Darrick Rizzo tells the story of giving his baby up for adoption.
—
The day I graduated from high school was as sunny as my future promised to be. The tassel on my cap dangled from side to side as I tried no to fidget. I had done well in the last four years, academically, athletically and personally. My blond-haired, blue-eyed girlfriend, Sherri Thomas, smiled for me from the audience.
From the outside looking in, Sherri and I were worlds apart. I was an African-American, wanna-be rap artist. Sherri was born and bred in this predominantly white, middle class town. But our differences were eclipsed by our similarities. We both excelled at school and sports. While other couples made out behind the bleachers, we challenged each other on the race track and cheered for one another on the basketball court. I never doubted that we were meant to be together. I would see other couples fighting, cheating or breaking up and think, “Wow. I’m lucky.” Sherri would tell me she was lucky too, and we would say it, back and forth—I’m luckier. No, I’m luckier—like the foolish lovesick kids we were.
Looking back, I realize now how silly I was to believe a high school romance could stand the challenges we were about to face. In November of my first year of college, we found out that Sherri was pregnant.
“I’ve been keeping it a secret. I just didn’t know what to do.” She had been crying, inconsolable, but now she was collected. She looked me straight in the eyes. “I’m not getting an abortion. We have to have this baby. Darrick, We have to quit all our sports. We have to find jobs!” I nodded and hugged her. The cold shock was wearing off and hot reality sinking in. I was going to be a father. We were going to be parents. I hugged her fiercely, suddenly so proud so my Sherri who could so calmly accept this fate. I took strength from her. We weren’t just going to be parents. We were going to be great parents.
I wanted to broadcast to the world that my son was on the way, but Sherri urged patience. She wanted to wait to tell our families. I knew it would be a difficult conversation for her so I didn’t push it. As the weeks turned into months, I began to worry. We needed to make plans, quit school and find jobs. But Sherri went on as if her life hadn’t changed. I watched her on the basketball court, my cheers tinged with green nerves. Every time Sherri lunged for the ball, or was elbowed by another player, I cringed. Please, I thought. Please don’t hurt my baby boy.
When Sherri’s younger sister spied her baby bump in the locker room, I was relieved. Finally the Thomas’ would know. I could tell my parents and friends. Sherri and I could begin our lives as a family. But that naive ideal was never to be.
On a Febuary morning, as I bundled myself against the cold, my phone rang. I was late for class, but picked it up unthinking.
“Darrick, I know you don’t have time to talk,” said Sherri without hesitation, “but my mom wants me to give the baby up for adoption.” She continued to talk even though I hadn’t answered. I barely heard her words. “An open adoption Darrick! It’s great, we get to pick the parents.”
She made it sound like we were captains of a new basketball team. I stood in the doorway of my dorm room, people pushing by me, looking at me. I couldn’t move.
“WHAT? Adoption, Sherri? You want to give our baby to someone else?”
Not once in six months had adoption ever been a part of our conversation. I felt betrayed, or worse, like I had no control over what was happening.
“Darrick…please understand that it is not what I want either, but it’s really our only choice.”
I understood. It was Mrs. Thomas’ choice. Once before, Mrs. Thomas had tried to convince Sherri to stay away from me, Sherri hadn’t listened. No one could make Sherri do something she didn’t want to do. That’s when I understood. Sherri didn’t want to keep our baby. She was scared.
The next weeks were a whirlwind of meetings with potential parents. We met at the Simmons Adoption Agency, an office tucked between a grocery store and a busy café. How absurd to think I sat there calmly, meeting couples who wanted to raise my son, asking them questions as if they interviewed for a job.
I began each interview with the assertion that I didn’t want to give away my child and they’d have to sell me on this whole adoption thing. That didn’t sit well with Lara Simmons, the adoption agent. But if I had to give up my child, I would make sure he had the perfect parents: biracial like us, friendly, smart, sporty and with a love of God.
