Recently my cousin uncovered a photo, I had never seen before. When my Grandma Esther died, my Dad and his siblings divided up the family photos. My cousin is now investigating the ones in her Dad and Mom’s album. This photo actually had something written on the back of it. And I am the one with the story, because of my story.
When I married, I never expected infertility. I was in love, we were healthy, there were no problems. So when decided to get pregnant, I was devastated when we seemed unable to have children.
After the first year , I was sent on to a specialist and started on years of tests, surgeries and medical treatments. Throughout this all, I had one major supporter, my Grandma Esther. In her late 80s, Grandma was not one to let me give up. During a time when long distance phone calls cost extra before 11 pm, Grandma became my late night phone call.
I lived in Kansas, so when my phone rang after 10 pm, I knew it was an East Coast call. If it was not my parents, it was Grandma Esther with advise! Her first calls were to tell me that she also had problems when she first tried to have children. She told me to stop stressing and go to the ocean. She and grandpa went to the ocean and she got pregnant with my uncle.
Well, I could not go to the ocean from Kansas. But I felt the love. Over the next few years Grandma’s phone calls came with more involved medical advise. I could see in my mind’s eye, multitudes of grandmas sitting around and coming up with cures.
Eventually I did have a healthy baby girl. My Grandma was so excited. At age 88, she flew to Kansas to be here for my daughter’s naming. Grandma’s advise did not end. Having nursed three infants, she was an expert. She announced one day that I was doing it all wrong. “If you are going to nurse, you need to do it the right way,” she said. With in minutes she had placed cushions and a footstool around me, and nursing became so much easier.
I wish I could say that was the end of my struggles, but it was not. I was unable to have another pregnancy. But I was not done with motherhood. My husband and I turned to adoption.
It was not easy. We had two strikes against us. One, we already had one child. Two, we were Jewish. Agencies in Kansas were basically religion based. We were told we could register, but when a better qualified (Christian) family came, we would be put to the back of the line. We tried private adoption. But two weeks before the baby was born, the mom changed her mind. Again difficult.
Finally we found the Adam’s Center, a local agency that helped Jewish families. No longer in existence, it helped about three dozen families adopt babies. Not all were Jewish. We were one of the fortunate ones, and our son arrived.
My Dad was a bit nervous about this. On his way home from a business trip in California, he stopped in Kansas to meet his newest grandson. My sister called in advance, “Dad is nervous that he won’t love him the same.”
No worries. Dad arrived. I put the baby in his arms. My Dad looked up and said, “how could you not love that punim, that face.” And then he told me, “With each child and grandchild, you do not split the love you have. No your heart just gets bigger and bigger.” My parents had big hearts.
Dad was still nervous about how his mother, my Grandma Esther, would react. As far as he knew, there had never been an adoption in the family. How little he knew.
Grandma was now 92. She did not fly out, but she called. She was so happy and told me the story of her cousin, Messuganah Esther. She told me in the old days, early 1900s, people, who had no children, often adopted orphan children. Most of the time they were related. But sometimes, they were the children of friends. I must say that orphan sometimes just meant one parent had died.
In any case, my Great Grandmother Ray, had a sister, Chamka. When Chamka finally made it out of the Bialystok region to join her siblings in the USA, she was a widow with three young children. And she was pregnant. What was she to do? Her sister Sarah had no children. and Sarah had a good job and could support a child. So when Chamka gave birth, the daughter Esther, was given to Sarah to raise. Because so many girls were named Esther, she received the nickname, Meshugganah Esther. (See previous blog, Too Many Esthers.)
The photo is touching. It shows Chamka (Champy) holding Meshugganah Esther’s daughter, Lenore. And it tells part of the story on the back.
Needless to say, when I brought my son back East for the first time, my Grandma Esther showered him with the same love she gave every great grandchild. She had a handmade afghan waiting for him as she did for all 18 of her great grandchildren. Because in my family, with every child, grandchild and great grandchild, you do not divide your love, your heart only gets larger and able to hold more love.
zicharonot 