The Girl in a Box; Preface and Chapter 1

I'm excited to share the working draft and opening to my current book, The Girl in the Box.

The Girl in the Box

By Will Corcoran

Preface

The time had come.  We had waited years for this day.  We tried to imagine how it would unfold over and over, thinking of how long it would take to get there, who would accompany us, what the place would look and smell like, how quickly we would be processed and, most frighteningly, whether the government officials would change their minds.  But, it was nothing like we had imagined.

They loaded us in the long industrial-sized van, which was white in color but extremely dirty.  As we piled in, the translator and the driver spoke to each other; though by that time we had heard a lot of Mandarin, we could not understand what they were saying.  But the nature of their discussion was all business, and seemed hurried.  The driver, a small-framed middle-aged man, had a small mustache and deep, dark bags under his eyes.  He stood at the van door, herding us in quickly, with his head down and away from the translator to whom he spoke.

The translator, a petite woman in her mid 20s, stood next to the driver and spoke to him in a staccato-like fashion.  Her head bobbed up and down and side to side as she spoke; before the driver would finish what seemed to be answering a rhetorical question, the translator would interrupt.  Their conversation lacked any social pleasantries, and continued from the time the van arrived, through our loading, and even still as we drove with the driver and translator now side-by-side in the front seats.  By then, I had given up listening to their words and instead focused on

their interactions with each other, which in the end were not very illuminating either. 

Whatever the topic, it was clear that both were upset and not just with one another.  They were deeply nervous and scattered – and almost seemed fearful of what was to come at the end of our drive but were compelled to get there without delay.  I sat there hoping that the duo’s angst and worry had nothing to do with our situation – knowing that it probably did.

We all did.  All nine of us sat silently.  With our own worries and full of anticipation.  Though a larger van, it was not made to transport so many of us.  We were packed in, our arms and legs with no space between each person.  I kept my hand on the $3,000 U.S. dollars strapped to my chest – as a way to create more space – but also to give me some comfort in knowing that the money hadn’t been stolen.  The mugginess in the van was intensified by the body heat.  And the odor was something that I had never smelled before; it was a musty and old stench that reeked of heavy carbon dioxide and what seemed to be rotting animal carcasses. Whatever its make up, the thick fumes were actually visible.

The grey fog and noxious odor proved to be a useful distraction as we maneuvered through the City of Nanjing in China’s Jiangsu Province.  Though I had little to compare it to, Nanjing appeared to be a larger city – but with a heavy rural influence.  Nanjing, like most of China, was densely populated and had larger shopping centers, two-lane roads, and taller buildings (though no real sky scrapers to be sure).  At the same time, as we looked closer, the urban appearance could not overshadow the street vendors selling vegetables, horse-drawn buggies transporting farm equipment, or the trash and raw sewage in the streets.  As we drove by a market on one side of the street, I saw a street vendor on the other side relieving himself into a shallow and narrow stream of brown water.  No one else on the busy street seemed to pay him any mind; it appeared to be an acceptable practice.  The stark differences from one side of the street to the other seemed to define Nanjing – and much of China.

Everyone in the van noticed the street vendor too.  Everyone, that is, except our Chinese transporters.  We didn’t dare discuss our observations.  Rather, the briefly exchanged glances with one another spoke volumes that each of us – all being U.S. citizens – was keenly aware how foreign we were.  How different we were.  It was odd to feel so noticeably different, to be the clear minority and feel so alone.  We longed for home.  I didn’t know it then, but weeks later, I would remember this feeling – from a very different perspective.

But, we were not to leave China.  Not yet.

After driving for what seemed like an eternity, I started to look and wonder, with each turn, whether this was it.  Was this the neighborhood?  Was that the government building?  Is that an embassy or other official-looking building?  Would I even know what it would look like here?  We were very close.  Yet the closer we got, the longer it felt like it took.  That had been thematic of this near two-year journey.

