My Son
No language can express the power and beauty
and heroism and majesty of a mother's love.
-
Edwin Hubbell Chapin
The war was far from Saigon when I agreed to escort six
babies from Vietnam to their adoptive homes in the U.S.
Still, the decision to leave my husband and two little girls
had not been easy. When the war escalated, I had begged
God for a sign that I could back out of my commitment, but
he only filled me with a courage and confidence I could
explain to no one. Somehow I knew this was all a part of
his plan. By the time I landed in Saigon, bombs were falling
outside the city limits, Vietnam was falling to the communists,
and President Ford had okayed Operation Babylift.
Scores of the estimated 50,000 Amerasian babies and toddlers
were herded into our headquarters of Friends of
Children of Vietnam in preparation for the airlift.
On my third day there, over breakfast of bread and
bottled Coke, Cherie, the director, said, "LeAnn, you’ve
probably figured this out . . ."
I hadn’t.
"You and Mark applied for adoption of a son through us,
and we told you to expect him in two years." She spoke
above the din of dozens of bawling babies. "Obviously,
everything has changed. You’ll be assigned one of the
babies gathered here—or," she paused to touch my hand,
"or you can go into the nursery and choose a son."
I was stunned, speechless.
I felt myself flush with excitement—then with fear.
"Really?" I finally croaked. Surely, I had heard her wrong.
Cherie’s tired eyes danced. "Really."
"So I can just go in there and pick out a son?"
Cherie nodded again.
Dazed, I turned to my friend and traveling companion,
Carol. "Come with me." She jumped up immediately, and
we approached the door to the nursery together.
I paused and took a deep breath. "This is like a fantasy. A dream come true."
I opened the door, and we entered a room filled with
babies. Babies on blankets and mats. Babies in boxes and
baskets and bassinets and cribs.
"Carol, how will I ever choose? There are 110 babies
here now."
One baby in a white T-shirt and diaper looked at me
with bright eyes. I sat cross-legged on the floor with him
on my lap. He seemed to be about nine months old and
responded to my words with cute facial expressions and
animation. He giggled and clapped his hands.
"We should name you Personality," I said. Then I
noticed he was wearing a name bracelet on his ankle. He
had already been assigned to a family in Denver. Well, I
thought, feeling disappointment rising in my throat, that
family is mighty lucky.
Another child caught my eye as he pulled himself to his
feet beside a wooden crib. We watched with amusement
as he tugged the toes of the baby sleeping inside. Then he
dropped to his hands and knees and began crawling to
me. I met him halfway across the room and picked him up.
He wore only a diaper, and his soft, round tummy bulged
over its rim. He looked at me and smiled brightly, revealing
chubby cheeks and deep dimples. As I hugged him, he
nestled his head into my shoulder.
"Maybe you’ll be our son," I whispered. He pulled back,
staring into my eyes, still smiling. For the next hour, I carried
him around the room, looking at each infant, touching
them, talking to them. All the while, the baby in my arms
babbled, smiled and continued to cuddle. I couldn’t bring
myself to put him down as we went upstairs where the
floor was carpeted with even more babies. The hallway
was like a megaphone, blasting the sounds of chattering
workers and crying babies.
"Let me hold him," Carol coaxed, "while you look at the
others."
The couch against the wall held a half-dozen
fussy infants side by side. I picked up each of them. Most
seemed stiff and unresponsive. How sad that cuddling
could be unfamiliar to them. I weaved my way to the blanket
of babies at the end of the room and sat caressing each
of them. As I cradled one in my arms, I could feel the bones
of his spine press against my skin. Another’s eyes looked
glazed and motionless. Sorrow gripped me.
I felt the little boy Carol was carrying for me pat my
arm. As I turned to look, he reached out his chubby arms
for me. Taking him from her, I snuggled him close, and he
snuggled back. Someone had loved him very much.
Downstairs, we meandered from mat to crib, looking at
all the infants again. I wished I could adopt them all. But I
knew there were long waiting lists at the Denver headquarters
of hundreds of families who had completed the
tedious, time-consuming application process. Each of
these precious orphans would have immediate homes
carefully selected for them.
"How do I choose?" I asked myself as much as Carol.
The baby boy in my arms answered by patting my face. I
had never missed my husband more. "I wish Mark was here."
I turned my full attention to the child I held, waving my
hands in front of his face to check his eyes. He blinked and
flashed his dimples.
I snapped my fingers by his ears in a foolish attempt to
test his hearing. He turned his head, giggled and grabbed
at my hands.
Then I sat on the floor, slowly rocking him back and
forth in my arms. I whispered a prayer for the decision I
was about to make, a decision that would affect many
lives forever. The baby nestled into the hollow of my neck,
reassuring me that the choice I was about to make was the
right one. I could feel his shallow breath and tender skin
as he embraced me.
I recalled all the data we had collected for adoption; all
the letters of references from friends, bankers, employers;
all the interviews with the social workers.
It had all been worth it for this moment.
We rocked in silence and cuddled. Then, with immense
joy, I walked back through the nursery door to the office.
"Meet our son, Mitchell Thieman!" I announced, hardly
believing my own words. Everyone gathered around and
embraced us. I looked at Mitchell’s puzzled face and held
him closer. Cherie brought a nametag, and I eagerly
scrawled on it, "Reserve for Mark Thieman," and placed it
on his ankle.
Joyful tears streamed down my cheeks. For a moment,
all my fears were gone. I no longer wondered why I had
been driven to make this journey. "This is why God sent
me to Vietnam," I whispered.
I had been sent to choose a son.
Or had he chosen me?
LeAnn Thieman
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