copyrighted material may not be reproduced without the author's expressed permission. Wedding photos copyrighted by Manning Photography.
