Epilogue

Today was the day.

Unbeknownst to her, Savannah started a new life this morning. But like most everything else related to this saga, nothing went exactly as it was planned.

David and I drove down to Ohio Tuesday night to spend time with Alyssa, Noah, and Savannah. When we arrived, her aunt, uncle, and cousin; grandfather; and great-grandparents were also there, along with two of Alyssa and Noah's long-time friends. It had the air of a party except everyone there appeared to be in desperate need of a super-size bottle of Murine. Ourselves included.

Savannah seemed delighted to have a lot of people exclaiming over her, taking her photo, telling her how sweet she was, and generally catering to her every need. She was full of smiles and definitely knew that she was surrounded by people who love her.

As everyone else left, we settled in to spend the night. We tucked Savannah in late, and went outside to chat. I had really wanted to snuggle with her all night even though I knew that was probably counter to Children's Services recommendations. Honestly, I absolutely didn't (and don't) care one whit what they thought. But I let Alyssa put her in her own crib as usual. While the four of us were outdoors by the fire, a few bottles of beer and wine were consumed. A few walks were taken to the lake. And some of us were up way past our own bedtimes.

Fortunately I was the first one in bed at 1:30 a.m., and consequently I was also the first one awake at 5:45 when I heard Savannah crying in the next room. I walked in the room and immediately knew why she was awake so early. After the quickest diaper change possible under the circumstances, I took her in bed with me to snuggle for a while. She calmed down immediately although it was obvious that she wondered, as she sleepily looked around the room, what in the world she was doing in a big bed with Mimi.

Was going back to sleep a possibility? Not so much. After a half hour or so, we went and hung out on the couch with her soft blankie wrapped around both of us and she settled down again for another 15 or 20 minutes before making it evident that she was awake for the morning. We sat together quietly, tucked into the soft blankie I'd bought for her birthday, and read "I am a Bunny," which was also Chase's favorite board book when he was a toddler. She would clap every time I counted the birds, the butterflies, the flowers, frogs, and leaves on each page. We played Pat-A-Cake. We sang Eensy Weensy Spider. And finally, when it was clear she was done sitting quietly, we went to the kitchen and shared some Kix for breakfast.

Each moment we spent together this morning seemed so bittersweet. Of course we have done all these things dozens of times in the past. But I knew today would be the last time I'd probably get the chance to do any of this. Savannah, however, did not know. So she was perfectly happy to play these same games over and over and over again. And listen to the book a half dozen or more times. It's a good thing I memorized all the words to "I am a Bunny" eight years ago. Because most of the time, I could barely see the words on the page, or the face of the precious little girl in front of me, through my tears.

When she wanted to go outside, we got photos of ourselves in the long morning shadows. It was lovely. Call me selfish if you will. But I am so grateful for that hour or so that I had with her before anyone else was up this morning. It was totally ours, and a beautiful memory that I can savor forever of this sweet baby who has brought so much joy into our lives for the past year.

All too soon (even though it was now three diaper changes later), Alyssa's phone rang. It was the social worker announcing that she was on her way out to transport Savannah to her final visit with her biological mom. The appointment was at 10 a.m. in downtown Toledo (about 15-20 minutes away), and it was about 9:50 when the social worker arrived.

Without a car seat. I cannot imagine why a woman with a Master's Degree who works at a Children's Services office, would come to pick up an 18-month-old toddler to a visitation appointment without making sure in advance that there was a car seat available in which to put that child. While yes, Alyssa and Noah actually have two car seats, they were never provided with one by the agency--one was borrowed and the other was purchased by them (and had been left in the car that was at the shop for repairs today).

This necessitated the social worker to make a trip to the nearest Wal-Mart. Talk about adding insult to injury. Those of you who know me well will realize how much I hate that store, for various reasons ... and now I have a new reason to hate it: YOU ARE COMING TO TAKE AWAY OUR GRANDCHILD AND YOU AREN'T EVEN PROPERLY EQUIPPED? I think that's reason to call the whole deal null and void. Not to mention by this time it's nearly 11 a.m. and her visitation time with her mother is nearly expired. Another one of many epic fails for LCCS. You call this acting in the best interests of a child? Any child, not just our granddaughter. You all suck.

The silver lining is that we did get that extra hour with Savannah. Of course we cried just as much the second time as we did the first time, so that may have tarnished that silver lining just a bit. But in this situation, an hour is an hour. We took what we were given and called it a mini-miracle, possibly orchestrated by our personal angel, Alma.

After the social worker had struggled with the car seat for another 10 minutes (sorry, none of us offered to help her at all), the most difficult moment had arrived. She was buckled in. While still fiddling with the straps around Savannah's shoulder, the social worker mumbled, "Thanks" and "You've done a good job" to Noah and Alyssa. What an insult. She didn't even look at them while saying any of this. She had her BACK to them while we were all standing behind her and she was looking into the vehicle. She turned on her heel and still without looking them in the eye, offered that they could kiss Savannah goodbye as she got into the car and prepared to pull out of the driveway. I walked up to the car and waved in the window at Savannah and blew her a kiss. As I walked away, the social worker rolled down the window and called out, "She can see you now."

IDIOT. BITCH. Savannah could see me before. She had already smiled and blown me a kiss back. But I went back anyway and blew her one more.

Amid all my sadness I am simply furious at the way my children have been treated through all of this. Those who have suggested I report this stupid woman to her supervisor, don't realize (nor did I, until I mentioned it to Alyssa) that this woman's supervisor is the person who scheduled the recent hearing without allowing Alyssa and Noah any time to arrange for representation of their own (and, consequently, Savannah's) interest in this fiasco. Who insisted that POLICY rather than love, common sense and compassion will dictate the course of Savannah's future. So, what good will it do to report anyone? They. Don't. Care. Their policy is being followed. I hope they are happy. And I hope and pray that this sweet baby will not be unhappy even as it begins to dawn on her that this time, she won't be coming back to the only home she knows or the people she believes to be her mommy and daddy.

I will reiterate that Alyssa assures me this new family is very kind. I am sure they do care about Savannah, even though they have already established a bond with her baby brother. I pray that their hearts will expand to include Savannah in that circle. And they are open to Alyssa and Noah keeping in touch as well, which provides a measure of comfort, even if it doesn't really make us feel "better."

The four of us spent another quiet hour in contemplation after Savannah's departure. As one of my good friends has pointed out, there is now a Savannah-shaped hole in all of our hearts. Eventually, we will have to try and figure out a way to fill that hole up, but for the time being it remains. And it hurts. A lot.

I can't say enough about the wonderful outpouring of support we have received from family and friends in the past few days. Perhaps you all can imagine how many times I have already gone back and read and re-read the beautiful messages sent to me on Facebook, via email, text, and private messages. I will share them with Alyssa and Noah as appropriate. But right now--I need to say thank you, thank you, from the bottom of all of our hearts, for reaching out with the love, compassion, and common sense that LCCS seems to lack. For assuring us that it is OK to be sad. For giving us a shoulder to cry on. And for reminding us that, eventually, we'll find a new normal in our lives.

And most especially, for helping us start to fill up the huge hole that this tiny little girl has left in our hearts.

 Mimi and Savannah--July 11, 2012