By Marlene Samuels
“She wants a photo of the two of you together.” Richard, our adoption counselor tells us. Concern is spreading across his already serious-looking face. “It’s the one thing of true importance still missing from your file.” My husband Larry and I are sitting in Richard’s office at Family Resource Center reviewing our application folder.
“Gee, I’m not even sure we have such a thing. I’m always the one taking the photos so we’re never in them together that is, unless I manage to rope someone else into snapping one of us.” I explain. “Anyhow, why is this so important?”
“Birth-mom wants proof that you’re an established couple and feels that a photo of the two of you together will put her at ease.”
“You know what, now that I’m thinking about it, I do have one. There is a problem, though. It’s kind of small and at least seven years old but if you think that’ll work, I’ll try to find it as soon as I get home.”
“Of course it’ll work. In fact, it’s perfect. Besides, I’ll bet anything that you haven’t changed a bit and look exactly the way you did then!” Richard says, winking.
Throughout our adoption process, my husband and I are concerned about our anonymity but we’re more concerned that without that photo, birth-mom will reject us. After the baby is born, birth-mom Vicki asks Richard to arrange a conference-call among the four of us. It’s an unanticipated hurdle that increases my anxiety.
Richard tries to comfort me. “Don’t worry about it, it’s pretty standard. Besides, I’ll be monitoring the call.”
“If I do place my baby for adoption,” she says, “You’re my first choice to become his parents. I know you’ll raise him up right and he’ll even be getting a brother!” Later that night, Richard calls to tell us that she’s decided on us to be Michael’s adoptive parents. Our ecstasy is short-lived because two minutes after we all hang up, Richard calls right back.
“She wants all of us to meet tomorrow, early in the evening.” He announces. “How about I arrange something, say six p.m.? We’ll go to her favorite Mexican restaurant. Call you back in a few to work out the details, okay?”
“Well, it’s not exactly what we expected.” I say, trying not to sound uncooperative. Another unanticipated hurdle, and one that’s increasing my anxiety way more than did the idea of a conference call with birth-mom. Worries about meeting her overwhelm me; what if we seem ancient to her? Could our ages cause her to change her mind? What if our four-year old son blurts out personal information to her, like our address or phone number which we’ve drilled into him from the moment he could speak?
The phone rings and I’m startled out of my worry. I grab for it. The moment I say hello, I hear a very excited Vicki. “Richard just told me the good news that you’ve agreed to meet. It’s so excellent!” She says. “I’m super excited and you’ll be sure to bring David, okay? Of course I want to meet my baby’s new parents but I definitely want to meet the new big brother!”
The following night, the six of us gather around a table at Vicki’s favorite spot. Amidst tears, hugs and kisses, she signs legal documents. “We’re so lucky we found each other! I’m so happy my baby will grow up having you for his parents and in the kind of family I can’t give him now, maybe never!” She says, tears fill her eyes. “There’s no way I’m ever going to have a harder decision to make in my whole life! I know I’ll think about him forever.”
Dinner is over and we head toward the door. All of us but David are shedding tears. She gives each of us a big hug then bends down to kiss David on each of his cheeks. “You’re going to be a wonderful big brother, I just know it!” And then she turns to Larry and me, “By the way, your home — it’s so, so beautiful, really amazing! It looks big enough so that the baby can even get his own room, too”
Larry, David, and I walk back to our car. I glance at Larry and notice a look of deep worry on his face. His eyebrows are scrunched together, his lips have become a tight slit below his nose, and his shoulders droop forward. We’re in the quiet of our car and David is in back buckled into his booster-seat. I turn to my husband. “Wanna tell me what’s going on with you?” I ask, trying to control my irritation. “You’re acting weirder than weird!”
He mumbles, making me feel more irritated. “Nothing really except that I’ve been thinking about Birth-mom’s last remarks.”
“Okay, what about them? She had many in case you don’t remember.” I snap.
“Yes she did and I have to tell you there was one in particular that’s really bothering me.” I say nothing and wait for him to elaborate. “Didn’t we agreed that we’d maintain total anonymity? I mean, like no information about where we live, our last names, or anything else that might make it possible for her to find us while Michael’s still a baby, right?”