The road grew more and more bumpy.  The driver knew the path well, however, as he slowed deliberately before taking the larger, rocky inclines.  He braced for the rugged terrain before we encountered it, gently guiding us through the ups and downs of the last leg of our trip.

We turned into a driveway that dead ended.  This was it.  I would have never guessed this building, I thought to myself.  The small, one-story building was worn, its masonry giving way and becoming debris in some parts around the building’s edges.  The signage for the building, which I couldn’t read, was discrete and understated.  You couldn’t even see the sign from the road and it was no more obvious than dozens of others that we had passed along the way.  This wasn’t a destination for the Chinese people.  Signage was not necessary.  Such “advertisement,” in fact, might have been counterproductive for the government.

“We are late,” our translator reported with a deeply disturbed look on her face.  It was the same look that she had when talking with the driver.  “We move quickly now,” she told us, as they both got out of the van and escorted us out one-by-one.  As we had done many times before, we got out and stood behind the duo awaiting further instruction.  We had been well trained.  It was critical that we were.

What did being late mean for us? What were the consequences?  I wondered, anxiously awaiting the final few in our group to get out.

Outside of the building were two smaller, off-white vans – parked right outside of the entrance.  The vans were empty.  Did our tardiness foreclose the opportunity?

Questions swirled in my head, as I looked at our translator’s state of frustration.  I looked at my wife, Kristen, but neither of us spoke.  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.  This wasn’t part of the plan. 

Things had not gone according to plan for the children in that building either.  The van loads of Chinese orphans had arrived ahead of schedule that morning.  These little girls, mostly, and a few boys had been abandoned at birth.  Hidden under cover of darkness, or some other surreptitious method so their birth parents could avoid prosecution for violating the country’s One Child Rule.  This lot was among the lucky to have been found and taken to the orphanages – that were as plentiful in China as churches in the Bible Belt in the U.S.

Though the orphanages were many in number, they were extremely overcrowded – reflective of the tragically far higher number of children abandoned and brought there.  Within each orphanage, the sheer number of children clamoring for attention would mean, out of necessity, that each child would receive much less than any would need in their first days, weeks, and years.  Less food.  Less changings.  Less baths.  Less time – held, rocked, sung to, kissed, hugged.  Less – everything.  Everything we have learned that any baby needs to survive – let alone flourish.

So, it was remarkable, I had thought before and repeatedly since that day – that these kids had made it.  Undoubtedly, they were a strong and courageous group – kids destined to survive against so many hurdles early in life.  And not only literally survive, but they would live life. 

I had no idea at the time, but these kids all had something in common.  A determined and fighting spirit.  A spirit that helped them overcome abandonment, oppressive government regulations, and led them through the hardships.  A spirit that would not be broken by the “list of less” that they received.  It was a spirit that I have rarely seen, or felt, so vividly before or since.  It was a force that you could literally feel – from the deepest part of your body, radiating warmth and peace.  I remain convinced that God guided these children’s spirits to safety.

None of that was in my head as we stood outside the Ministry of Children’s Affairs Office in Nanjing that morning.  My wife and I were there to meet our daughter.  To take her home and to be her parents. 

The general notion of parenting I felt relatively comfortable with, my wife and I having had another child at the time.  Feeding, changing, rocking, and holding – I felt well equipped to love our little girl and was excited to begin doing exactly what we had done, and loved doing, with our biological son.  We were as confident as anyone can become with the ever-changing skill set of parenting.  But this parenting, I would soon learn, was much, much more than I ever anticipated. 

Never did I dream that it would entail learning about the other girls.  Those that, like our daughter, were abandoned – but did not make it out of the orphanage.  Or learning about those that did not even make it to an orphanage.  The dramatic difference that appeared from the outside to exist for no particular reason in many cases. 

Nor did I think this journey would involve learning about the plight of our daughter’s biological parents, her caretakers in the orphanage, or the deep emotional impact this would have on those, and others, around our daughter in her early days. 

