Well, a storm has been building for about a month. It finally hit this week.
Last April, we faced mental illness head-on. I remember talking to my boss about it at work one day. He sympathized with me yet warned me that it could take a year or more to fix. Now, nine months later, we have started the process all over again.
There are things I wouldn’t change in life. One of those things is my family—my wife and kids. They are each precious to me.
Our family has a story. My wife and I met in a singles ward. Yes, we are a Singles Ward success story. We met, were engaged in a month, and married two months later. That is a whirlwind by the world’s standards—and slow by LDS standards.
At some point, we decided to put all our focus into having a family, only to realize we couldn’t. Health conditions made it impossible for it to happen naturally. So, we turned to in-vitro fertilization. We made a lot of sacrifices to go through the process three times. We were only able to get pregnant the first time. By the last attempt, we gave up and turned to adoption. We had spent so much money on in-vitro that we couldn’t afford to adopt through another country or an expensive agency, so we tried LDS Family Services, which was supposedly a fraction of the cost of other agencies. A year or so later, only one person had considered us.
One day, a neighbor who was in a very similar situation to us suggested Foster to Adopt through Utah State Foster Care. We were very hesitant. But we loved these friends, and if they trusted it, it felt safer to us. As we sat through the classes, the State Foster Care team brought in family after family, detailing heart-wrenching situations and challenges they had faced with the children they fostered and adopted. It was intended to open your eyes to the serious things that could occur and was enough to scare off anyone who was not fully committed to it. But the desire to have another child in our home far outweighed the challenges they painted in these meetings.
At this point, I don’t fully remember all the children we had in our home. The foster care system is as challenging as life itself. It is not for the weak. We had a number of children in our home, and then we were selected to pick up a newborn boy from the NICU at Utah Valley Regional Medical Center in Provo. I still remember getting the call from my wife while I was at work. She said they had a baby that needed a home, and if we wanted to take him, we needed to show up within the next few hours with a car seat. The experience was thrilling.
I remember the first time I looked at him—the happiness and joy of taking him home. It was almost like going shopping at the hospital a real-life baby boy. As we left, we took the hospital elevator, we stood next to a new mother who had just given birth and was somewhat hunched over, still in pain. The experience just picking up a baby felt so much easier than what she was going through. It was a bit surreal.
This little boy grew up in our home and was adopted by us about a year later. There is a song by Michael McLean called From God’s Arms to My Arms to Yours. It talks about how special and miraculous the adoption process can be. I’ve even heard stories from others detailing the miracles that accompanied their adoption experiences. Our experience was full of all the same. There were a hundred little things that all said, this boy was supposed to be yours and part of your family. He may not have come to us through a natural process, but it was God’s will that he be part of our family. How something like that could happen through foster care is beyond me, but that is what it is. I even remember the judge at the adoption hearing saying, “I’m not supposed to say this, but this really feels like a match made in heaven.”
I’m going to sidestep and say—the state of Utah gave us a post-adoption worker who has been a saint. She has been every bit the blessing to us as we have made this journey with our son. And though I cannot detail everything, I cannot express enough love and gratitude for her.
We continued with Utah State Foster Care for a few more years, bringing other children into our home until we were once again asked to bring another baby home from the NICU. This one was more difficult. It didn’t seem to have all the magic the first one had. Everything about the boy we first adopted felt spiritual, as though the hand of God was leading us. Everything about the second felt like our choice. Would we take him and love him? Did we want him as part of our family? We made the choice to do all those things.
I still remember one night when he was a few months old and had been hospitalized for a few days due to a medical condition. I sat there all night long, holding his hand as he slept. He was tiny and innocent. He needed a father who would love him, teach him, and care for him. I made the choice that I could do that.
It wasn’t until he was eight years old—when we baptized him and I was giving him the gift of the Holy Ghost—that God touched my heart in a magnificent way. The Holy Ghost fell upon me, and my heart was full of joy and understanding. God spoke to my heart and told me, this boy is yours. He is and was supposed to be part of your family.
Now, for all the terrible things about foster care. Oh boy. This system is not without its heartache.
Our dear friends waited a long time before any children were placed with them. Yet while they waited, we were given two we could adopt. It was heart-wrenching. Then, when they were finally given children, there was a tug-of-war between the state, the father, and our friends. They were heartbroken when these children—so hard to handle yet so deeply loved—were taken from them and returned to a father who was incapable of caring for them. It almost destroyed our friends. They faced very difficult personal challenges through this period of their lives.
I think back to the foster care meetings we attended—listening to families detail the difficulties they faced with the children they adopted or fostered. Their experiences seemed so extreme. Yet, as our own children aged, we started to see more and more of those things manifest in our own children. I remember one person detailing how their child would sit and pick at the wall until they had picked a hole right through it. Well, both of my boys picked at the paint on the wall until they had stripped large portions of their bedroom walls clean of paint. Not to mention other behaviors—biting the skin off their fingertips (no fingerprints), biting their fingernails and toenails, picking at themselves with pins until they created festering wounds, and other compulsive behaviors. Then there were the inward psychological and emotional struggles. Some came and went. Some were controlled. And over time, some have worsened.
That is where we are today. At some point in my first son’s development, his body went berserk psychologically. Whether it was puberty or his medications, everything seemed to be conflicting. We started down the road of learning to deal with a severe mental health disorder.
At one point, I wrote a post about seeing light at the end of the tunnel. For the last few months, it seemed like we were reaching the other side. Then, in just a few short weeks, the stresses of life—combined with some medication adjustments—sent us running back into the darkness. Can we make it out once again?
The Dark Tunnel and Healing – Worthy of Zion
A Dark Tunnel – Worthy of Zion
I can’t count the number of times in the last week he has expressed feelings of not being loved, not belonging, loneliness, a lack of worth, not wanting to exist, wishing he had never been born, and wanting to take his own life. And yet, in my mind, I see the boy I have loved since the day I laid eyes on him. He is as much a part of me as my biological child. I love him completely and wish he could see and feel that.
Last night be began started over getting him the help he needs. Our hearts are both sad and hopeful.
We are attending a funeral today for a neighbor who lost their second son to suicide last week. It feels as though it is all around us. Too many times, we have lost neighbors, friends, and family to suicide. Their sorrow and suffering, as well as the parallels to our current experience, have not been lost on us.
My heart is tender for my wife, my son, and my children. It is tender for those I love who have lost their children. I long for the day when we dwell with God in peace—when aching hearts will be healed and suffering minds will be at peace, when windows of understanding will be opened, and they will feel the love of their families and their Father in Heaven who love them.