Saturday, August 30, 2014

Cordelia Turns Two!

On Thursday, August 28, Cordelia celebrated her second birthday with a cake I sent her:
I think she enjoyed it!  As you can see, her hair is growing and she just gets more and more beautiful (even with all the frosting on her face!).  I went through an organization called Blessed Kids to send a dragon cake, a "photo pillow" (pillow with my picture on it) and a list of translated questions for the orphanage to answer.
Cordelia looks either transfixed or bewildered or both, and I'm thrilled that she got my cake and that the orphanage staff was able to send pictures of the event for me to enjoy.

Currently I'm waiting for the US Consulate in Guangzhou to issue something called an Article 5, which is essentially a promise to the Chinese government that they'll grant Cori a visa when the time comes.  Once they produce that, it gets processed by the travel division of the CCCWA, which is the central Chinese adoption authority, and they'll send me my travel date.  Everyone's best guess is that I'll travel in late October or early November.

Things are coming together.  I've got a pile of clothes (not enough, though), some toys and books, and both a regular stroller and one for jogging.  The crib is set up, and her room is starting to take shape.

Thank you so much to all who have donated to her fund to help bring her home.  If you'd still like to donate, click here.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Meet Cordelia...And Bring Her Home!

This is my daughter, Cordelia. She's waiting for me in an orphanage in Zhenjiang, China.  She's two years old (almost) and has Down syndrome.
I always wanted to be a parent, but none of my options seemed quite right.  Then one day I read an article about the grim hopelessness of growing up with a disability in China.  I felt something click into place; it was the idea I'd been waiting my whole life to have.

I looked into adopting through the Massachusetts foster care system.  There are no fees.  But I knew that a child in this country, even a child in foster care, has access to Western medicine and education. I felt drawn to China, despite the staggering expense of international adoption.  And so I found the China Special Children program at Wide Horizons For Children, which swiftly matches adoptive parents with special-needs children waiting to go home.  I was matched with Cordelia, whose Chinese name is Xin Yi, at the end of January.

To help fund my adoption, I am working with an organization called Brittany's Hope.  Click here to donate.They provide grants to unite prospective parents with special-needs orphans worldwide.  If I can raise $5,000, Brittany's Hope will match it.   Your gift will be tax-deductible, and you'll be part of the community of people who help to show Cordelia what it means to matter, to have a family and a future.

NO GIFT IS TOO SMALL, and I'd be so grateful.

--Jen

Monday, March 24, 2014

Remembering Bobby Mac

Last June Bobby and I did the Cycle Kids charity ride together.  It was a metric century, notable for its 4,000 feet of climbing, and I wanted to do it because it cost almost nothing, I liked the charity, and I thought the route was pretty.  Various people turned me down but it never even occurred to me that Bobby wouldn't do it, despite the fact that he was still recovering from his eye surgery with nasty complications.  During the summers, Bobby and I rode together almost every day, which meant I should have been an authority on the limitations of his vision.  Instead, I was probably more clueless than most because Bobby was just perpetually up for everything.  Nineteen MPH out to South Acton?  Sure!  100 miles round-trip to Newburyport because I wanted a really good bagel?  Absolutely!  Every ride was wonderful, every idea was a great idea...I took it for granted.  In retrospect I realized that he had made some noises about the climbing, but I was doing a lot of climbing last spring and just didn't see the problem.  You come to a hill, you climb the hill; what's the big deal?

The ride had a rolling start and Bobby and I got there toward the later end of the window, having decided, first, to ride the 15 miles to the start/finish, and second, not to get up at the crack of dawn.  After handing me my bib number, the ladies at registration directed me to "Bob," who was doing the pre-ride talk.  He asked what route I was doing.  "The metric," I told him.

His eyes widened.  "Oh, no," he said. "You're much too late for that.  You'll have to do a shorter route. If you do the metric you won't make it back in time for the barbecue."