This book is about our journey of love.  The challenges and triumphs (which, by far, there are more of) faced before, during, and after we met our daughter.  And those that we continue to encounter today.  It is also about those that have crossed paths with, and had an impact, on our daughter’s life.  And about those that still remain in China.

Big Questions From a Little Girl

Much of this reflection has been sparked by our daughter’s questions.  Some basic.  What did I do when we were in China? What did people say to you when we walked around?  Tell me about when you picked me.  Answers to questions that she could hear us tell her over and over without growing tired of it nor us in re-telling – because it is an important piece of who she is. 

Some much deeper.  Where did I come from?  Do you understand why my birth mommy didn’t keep me?  Why?  A lot of why questions.  What about the other babies still there? Why does China’s government have that rule?

The questions never stop.  For Gracie, so many questions remain unanswered.  Some always will.  And that is true of most every child that has been adopted from China.  But asking and exploring the answers is crucial to her identity and self worth.

That exploration is what we take on in this book.  Before our trip – many years ago – and since, we have seen and read many useful books about the before and during the adoption process.  We have yet to see a book answer our Chinese daughters’ and sons’ pivotal questions after finding their forever family.  That is this book.  The epilogue, if you will.  Each chapter addresses questions that Gracie has raised, and the story that follows.

Though each relationship is unique, over the years we have learned that our experiences on this journey are not so different from others.  These kids serve as an inspiration to us all.  We hope that Gracie’s questions and our story will serve as a useful guide to anyone that has ever considered international adoption or is about to embark on that path.  And that it is a pleasant read to anyone that enjoys discovering remarkable and courageous children.

Chapter One:  The Picture Worth A Thousand Words

“Why Did You Pick Me?”

My concerns that first night were eased when I thought about our long, deliberate journey to Gracie.  That beautiful and magnificent story also turned out to be the perfect answer to Gracie’s favorite question years later. 

“Daddy, will you tell me again why you decided to adopt from China?  And why you and Mommy picked me?” Gracie would ask countless times.  Each time she did, she lit up.  Her entire face smiled – her eyes beamed – as she waited to hear me retell the story she had heard many times before. 

Gracie would often ask the question just before bedtime, or when she was tired.  Sometimes when we talked about unique experiences that we had with her brothers, our biological children – she wanted to hear about the unique experience we had with her.  Each time we answered, it was easy to see that it soothed her, and made her feel like the special little girl that she was.  At some level, her hearing that we chose her, that we to took extraordinary steps to make her our daughter reaffirmed her place in our family.  Seemed to relieve her self doubt, which we were grateful for. 

It was a question that we never grew tired of hearing.  And we answered it, and all of the ancillary questions that were necessarily a part of it, with what we knew, learned, and most importantly felt in our hearts.

The Baby in a Box

The rainy season had just ended weeks earlier, but it still felt damp.  The air was sticky and humid, but there was a cool breeze early that September morning in 2004 at the Lianyungang train station.  By 6:30 that morning, early commuters were well on their way.  Lianyungang was a port city, but many who traveled through it were from the small rural towns and villages that were close by.  Many brought their produce, meats, fish, and hand-made goods from those villages to Lianyungang to sell or trade.  Still others came from the rural parts to work in the big city or to travel from its port where work might take them.  All said, Lianyungang was a big city – but for a great many, it was a destination as the closest resource to their rural homes on the outskirts of it.  So, it was a working city and very busy. 

With the bustle of activity, people, vehicles, and boats, the air in Lianyungang was thick and smog-filled, with the greyish brown cloud constantly hovering over it.  The potent smell of oil, trash, and smoke were overpowering.  The contrast between that man-made cloud and the natural beauty of the ocean abutting the city could not have been more stark.  To an outside observer, it seemed so unnatural to have a thing of such pristine beauty overshadowed by a dark and ominous cloud.  But the people of Lianyungang didn’t seem to appreciate the irony, or they had gotten used to the environment and accepted it for what it was.