Sherri sat through the interviews in near silence while I asked question after question privately dismissing each couple. Why do you want to be parents? How will you raise our child? Will you agree to send me photos and receive correspondence? That was a deal-breaker for most. I knew I was being difficult and I didn’t care. I didn’t understand what had happened to my strong-willed Sherri. She was a pale ghost of her former self. This drove me even harder to find the perfect couple to raise our baby.
“Darrick, they are all wonderful,” Sherri rolled her eyes and said impatiently. I’d rejected the fourth and last couple. “What is your problem?”
“No one is good enough, Sherri. I want to be good enough. I want to be his Dad.” We were both surprised by my outburst, but the truth was a burden I was glad to be rid of.
“I am not going to settle. They need to be perfect. I want to know where my son is, what he is doing and I want him to know who I am!”
Ms. Simmons was disappointed that I rejected all her suggestions.
“I’ll have to search outside the agency,” she said as if my pickiness was an insult to her good judgement.
The days wore on. I couldn’t focus on school or sports. I thought I had come to terms with our decision, but panic seized me at odd times and I would think, “I can’t do it. I can’t give away my son.”
The following month found us back in the Simmons Agency. Across from us sat an African American businessman in his thirties and a young white woman with short brown hair, and an athletic build. Matt and Jackie had been married for some time and had been having infertility issues.
“If you really want an open adoption,” I asked, “and want Baby Boy to know everything, what if he grows up to play football? Would you invite us to a game? Are you open to something like that?”
I brought up sports because athletics were in our genes. Maybe even naively I was laying out specific examples to stump this couple. Where was the limit for them?
“Yes!” Jackie responded. “In fact I’d be open for you and Sherri to come for Thanksgiving dinner when he gets older.”
Ms. Simmons had found us the perfect couple. For the first time in months, I could look in the future and could see myself happy. I could see my son. He would grow up in a secure home, knowing that I loved him because I put his future needs before my own selfish wants. He would know that I gave him away but never gave up loving him.
The day my son was born, was both the happiest and the most painful day of my life. I hurried to the hospital after getting a call from a friend that Sherri was in labor. None of the Thomas’ had deigned to call me. At the hospital, I was told to wait. I wasn’t allowed in the delivery room.
I paced and reviewed my decisions of the last months. None of them seemed good.
Finally, a haggard-looking nurse came from the delivery room.
“Be patient at the door,” she said. “Let her family leave first.”
I will never forget the indescribable feeling of joy I felt the first time I held my baby boy. He didn’t cry, but just watched me calmly. So like his mother. His skin was smooth. His eyes were blue. He was so innocent, that it hurt to look at him.
When the nurse took him back to the room with Sherri, the anger started to boil within me. Anger at the Thomas’ for taking the birth of my son away from me, anger at Sherri for being so meek, and anger at Lara Simmons for finding the perfect couple. I was even angry at the haggard nurse for taking my baby from my arms.
I had one more day with my son. We took one picture together. Matt and Jackie had agreed that we could choose his first name. With a prescience that I didn’t fully understand at the time, I named him Eythan. A dark thought betrayed my happiness. What if, one day I had to search for him. The unusual spelling would be a boon. I kissed him once more.
I will always find you, my son.
I handed him back to his mother.
“Thank you,” Sherri said. “I am so sorry.” She looked weary and hesitant now, as if we were strangers.
“Goodbye,” I said. Ms. Simmons was already on her way. I couldn’t be there when they took him. “Call me when you get home.” But I knew she wouldn’t.
I walked out of the hospital.
My heart had an empty spot in it now, a place only for Eythan. I was helpless against this new loneliness. Only time would fill it. Time when Jackie and Matt would send me pictures of my son growing, time when I might watch him play football or join him for Thanksgiving dinner. I had chosen the best possible parents for my baby boy. I was a good birth father.
Photo: K’s Glimpses
Wow, just WOW.