Friday, August 28, 2009

If I told you 'bout my life, I'd have to kill you...

I've been possibly the worst blogger in the history of the sport this summer — which, incidentally, beat all speed records for how fast it flew by.
Time does fly when you're being thwarted.
Beaux and I have been creating two separate realities this summer for the girls. By night, we do things like hang out until 2 a.m. watching the meteor shower out by the lake whenever we get the chance and can muster the energy. By day, we work long hours and drag home exhausted, him from disease and me from I don't know what.
On that recent jaunt, I made a mental note that, hopefully, that moment would stick in their mind as they recalled this last year. Memories of time together, instead of fears about what may be coming as Beaux gets sicker and his need for a liver transplant grows dire. We know it's coming, but we really are trying to do happier things. And although we don't talk about it, I suspect we're trying to fix memories in those young minds.
The other daytime activity has been the most aggravating of my life. Here it is, in a much-condensed form:
In May, our health insurance at work changed. The transplant will be covered. Anti-rejection meds will not. Those are a lifelong necessity and, depending on how much rejection you're experiencing, run between $900 and $3,200 a month. We don't have it. So we've been trying to connect Beaux back in with the Indian tribe to which we've been told he was born. That meant opening his adoption, which took place in 1965 when he was almost 4 (he'd been in foster care with his adoptive parents for quite some time).
People said that would be hard, but aside from having to figure out which county in Arizona did the adoption, it was not bad, thanks in large part to a very nice judge. We used the Indian Child Welfare Act and in early July received information about his birth parents. She was reportedly young and unmarried, so he was "allegedly" the father.
The tribe ran a quick scan and said they had only one match, and the girl was too young. I pointed out we thought she was very young and they said we should get a birth certificate.
Laugh here. Ugh. It's been sealed for almost 50 years.
I provided the court order opening the adoption records, but it wasn't good enough for Arizona vital statistics folks. So I asked the judge for another order, which she granted. It, too, was not worded to the taste of vital statistics. But third time's the charm (Thank you, Judge for being so patient!) and we finally, last Friday, got the original birth certificate.

Which listed entirely different parents than those named in the adoption. . . I have no clue what we're to make of that. I literally alternate between wanting to cry and throw up. And I've talked to a couple of friends who are juvenile court judges here in Utah who say they've never heard of such a thing.
I am not sure how we resolve it. I've written to the poor, long-suffering judge who probably wishes she'd called in sick the day the original adoption petition came in. And I have fantastic scenarios playing in my head, like the 28-year-old of the birth certificate is actually his grandmother, who managed to get someone to fake it so she looks like the mother instead of her daughter, who is listed on the adoption paperwork....... But nothing really makes sense and I have no idea who to ask or what to do.
In the meantime, the tribe enrollment officer, who asked me to get the birth certificate, isn't returning my calls. And we don't qualify for help from the pharmaceutical companies.
That sound is me shrieking in frustration....

The photo, which shows how I feel, was taken by Alyson Kyle, age 10 at the time.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Have we met?

The Deseret News not long ago hired a fellow who for whatever reason appeared to dislike me. I decided, at first, it was a generational thing. He's one of the younger journalists, a fellow half my age.
Still, I'd watch him in animated conversation with practically everyone else, but though he sat right next to me and I tried countless times to strike up a conversation, he refused to take the bait.
"So, Ryan, what do you think of the healthcare reform debate?"
Not so much as a turn of his head.
It has really bothered me a lot, perhaps in part because I've always prided myself on being friendly. When we hire new people, I've always tried to get to know them and help them figure out the minutiae.
As we've gone to different shifts, though, it has become harder. For instance, we hired a fellow named Ethan on the police beat, but we've apparently always worked different shifts. I'd never so much as laid eyes on him.
About a month ago, I had one of those lightbulb moments that I seem to be in increasingly dire need of.
"Ethan?" I whispered tentatively to the oh-so-snobbish Ryan. "Is that you?"
His head whipped around and he smiled at me.
It helps immensely if you call someone by his actual name. I have no clue, now, where I came up with Ryan.
I'm thinking about this because my friend Ethan -- who got a tremendous kick out of my stupidity -- became my friend. (I think he thought I had an imaginary friend named Ryan and he was too courteous to make fun of me for it). And now he's moved on to graduate school and other adventures and I miss him.
This kind of thing seems to happen to me increasingly. And I'm left wondering if I'm confused or just too lazy to be a good caretaker of other people's details.
And I'm hoping it's the former, because the latter is a choice.
A bad one.