Neither did they seem to take notice of the woman with the cardboard box at the train station early that morning.  She desperately wanted to go unnoticed.  If she were caught, she would surely end up in prison.  As she put the box down, she quickly turned around and went back in the direction she came from – hoping to vanish as fast as she came, and to remain unknown. 

But also hoping with all of her might that someone would notice the box.  That is precisely why she, like many other women before and after her that day, left the box in that train station – such a congested place and during such a busy time.  The risk of being caught was worth taking, but only if someone looked inside the box. 

The woman got her wish.  Much like the enormous brown cloud, the passersby didn’t notice her.  Whether they knew it at the time or not, they had seen this unfold many times before.  This woman did not stand out.  For them, she was yet another woman with a cardboard box.

But, as the woman had hoped, someone heard the sounds from within the box.  There was tapping that made a clicking sound against the cardboard.  It was irregular, but distinctive.  A background beat, almost, for the unmistakable cry of the newborn baby inside it.  An older woman made her way to the box, opened the flaps, and looked down to see the baby – wrapped snuggly in what appeared to be a hand-woven blanket – crying with all of her might. 

She quickly picked up the little girl from the box, and held her, as someone else contacted the police.  In the backdrop, the dark brown cloud seemed to appear heavier.  And much like the natural purity the ocean provided in comparison, the little girl in the box – now out of her four-cornered cardboard container – had emerged as the beacon of light that shined brightly through the heavy cloud. 

In dealing with the abandonment, we have found embracing Gracie’s story to help tremendously.  We have talked with a great number of adoptive parents that tend to shy away from the answer, or when pressed, give a cursory explanation that will satisfactorily answer the question.  But, though counter-intuitive at the beginning, we found (after much personal faltering on our own) embracing the story of her abandonment, explaining the details of the care placed and risk taken, and making Gracie the center piece has helped address her self-confidence issues, which come with being abandoned.  It also serves as a great springboard in underscoring how important she was to us – when we chose her.

 

From One Box to Another

From her cardboard box at the train station, the police took Gracie to a nearby hospital, and then to Lianyungang Orphanage.  The orphanage had a large room for the younger children – essentially any baby that would stay in a crib.  Because their general lack of caregiver attention resulted in gross motor delay, most babies were not mobile for a long time.  The room was filled with tiny cribs with steel bars and frames.  They looked like miniature jail cells without ceilings, silver boxes that housed these babies during a great majority of their time at the orphanage. 

The orphanage was always busy, but not chaotic.  An overwhelming sense of rigorous structure permeated the building – from the strong clean smells to the brisk manner in which people moved and curtly interacted.  The uncannily clean white walls, in the midst of hundreds of babies, spoke volumes about the strict organizational structure in place there.  It was likely out of necessity. 

Just like prisons, the orphanage was overcrowded.  I venture to guess that the worst of prison overcrowding in the U.S. couldn’t hold a candle to this orphanage’s population.  There were rows and rows of the little steel boxes – as deep as you could see.  Often, there were two babies in a crib.  Each crib abutted others on at least two sides, and sometimes all four, such that the children could see their crib-mates quite easily.  They couldn’t avoid them actually.  Most of their waking, and all of their sleeping, moments were with this same group of children.  For the first formative months, and often years, of their lives.  Though we will never know for sure, we have to assume that these children formed a unique bond that most of us will not understand.  We certainly discovered far-reaching impacts on Gracie that we did not expect, and could not explain, before seeing the second box she occupied – for almost two years.   

The Light From Within

We knew right when we saw her picture.

“I love him.  He’s so happy,” I remarked to Ann, as we both looked at the screen.

“Will, he’s a girl.  They just shave all of their heads,” Ann said whimsically, implicitly agreeing with my observation without needing to express it.

“I don’t care,” I said as we both laughed, “That’s our baby.”

And so she was.

