In which we promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and, well, mostly the truth.
The kid isn't even seven months old and already his parents have been drug into court to talk about him. Sheesh!
With one exception, today we'll skip the pleasantries of our last hospital visit with Valentin Dyuba, now semi-officially known as Owen Robert Hess. (We ain't official until the birth certificate is issued on February 18.) That one exception is a nice, red-haired woman named Sveta. You can see her with Owen, below and left.
Toward the end of our visit, Inna knocked on the door and brought Sveta in to see us. Inna introduced her as another of Owen's nurses, but would later tell us that she actually worked in another unit of the hospital and had become attached to our little boy. Sveta wondered if she could have a picture with him before we left.
Of course! (Inna told us later that Sveta was VERY nervous about asking us to take the picture and she had to assure her that it would be fine.) We'll pick it up for her later today.
As an aside, the Kazakhs love to have their picture taken. Oleg has a prized photo album of the families he's carted about and Inna eagerly says "Yes!" whenever I ask her if she'd like copies of pictures she's been included in. The Viola ladies all want copies of their pictures (which, yes, Mother, I'm having those done today as well) and our friend from the bazaar wanted a copy of his photo. I'm afraid he may be the odd man out.
After that, it was home for a few hours to eat, practice our speeches and just generally be nervous. With court at four, we were picked up at 3:30 p.m. wearing our most somber black. Robin thought we looked like we were going to a funeral-- my spiffy new Burberry tie, an early anniversary gift, was about the only color between us. Inna, Lyuba and Oleg, however, thought we looked great.
Robin was chastised for her shoes, of course. "You'll get cold," Lyuba warned her through Inna. Keep in mind, we would be out of doors for the 10-second walk from the cottage to the van and then again for the 15-second walk from the van to the court. Scolding Americans about the cold, however, is the national past-time here.
Court was an active little 4-story building about two blocks from where we are staying. There's a coat check lady-- you NEVER wear your coat indoors, you check them everywhere-- and a guard's desk. The guard debated whether to check our passports and then shrugged and let us pass. Interestingly enough, no one checked our passports or any other form of I.D. through the whole process.
We trudged up to the fourth floor. None of the Soviet era buildings have elevators unless they are 10 stories or taller. Even when they do have elevators, Inna tells us, they rarely work. Inna's girlfriend lives on the 12th story of her building and has to climb the steps every day.
Great glute workout. Hope you never need a wheelchair.
On the fourth floor we waited in the lobby, a large open area between the two wings which stretch out from either end. There are a handful of chairs against one wall and otherwise the room is just big, empty and white. We cooled our heels here for about half an hour, memorizing and re-memorizing our speeches while we waited.
Inna was memorizing the Russian versions, too, and at one point said, "I have it all by heart."
"Good," we told her. "How about we just recite our grocery list, then, and you make it sound good?"
No dice.
We've alluded in past entries that the Kazakhs feel very strongly about taking court seriously and not assuming it is a foregone conclusion. The doctors remind you repeatedly that "if the court allows it, then you will be his parents..." It's never sure, they say.
That struck home about 10 minutes before we went in. Dr. Natalia, Dr. Yermek (the head of the maternity hospital) and Zhania (the representative from the Ministry of Education) all came up the steps together. Neither Natalia nor Zhania acknowledged us. Dr. Yermek spoke briefly to Inna and, though he offered me his hand to shake, allowed no more than a brushing of fingertips before he left the room, cutting me off in mid-sentence.
It was all deadly seriousness.
Finally we were called back to the judge's chambers. Judge Rosa (you never get a last name, here) has a large office with high white walls, blank except for the seal of Kazakhstan mounted near the ceiling behind her desk. Three seats for Inna, Robin and me lined one wall and another three for the doctors and Zhania lined a second. There was a desk perpendicular to the judge's where the prosecutor and the court reporter sat.
And then it began. By all accounts we got off easy. Proclamations were made. I gave my speech and Robin gave hers. Then the doctors testified, first Yermek and then Natalia. Finally Zhania spoke. The judge asked if the prosecutor had any questions and then we were dismissed to await a verdict.
We'd heard horror stories about barrages of questions and had steeled ourselves before going in. We got only two, both for Robin.
"You work for a hospital?"
"Yes."
"So you are familiar with medical practices and thoroughly understand the doctors' diagnosis?"
"Yes."
...and, well, mostly the truth. Marketing Research is practically the same as a medical degree. Ask anyone.
We waited in the hall for about five minutes. The judge didn't even bother to close the door for her deliberations. When we came back there were more proclamations and it was done.
Finally we became people again. Dr. Natalia hugged Robin and she, Zhania and Dr. Yermek shook my hand with big smiles all around... even from the very stern faced judge.
Bol-shoi spaceeba! Thank you very much!
In truth, this is where having a wonderful interpreter like Inna really pays off. Other couples had told us about how their interpreter participated in the big scare before the verdict. The Strelos asked their interpreter how things went. "You never can tell," he answered.
In contrast, Inna assured us throughout the proceedings. After our speeches, she whispered, "good job!" Then while the doctors testified about how irresponsible Owen's birth mother had been during her pregnancy and how serious his medical prognosis was, Inna whispered "Don't worry, this is just the Russian way." And finally, right before we were dismissed for deliberations, she whispered "The prosecutor has no objections and recommends the approval of your adoption. This is very good."
The very stern and emotionless judge had barked questions at the doctors and Zhania throughout their testimony, shaking papers at them and throwing up her hands. Despite the lack of questions, that made things a bit nerve-wracking. It would've been a serious nail-biter without Inna.
After court, we rushed home to collect gifts and Owen's snowsuit (Thank you, Deanna!) and then it was off to the maternity hospital. This time, we all met in Dr. Natalia's office.
Dr. Natalia wanted to see Owen's snowsuit. She felt the inside of it and tested the seams and pronounced it satisfactory. Then it was all grins and congratulations until the baby arrived. She thanked us profusely for our gifts-- "It is only through the generosity of the adopting parents that our hospital can thrive"-- and gave us a gift of her own: Three boxes of the elusive Nutrilak!
When Owen arrived, Nurse Lena gave him a big kiss good-bye and then Natalia insisted on holding him. Robin had to sign some papers ("Zhania trusts mothers more than fathers," Inna translated.) And it was official.
Then came the real scare, for Owen anyway. His first time out of the hospital. This had us most worried. Before us, Owen had never seen a man before. He'd also never been outdoors. When he got to Dr. Natalia's, he knew something was up.
"He is always smiling and laughing," Dr. Natalia said. "But he is very sensitive. He knows something is different." And, indeed, our little boy was very serious as he helped Natalia thumb through the picture album Robin had prepared for the hospital.
He did well in his snowsuit and in the press through the people gathered outside the entrance to the hospital (Visitors stand outside to speak to patients through a window in the door. The door itself stays locked.) In the car, there were a few squeaks of fear, but these were quietd by a good suckle on daddy's fingers.
At the cottage, we had a wide-eyed meeting with Lyuba and then Mommy took him on a quiet tour. There was a change of clothes (we decided a bath might be over-stimulation) and some rocking and then he was in bed by 7:45. A bottle at 9 that he didn't bother to open his eyes for, two brief fusses in the middle of the night and up by 6:15 this morning.
Mommy and Daddy should've slept so well.