"I don't think you understand," I responded.  I've got Bobby Mac with me.  We don't do shorter routes. We'll be at your barbecue."  And off we rode.  Bobby, who overheard the exchange, thought it was just great, and chuckled about it for the next hour.  He also sang, shouted, "Go, team!" at other riders, and consoled me when I got us lost in Sudbury:  "It's okay, Iris--bonus miles!"  But as we approached Stow, the hills started in earnest, and Bobby got quieter.  I knew better than to ask how he was doing, but the dearth of pep talks, dirty jokes, and occasional coaching ("Iris, I think you stand up too much") did have me a bit concerned.

Finally, we made a turn onto a new road and I gave Bobby an opening I was sure he wouldn't be able to resist.  "Look, Bobby, we're on Lover's Lane!"  Nothing.  No lascivious come-on, not even a "Yeah, babe!"  Just silence. God, I thought, I'm killing Bobby.  True to the rest of the route, Lover's Lane was a steady uphill grind.  Guilt overwhelmed me.  What had I done?  At the top of it, as I prepared myself to stop and forcibly suggest gu despite how much that would annoy him, he piped up behind me, loud and clear:  "I know why they call this Lover's Lane.  It's because when people get to the top, they're like, 'Fuck me!'"  And that's when I knew he'd be just fine.

The thing about Bobby was, he believed in being your best self.  I found out only later that he was terrified of this ride, sure he wasn't in good enough condition, couldn't do all that climbing, couldn't see well enough for the fast descents.  But he didn't want to be the blind guy with limited capacities.  He didn't want to be the one others had to look out for.  He wanted to be Bobby Mac, up for everything, champion charity rider and you'd better believe we'll be at your fuckin' barbecue (which we were--take that, "Bob").  He wanted to be what the rest of us saw when we looked at him.  He was overjoyed after that ride, ready for anything, and stopped using his white cane in public.

Bobby once confided to me, probably at the MS ride or something similar, "Iris, you don't know this, but this bike thing sometimes changes people's lives."  I looked at him in surprise, not because it seemed at all like a foreign concept, but because he seemed honestly not to know how much he'd changed my life.  Sure, he taught me all sorts of things: draft, eat before you're hungry, go at your own pace, know what to kiss and when.  But Bobby's real gift to me was a glimpse at my own best self, through his eyes.

I was nothing special before the Quad ride.  Often irascible, frequently isolated, sometimes depressed, more than a little bit shy.  But suddenly Bobby was there, extolling my virtues to whoever would listen.  Road captain!  Charity Czar!  Thousand miles for charity!  The lovely Iris Miranda!  I remember Bobby booming the results of my first race to the assembled multitudes at the end of the bike path: "TENTH PLACE!!"  "Bobby!" I said, mortified, "There were only thirteen women in the race!"  "Shh!" he said sharply.  "TOP TEN IN HER FIRST RACE!"  Last week, in his hospital bed, he told me, "You're amazing.  Everyone knows it.  I don't see why you don't see that in yourself."

I wasn't with Bobby until the end.  I wanted to be, and told him I would be.  I think a lot of us did.  But he had other ideas.  "THERE WILL BE NO FUCKING DEATHWATCH" he texted to me, just a week and a half ago when he got the final death sentence.  And I'm upset and disappointed; there were things I wanted to say and I wanted him to be surrounded by his loved ones. But I wonder if his "no visitors" edict once he left the hospital was his way of preserving his own best self.  So we'd never see him truly fall apart, lose the ability to entertain and inspire, give in to this appallingly swift disease.  He wanted to remain Bobby Mac, the living legend, in our eyes.

And how do I honor that?  Seriously, what tribute would, could possibly, be appropriate?  The group ride will continue.  I'm sure there will be a ride in his name, to raise money for some worthy charity.  While he asked for no funeral, we will gather together for him nonetheless.  But in the end, I think I honor Bobby by trying, daily, to live up to what he thought I was. If I can be that person, even in fits and starts, then maybe I can hold onto the best of Bobby as well.