We had never planned to go down this particular path.  In fact, after we submitted our dossier to the adoption agency, we had agreed that we would not look at the “waiting children” online.  These children were those that had been forgotten; they were either older, having not been selected for adoption like their crib-mates, or had special needs.  Either way, all of these children were in the orphanage and presented some challenge in finding a home through the normal channels.  I soon learned that “waiting” was nothing more than a politically correct term that meant “last chance.”  If these children were not adopted during a specified period, they would be ineligible for adoption and were placed in a permanent orphanage - where they stayed.  Until they died, which was at an alarming rate.  Or became old enough to venture out on their own, having no safety net whatsoever.

But that’s certainly not what we planned.  It was a matter of what we had on our plates, and what we thought we were able to take on.  Our son, Sammy, was 18 months old and we wanted to add another baby to the family.  We had calculated the perfect age spacing, yes we were those types, and it all fit into our plans.  That is precisely why we had agreed not to look at the profiles of the “waiting children.”  It served no purpose.

Plans changed.  When Ann opened the laptop, we looked.  The first few children were older – 4 or 5 year olds.  Like the rest, their hair was buzzed short.  And I remember thinking that they looked so sad.  Their eyes stared ahead into, or sometimes past, the camera, but it seemed as though the kids weren’t really there.  There was an emptiness - a hole that ran so deep that it seemed incomprehensible.  Those pictures said it all – they were alone.  So very alone, and always had been.  They had lost hope. 

My heart was heavy, and I remember thinking that our first instinct was right; we should not have looked at these profiles. 

“Let’s stop,” I said, just as Ann advanced to the next picture.

It was Gracie.  I smiled so hard that I was almost laughing.  Like me then, she was grinning from ear to ear in the picture on the computer screen.  Her nose was a bit crinkled, as she smiled, and her eyes beamed.  There was no other word to describe it.  They literally beamed with happiness, spirit and hope.  And playfulness.  Just like a kid is supposed to smile.  

Despite where she was, and where she had been, Gracie was happy.  She had not lost hope.  From our first glance at her photo, it was clear that Gracie had a special light within her that had guided her through the dark corners and turns that her life had already taken in those first 18 months.

We considered, but only briefly, that Gracie was just four weeks younger than our son – so we would have virtual twins and she might have some attachment issues; and that Gracie had a cleft palate that needed repaired.  Her exuberant spirit, which was most important to us, shined from another continent and on a computer screen thousands of miles away.

That evening, we began the process.  Two days later, we were overjoyed, albeit surprised, to hear “Congratulations, your daughter is beautiful!”

Being wanted, and in the case of international adoption, being chosen are such powerful stories for these children.  Gracie has asked to hear it so many times that she can almost recite portions verbatim.  We have also found it useful to tell her this story, even when she doesn’t ask, if she is having any issues with self-confidence, worthiness, or abandonment.  The story, and its impact, is timeless.  Each family has a unique story in response to this question, but never underestimate the power of the answer.  Share it often.

It Was Different This Time

by Troy Foster

Unfortunately, we have had the experience of being with the Henry through many hospital stays.  They are never easy – not the build up and the desperate attempts to do everything we can to avoid having to go.  Not the handoff of the other three kids, and reassurance to them that Henry will be fine.  And not watching the poking and prodding, or seeing the other sick kids that are there.  Or seeing the helpless looks on the parents’ faces as they walk back and forth, sitting, waiting for what is to come next.

In fact, we have been lucky enough to have a proactive approach in his care that most are not afforded.  We know about this rare disease, we know how Henry reacts, and we know what won’t work (for the most part).  Because of its rarity, oftentimes we know more about mitochondrial disease than many.

Though it has never been pleasant – and far from it – it has always been emotionally manageable.  This time was different.

And to be honest, I’m not sure why.  It started off the same.  Henry has pneumonia, doctor has prescribed antibiotic, we are religious about his breathing treatments, liquids, and getting him rest.  Last night, there were some complications (not out of the norm) – so I talked to the doctor and we tried something else.  Worked fine until Henry woke up vomiting in the middle of the night.  Again, not something that we haven’t faced before, but enough to know that we need help.