“Of course we did and I did maintain total anonymity. You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I’m feeling intense agitation with my husband. “So just what’s the problem?” I ask in a voice testier than I’d intended.
“Alright, then if we agreed on anonymity, may I ask why in the world you would have given her a photo of our house? Are you nuts? And in case you forgot, our address is right there in the leaded glass window above the front door?” He’s ready for an argument but so am I.
“Duh, it’s not our house, Genius!” I say, now resisting the urge to really say something I’m sure to regret. He looks at me quizzically, awaiting my explanation. I provide it.
“You goof! It’s the picture of us from seven years ago. It’s from the time we stayed at the Greenway Manor in the British Cotswolds. Don’t you remember that? Jack McKinney, the owner, insisted on taking a photo of us on the manor’s front patio?”

Postscript:
Was it the English manor house that helped close the deal with Birth-mom Vicki? Was it the fact that the baby she birthed — who became our son Michael, would gain an older brother? We never can know but, in the big scheme of life, all that really matters is that we definitely were privileged to have become his parents.
© 2022 Marlene Samuels
Marlene holds a Ph.D., from University of Chicago. A research sociologist by training, she writes creative non-fiction by preference. Currently, she is completing her book entitled, Ask Mr. Hitler: A Memoir Told In Short Story.
She is coauthor of The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival and author of When Digital Isn’t Real: Fact Finding Off-Line for Serious Writers. Her essays and stories have been published widely in anthologies, journals and online. (www.marlenesamuels.com)
What We Can Learn About Customer Service from Hospice
By Neil Fauerbach
The Hospice movement in this country has provided a wonderful environment for families facing end of life issues with their loved ones. Considered the model for quality compassionate care for people facing a life-limiting illness, Hospice provides expert medical care, pain management, and emotional and spiritual support tailored to the patient’s needs and wishes. Support is also provided to the patient’s family. It is important to know that Hospice focuses on caring, not curing.
My family recently had our second Hospice experience when my 89 year old mother passed away peacefully, with the family holding her hands. Dad passed there in 2007. I have referred to the Hospice experience as “remarkable” and have had to explain myself to the uninitiated.
When it was time to go to Hospice, the ambulance crew showed up to transport Mom to Agrace Hospice near her condo in Fitchburg, Wisconsin. I was pleased that it was Ryan Brothers Ambulance Service, a former Wisconsin Family Business of the Year Award winner. They were obviously part of the chain of care that Hospice provides. They were kind, respectful, humorous (which Mom encouraged), and attentive.
Upon arriving at the center she was wheeled directly to her room and helped into bed. No stops for registration, verification of date of birth, or signing insurance forms. From her door to being comfortable in bed took eight minutes. It was obvious that planning and communication had facilitated this swift intake, but it was invisible to us.
Every doctor, nurse, nursing assistant, and maintenance worker called her by her first name. They always asked permission before entering the room, checking vitals, or administering pain medications. They always asked if there was anything at all they could do for the family. They were always around, but never underfoot. Respect plays a large role in their values.
Their goal is comfort. They make certain the patient’s and the family’s wishes are respected and their needs met. For us, that included finding a corkscrew and clean glasses. Mom wasn’t going to drink wine from a Styrofoam cup!
The conversations with the doctors and nurses were open and honest. Decisions about care and treatment were informed by the passionate insights of those caregivers. But the decisions were ours. The dying process was explained by a social worker. We knew what to expect. We were prepared. Grief counseling was readily available. Being ready was up to us individually.
When Mom died (on our dad’s birthday), we were there, holding her hands, her favorite opera playing in the background. After she passed, we were given as much time with her as we needed. When we were ready, we participated in a respectful procession down the halls of Agrace, Mom covered in a beautiful quilt, her doctors and nurses trailing behind us, and all staff standing along the way as if in an honor guard. They thanked us for the honor of helping her through to the end.
What lesson can we learn from the Hospice philosophy? What can we do to make what we do more meaningful, useful, and graceful? Does everyone on your team know what your clients need, want or feel? How much better would you be at your work if you were able to help your clients reach their goals with passion and grace?
Here are some of my takeaways:
© 2022 Neil Fauerbach
Neil is a retired marketing professional having worked for over forty years for several professional service firms. In his free time he creates videos, photographs nature, chairs committees in non-profits, and is learning to play the banjo.
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