12

The Woman Upstairs

There are people that are a part of my adoption story that are not vital characters. Yet they stick with me. People with no connection to our lives, to adoption even, that have made a lasting impression in my mind, my soul. I was reminded of one such individual just today.

She lived in the apartment above mine. She walked heavy and had an even heavier case of insomnia. Pregnant and on bed rest, unable to sleep at night myself, I’d hear her feet hit the floor at one o’clock in the morning. She’d stomp into the bathroom and run herself a hot bath. For awhile, the sounds would cease as she likely attempted to relax herself back to sleep. She’d stomp back to bed, waking me yet again. I’d roll to my other side, hand gently touching my belly as the Munchkin kicked me. My precious daughter was a night owl as well.

It was late in my pregnancy when we talked for the first time. I was visibly pregnant, though I was never very large due to the health issues I experienced. I was taking some clothes to the laundry room. She stopped me to ask some questions. I was already matched with Munchkin’s parents at that point, intent on placing my baby for adoption. I didn’t share that fact with the woman who lived upstairs. I knew her sleeping habits but not her last name. I didn’t know how she would feel about adoption, how she might react. I was on the defensive while pregnant, afraid of what people might say and how they might judge me. I felt judged enough, being single and pregnant. Giving away my baby was just more fuel for the judgmental fire of society. I answered her questions politely but with vague, open-ended answers. I felt like I was lying but I didn’t know this woman from Eve. I walked back downstairs, heart heavier than her late night footsteps on my ceiling.

The time came that Munchkin was born. I left the hospital without her, returning to my parents house to gather some things and head back to the apartment. Four days later, my father, grandfather and my (now) husband arrived to help me load my belongings into a U-Haul. The reasons for this quick move are not the point of this particular post.

It wasn’t yet snowing that day, the snow set to fall that evening as I made the trek to Ohio, but it was cold. As the adult males in my life trudged boxes and bags and furniture to the truck, their effort was visible in the white puff of visible air, every breath they exhaled hanging just above their heads. The woman upstairs came down to see what the fuss was about, making sure someone wasn’t stealing all of my stuff. I’ll be honest when I say that I don’t remember too much of what she asked me. I was likely still in some form of shock from the labor and delivery of my firstborn child just six days earlier. Combine that with the shock of grief and loss that comes from leaving the hospital alone and subsequently signing my name to a piece of paper that, basically, says that the labor and delivery never took place and, well, I’d venture to guess the details of the conversation were blurry for many a reason.

But I remember her speaking to my father, asking him questions that would be asked of any proud grandfather. I remember the look on his face, a deer caught in the headlights for a moment before he released eye contact, mumbled an answer and went back to the physical action of letting his daughter go just days after he let his first and only granddaughter go. I remember wanting to save him from the moment, to change the subject, to do just about anything to put a smile back on his face. I was silenced by my own deep sadness.

The woman went back into the building, walking heavily up the stairs. Long after I was gone that night, she probably woke up and stomped her way into the bathroom, her footsteps echoing through my empty, dark apartment. Little did she know that I would wake, two-and-a-half hours west of her, and shuffle into my new bathroom. I’d turn on the hot water and cry until the water ran cold. I’d shuffle back to my new bed and stare at the ceiling until the sun came up. I’d do this for weeks after my arrival in Ohio, my new fiance unaware as he slept like a rock. I’d think of the woman who lived upstairs. I’d wonder what her story was, why she couldn’t fall asleep. I’d pray it wasn’t because she had placed a baby for adoption, given away her only baby girl… like I did.

Why she crossed my mind today, I don’t know. I sometimes still shower in the middle of the night though the tears don’t come as often. The nights are the loneliest, I think, for anyone who has experienced any form of loss, no matter the amount of love still present in our lives. I hope the woman upstairs was able to find sleep eventually.

I hope we all do.

_
Photo Credit: 2006 FireMom Photography.