When I started writing yesterday’s post, my initial goal was to show something positive. Obviously, not quite what it was. But today I have a story of selflessness and love to share. Written by an acquaintance (through a Yahoo group) who adopted a child from Kazakhstan 10 years ago, this is the story of their trip home. Although she and a few close friends will know who she is, all references to identity have been removed. Enjoy.
Ten years ago yesterday, my new son and I deplaned in Indianapolis to a crowd of family who had been eagerly awaiting my return for a month, and the return of their foster/now new brother since August, the last time they had seen him. Our journey had started in his hometown Karaganda, Kazakhstan, in the middle of Central Asia, a week before, when we seated ourselves on a worn-out, Soviet era train that ambled along, so as to not jump the tracks. We rode all day and overnight across the prairie of Kazakhstan, seeing miles and miles of nothing but grass, an occasional herd of cattle with a Kazakh cowboy on a horse, and small Muslim villages. Most of the houses were worn down, with grass roofs, and the streets were dirt. But the cemeteries on the edge of town were all neat, new brick above ground mausoleums. Quite a juxtaposition. We stopped near a large lake, and a group of villagers met us, holding up wares, food, and big dried fish for us to buy. This is also where we saw camels out on the streets, and walking along the tracks.
At 6 AM, our new driver in Almaty rousted us, and our adoption coordinator, the inestimable Marina, out of our train beds so we wouldn’t be sent back to Karaganda on the return trip, but on to the American embassy for paperwork shuffling. We hit a rowdy "authentic" restaurant that evening to dance, and eat horsemeat, a usual fare in that Muslim country. We left in the morning, on a plane with de-iced (I prayed!) wings, to fly on to Moscow, for a trip to the American embassy and medical clinic. The stewardess came down the aisle with the drinks cart at 10:30 AM, plane time, and since most of us had been up for hours, I urged the adoptive moms on the plane to have a drink, to lighten our anxiety, at least that’s what I called it, "mommy’s little helper!"
We arrived in Moscow, and what was the first thing I wanted to do??? "OH, My Gosh! Is that a McDonald’s??" Yes, indeedy, after three weeks of eating some really interesting meals, I wanted something that reminded me of home. Then on to medical clinic, and a tour of Red Square, and sleep. The next day we arrived at the American embassy in a blizzard, to enter a room full of American parents with newly acquired babies and toddlers. I got some real looks when I dragged my 7 year-old in after me. Realize that this was 3 months after 9/11, security was high, and the only people allowed into the embassy were those completing adoptions. After this was our scary drive to the airport, with trucks sliding off the roads on all sides, and wrecks about every mile. We had stand-by tickets, so didn’t even know if we would get on, and since it was Christmas time, I surely didn’t want to hang around waiting for a plane out of the busiest airport in Russia. We finally boarded, and were off to Frankfurt, Germany. With the time difference, it was still evening when we got there, so instead of sleeping in chairs, we had to get Ruslan a visa to leave the airport to go to the hotel. I argued with the German border guard about the cost of the visa, (I was just too tired, and worn out by bureaucracy to take any nonsense from him) and he finally let us go.
We returned in the morning to sit in front of the wrong boarding gate for two hours, and in the meantime, my son was having screaming fits, and kept trying to run away from me. We were both exhausted, and my meager Russian vocabulary was worn out, too. Once on the plane, I believe he slept almost the whole way. When we arrived in Chicago, I told him, "just one more plane, me and you, then babushka, papa, sister, brother!" He was having none of that, I had been telling him that for days, and we still weren’t there. I remember walking over to McDonald’s, holding out a hand of cash, and telling the girl, " I have money from 4 countries in my hand, pick out enough to feed us something." Trying to get him on that last plane was a truly horrible experience. He screamed, kicked, hit, slapped, and punched me. He held onto chairs, he was alarming everyone, and I’m sure they thought I was stealing him from someone.
The cloud ceiling was low that afternoon, so we could see houses, roads, and towns quite clearly, which helped him calm down. When we arrived at our destination, after a very long week, we were met by our loving family and a big bottle of Diet Coke, which I had missed trememdously. I have a beautiful photo of my 5 year-old daughter pushing her new brother up against the wall in a big hug, clinging to him for all she was worth. Once home, I think we slept all day, and then attended a Christmas party, which I left at 5 pm, since I was trying to get over a 12 hour time difference. What I brought home that year for Christmas has changed all our lives forever. I brought home a tired, sad, lonely, hungry, forgotten child, who soon became fed, held, nurtured, loved, and cared for. We soon became loved, held, nurtured, loved, and cared for by one of the best kids I’ve ever known. My two other kids have held onto this boy for dear life, and woe to any girl who would consider breaking his heart. We have become each other’s greatest gift, not purchased in a store, not created by human hand, but by the great hand of the Lord, how else would we have ever come together this way? We were (we thought)a complete family, happy with what we had, content with our 4-ness, not knowing that Ruslan was the missing puzzle piece, the thing that would complete us, make us more whole that we could ever imagine possible.
Dear knitters, when you pick up your needles, consider that the ones left behind have haunted me. The faces of kids that don’t have a mother to tuck them in, a father to teach them things, family to surround them. They literally have nothing, maybe a school bag, if they get to go to school. Maybe a pair of shoes. They don’t even own the clothes on their backs. i’m so proud to be a part of this group, knitters, crocheters, travelers, who selflessly give a lot of time, effort, and cost to give something to these kids.
The Yahoo list is for knitters who make much-needed items for a couple of orphanages in Kazakhstan. The children at these facilities have often grown from babyhood in the institution, and upon their 16th birthdays are launched into the world with a suitcase, good wishes, and little else. The knitters on the list provide these "graduates" each with a hat, scarf, sweater, socks, and mittens. Other items are also sent, and much is needed. For more information, go to Mittens for Akkol.
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