Some people's labor lasts 11 hours; mine lasted 11 years

The phone call came on January 4, 1994, at 2:45 p.m.: Our baby girl was born on January 1! To say we were elated is an understatement. Photos of her were in the mail to us, but I insisted they fax them right away. If you remember fax quality in the ‘90s, you’ll understand that what we saw was basically a grayish, grainy blob. But I stared at it constantly for the four days it took to get this actual photo:

I got one of those acrylic photo keychains and carried it with me everywhere till we brought her home on April 13. But before we left for Guatemala on April 11, a whole lot happened.

Rumors began spreading that Americans were adopting Guatemalan children with the purpose of selling their body parts. Unbeknownst to us, this was a rumor that resurfaced from time to time in many countries. Here’s an excerpt from the April 5, 1994, edition of The New York Times:

Fed by rumors that Americans were coming to kidnap children, cut out their vital organs and ship them to the United States for transplantation, an extraordinary wave of panic has swept Guatemala over the last month.

Tourists and other foreigners have been attacked by mobs in at least three recent incidents, the latest of which left a 52-year-old Alaska woman in a coma.

The situation has become so serious that the United States Embassy is recalling some 200 Peace Corps volunteers from the countryside to the capital for their protection, and the State Department has warned Americans not to travel to the country unless they have to.

Diplomats and human rights advocates fear that the rumors are part of a campaign to destabilize the administration of President Ramiro de Leon Carpio by weakening the influence of the United States Government, which has been an important source of support for the embattled Guatemalan leader.

The idea that there may be a political motive for spreading rumors of Americans eviscerating children reflects the deep insecurity felt throughout this country after years of a civil war in which more than 100,000 people have been killed, an estimated 40,000 disappeared, and the hold on power by civilian leaders is precarious.

Imagine reading that the week before you’re supposed to leave to get the baby you’ve been waiting 11 years for. Honestly, though, we never considered not going. But I asked our social worker what would happen to Marra if we didn’t go. “She’d go into the system,” she said.

We had become friends with several couples waiting to travel. Two couples, who traveled in March, were detained at the airport trying to get home. We were warned not to speak to anyone, not to leave our hotel room (not even to eat – we were to order room service), not to answer the door if someone knocked (they could be coming to take the baby).

Waiting to leave was agonizing, from strikes to Easter closures to not knowing from one day to the next if this was really going to happen. I was too scared to prepare a nursery. When we finally left, there was no crib or baby paraphernalia in Marra’s room – I didn’t want to face that if I came home with empty arms.

On April 7, we finally got the word to make arrangements – that our attorney in Guatemala had Marra’s passport and our appointment at the American Embassy was set. We were scared. Happy. Anxious. All the emotions.

I’m recounting the creepy stuff, but there was some really good stuff, too. Stuff that stops you in your tracks it’s so full of goodness. I had recently reconnected with my best friend from second grade, who had just adopted her son. She generously gifted us frequent flyer points for our trip, which was so welcome: We had taken out a large loan to fund the adoption. When I called to book our flights, the reservationist asked, “are you aware there’s a travel advisory in place for Guatemala?” When I explained our situation, she exclaimed, “I’m adopted!” She made sure there was an empty seat in between us for our return trip, to accommodate the baby.

But I digress. We landed in Guatemala City (after a stop in Miami – there were no direct flights then) and walked through the terminal to the dirt parking area. Our attorney and her son approached us (they had been given our photos) and walked us to a car where a woman held a baby in the backseat. It was Marra and her foster mother. Marra and I locked eyes; there was no crying – except by her foster mom, who hugged us and told us what a good baby she was.

Our attorney’s son, who acted as our interpreter, told us they would drop us off a block from our hotel; they didn’t want to be seen with us. There were police with machine guns everywhere. Needless to say, I was a wreck. As soon as we got into our room I began throwing up. I’d had a migraine since leaving Atlanta.

We began unwrapping our swaddled baby (four layers, two blankets, socks, shoes) who was wet with sweat, covered in bites, diaper rash, and very thin. While I was uselessly running to and from the toilet, Randy tried to bathe and feed this little creature. We had brought formula and those plastic baggy-type bottle inserts; what we didn’t bring was instructions on how to use them. It ran everywhere except into Marra’s mouth and she was screaming.

“Buck up,” said my frustrated husband. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” I didn’t either, but we figured it out finally and watched in awe as Marra downed her formula, moaning with pleasure and fell fast asleep.

I did not fall fast asleep. I was up every 30 minutes or so making sure that baby was still breathing.

The next morning we were up before dawn to get Marra’s visa photo taken (it was supposed to have been done, but wasn’t). We went to a one-room, cement block “studio” and a little boy no older than 12 took it as Marra sat in my lap. Then it was on to our appointment at the Embassy, where we were told we had a document missing and that we’d need to reschedule our appointment. We explained we were leaving for home the next day. I asked, “Can you work with us?” “No,” said this American Embassy representative. I stood and stared at him. Finally he said we could wait for them to recreate the document. Not 10 minutes later, they miraculously “found” it.

Two “good” things happened at the Embassy: A young Guatemalan woman gave me change to use the pay phone and call our attorney (who was no help at all). She wouldn’t let me pay her back, closing my hand over the coins with a warm, compassionate smile. We also noticed a couple that looked American with a Guatemalan toddler; we didn’t speak to them because we were told not to speak to anyone. But we ran into them at the airport. We are still friends today!

I could write SO much more. Suffice it to say, we got home with baby Marra and the rest is history. When we landed, for the first time in my life, I understood the saying, “I could have kissed the ground.” Our friends went above and beyond, setting up a crib and everything we needed. They all gathered at our home that first night. It was emotional. Memorable. And magical.

All the pain, all the years of waiting, all the anxiety. All gone. I was filled with gratitude, love, and a deep sense that sometimes things really do work out like they should.

Marra's name is a combination of Maria and Randy. Get it? If you could see the announcement in person, you would!

Atlanta Airport, April 13, 1994. Home at last.