When I got to the Emergency Room, we were rushed ahead of everyone and Henry was given a breathing treatment and some liquids.  Routine.  Then, we were visited by 4 doctors, each with increasing tenure and expertise.  When Henry’s fever spiked to 103, I had to explain that Tylenol is contraindicated for mitochondrial patients and he needed something different; they obliged.  Henry patiently answered their questions – through his labored breathing – and we watched TV shows and I brushed his cheek with the back of my hand until he drifted off.  All standard.

Things then went a little further south than they have before.  Henry was in respiratory distress, his blood pressure and heart rate skyrocketed, he needed oxygen to maintain saturation, and his fever was unmanageable.  And, little Henry was unresponsive.  Not for a long time – but for long enough to make the experience different.

And then the most horrific thought crossed my mind.  What is different is that reality reared its ugly head for the first time on this journey.  None of the other experiences were standard at all.  They just didn’t hit me the same way this one has.  For me, with all of the other experiences, it seemed that several things would have to go wrong before we faced losing Henry.  Today, many of them did – and quickly.

So though the wind has been knocked out of me a bit (ironic metaphor, I know), this just seems to emphasize how important enjoying every day with our loved ones is - just like Henry was doing with his siblings and cousins just a few days ago (above).  Always was, and always has been. Today was just a big reminder for me.  Small piece of advice:  just take my word for it – don’t wait on your own reminder.

The Skateboard

by Troy Foster

I’ve been thinking a lot about a skateboard for the last couple of weeks.  Trust me, I’m not a skateboard guy, never have been, and don’t plan to pick up this new hobby.  Though some of you would have fun watching that unfold.

No, my newfound interest in this board with wheels comes from Henry’s obsession.  Like most parents, we began waiting it out.  Wait for him to lose interest – or even forget about it.  Straight from Parenting 101 when a 5-year old asks for a skateboard, right? 

He was relentless.  Henry described the colors, how it would feel smooth at first but rough after awhile, the skateboard’s shape, what the wheels looked like, and the decals that he’d put on his ride.  With a description so vivid, you can’t help but visualize his skateboard – and just know that you are seeing the same thing he imagines.

Parenting 101 in full effect had us relaying a lot of empty “what a great imagination,” “maybe Santa Claus will bring it one year,” or “that’ll be nice when you’re older,” etc.

Then, Henry started talking about what it would feel like when he rode the skateboard.  His anticipated excitement of going fast or up, down, and around was unremarkable.  But the look on his face as he described it, the pure joy, bright eyes and wide smile, and his giggle – left me speechless.  Then, I noticed that I was smiling along with Henry.

And then, I was horrified.  The path I had been on was to let Henry wait to experience something every kid should.  An activity that his feeding tube, pump in his backpack always on his back, his muscle weakness, and breathing issues would all caution against.  As would the fact that those things are expensive and we’re not made of money.  Surely, Parenting 101 would say “no way.”

We were quickly reminded that we’re on a different path.  Later, when he’s older, Santa’s visit two years from now – all speak of a future that might not be.  A time that Henry’s disease may rob him (and us) of.  So, as we have with other things, we look to enjoying and experiencing the things that we can.  Even if not age appropriate, the most financially responsible, or other things that Parenting 101 would instruct.  Though his disease may limit what he’ll experience, and us with him, we won’t let norms or practicalities stop his smile.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Santa will be toting a skateboard for Henry this year.  I know that friends of ours – other parents brought together because they face similar challenges/tragedies – would do the same thing.  That is especially true of our dear friends that have already had to say goodbye to their little ones.  (I was just listening to a song by Taylor Swift www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiX7fA9da6A – dedicated to one of these little boys – Ronan; I know that he – and his parents – wouldn’t think twice about this odd dilemma.)  The skateboard it is! 

By the way, I dare you to listen to that song and NOT cry.  Impossible.

To help children with terminal or life-threatening illnesses, please visit www.henryshope.org.