What about the other 119 children?

No Alex pictures in today’s post, although at the bottom of this post I will provide a quick bit of news of interest to our close friends and family. Today, though, I’d like to share about the other 119 children at this institution, because one of the (many) things we have been praying for on this trip is an opportunity to help the other children here who deserve homes and families just as much as Alex does. Most of our time here has been somewhat frustrating in that way; it hasn’t been obvious how we might help these other children. But as we have continued to pray about it over the past week or so, I think we’ve slowly realized what our larger purpose here might be. And yesterday, during a conversation with the director of the institution, I had an “aha!” moment—as if the veil had been lifted a little, giving us perhaps a little peek at the bigger scheme of things.

Let me begin by just describing what we’ve seen at this institution during the past two and a half weeks. Orphanages for the mentally and physically disabled in Eastern Europe have a bad reputation, and with good reason. Some of them are living nightmares in which children are left lying in cribs, unattended, for most of the day—sometimes sitting in their soiled diapers for hours, and certainly not getting the attention or stimulation necessary to develop. This is not really disputed; you can easily find reports and videos online documenting such institutions. In the month before we left, a neighboring country fired the staff of a particularly egregious institution, thanks in part to the work of an American family who had adopted a child from there. Even at the better orphanages, disabled children usually do not receive any formal schooling. There is a pervasive attitude here that children with physical or mental disabilities are “defective” and lack the potential for human development. The attitude is really not too dissimilar from what was common in the United States up until the 1970s or so.

But it’s important to fall too easily into stereotyping: not all of these institutions are like the worst of them, nor do all of the people working in them share the same views. There is clear evidence of improved attitudes and practices in some of these orphanages—little spots of hope here and there. The institution where Alex lives (and as far as I can tell, it has no formal name beyond the name of the town where it is located) can clearly be ranked among the better orphanages for older children. Ten years ago, it lacked running water and electricity in some of the wings, and there were no trees on the grounds. I don’t know about the morale or attitude of the staff, but I would guess that it reflected the physical conditions to some extent.

What have we seen in the past two and a half weeks here? The grounds of the orphanage are a veritable Garden of Eden, full of roses and daisies of various colors, and probably close to an acre of vegetable gardens. The grounds are full of trees. I have not done an exhaustive survey, but I suspect that every one of those trees is a fruit tree of some kind; we have certainly seen apple and cherry trees. Besides the gardens, there are three outdoor play/relaxation areas where the kids can be outdoors and get some much-needed Vitamin D from the sunshine. This includes some swings and slides installed by a missionary organization.

Inside, the hallways are frequently (but not always) dark. They simply don’t waste energy on lighting the halls. The walls of the downstairs hallway are covered in pictures of field trips the kids have taken, as well as visits from missionary and other charitable groups. Crafts and artwork are also proudly displayed, including some fairly elaborate cross-stitch. Large tapestries of icons of various saints—typically Saint Nicolas, patron saint of children, and Mary, the archetypical mother—hang everywhere, including over the director’s desk. The downstairs is given over mainly to offices and utility rooms, while the upstairs includes the play and exercise rooms, as well as the dormitories for the children.

We have not had a lot of close contact with the other children; we have been encouraged to focus our time on bonding with Alex, which is entirely appropriate. Nevertheless, as we play with him outside or move through the building, we are frequently approached by the other children. Many of them will smile their biggest, best, most beautiful smile at us, reaching out their hands for a touch or a hug. Some of them will practically tackle us for a hug, which can be surprising if we’re in a darkened hallway. After we recover from the shock, we say “Hello!” (in Russian) and briefly hug them before their nannies sternly call them back.

We walk into the exercise room at 10 a.m. every morning to pick up Alex, and are greeted by ten pairs of little eyes trying to engage us, some reaching out their hands toward us. Others just look and look, not stirring from where they have been placed. Each child is on an exercise machine—stationary bikes, a rocking horse, a device that helps them to stand up. (Simply standing is critical to maintaining good bone density.) There is a cot where the kids with cerebral palsy can do their stretches, one at a time. Alex is almost always in a baby swing that he can move by himself by grabbing the support bar with his hands. There are perhaps six children in the exercise room, and another two or three in the adjacent play room. The room is eerily quiet, for having that many children in it; we have not really observed them talking to one another or making much noise at all. Often there is a radio going, playing Russian pop music.

What would you do, faced with all those eyes? We try to touch each child as we pass by, if only briefly—clasping a hand, offering a smile and a greeting; we place our hands on their chest, or head, and they smile and smile. Some of the children look very similar to Alex—I sometimes initially mistake another kid for him when I first walk in. Others are more profoundly disabled, mentally or physically. A surprising number are very thin and gaunt, reminiscent of the starving kids you see on television programs. It is surprising in part because we know that these kids are pretty well fed; we see Alex fed his “second breakfast” every morning at 11, which is followed by a lunch at noon. But these are younger kids, many of them probably just transferred from other institutions; perhaps that has something to do with it. Or maybe they have underlying health conditions that cause their gaunt appearance.

Three days ago there was a little girl in the ball pit that Alex loves to play in. She was lying on her back among the colorful balls, holding a foam block and making soft noises as she turned it over and over. Her warm brown eyes and face were framed by dark brown hair, and her arms and legs were so, so thin—maybe an inch in diameter? As we played with Alex, we sang songs, in part for her to hear. Susan reached out a hand toward her hand, but she recoiled, which is not uncommon with children who are profoundly understimulated. She was still lying in the same position half an hour later when we left.

There are, as I mentioned, about eight to ten kids in Alex’s “groupa.” While they are in the exercise and play rooms, they have one nanny (Yana) who works with them, one at a time. She feeds them their kasha, or helps them exercise; she does Alex’s morning stretches. She is warm with the children, although not effusive, and very efficient. She has to be; she is outnumbered. She was our “minder” during the first week we visited Alex, watching our interactions with him and helping us out as needed. She showed us The Restaurant (the only place worthy of the name in town; like the orphanage, it appears to have no name) on our first full visit, and pulled out a Russian-English dictionary a few days later. She climbed a cherry tree to pick some cherries for our facilitator, and she has showed us some basic methods for helping Alex to stretch.  She knows her stuff about stretching muscles of kids with CP.

Today I visited Alex alone, because Susan was not feeling well. Toward the end of the visit, we went back to the exercise room, where Yana was still working with the kids. I couldn’t figure out why Alex would prefer to go back to that room, when normally he is eager to get out. It turns out they have some new toys—inflated rubber rocking horses that both rock and bounce (excellent exercise for strengthening the core torso muscles, if done properly). She showed me how to hold him on the horse and bounce him, and then she went to feed the other kids. While she was occupied, a very curious little boy who appeared to have no physical disability kept coming over, trying to separate me from Alex who, let me tell you, did not take kindly to the competition. He GLARED at the kid as he clambered over me, and when he tried to climb up on that rocking horse, Alex loudly protested and then whacked him a good one. And we were worried about him getting pushed around! I told Alex, “No, no, no, no, no!” (that’s about four no’s too many, for my fellow ECFE parents—but hey, I was under duress) and gently separated them, trying to engage the other one behind me while continuing to bounce Alex in front of me. It has been 90 degrees for several days, and that place is not air conditioned; I was sweating like a pig by the time I was done.

All the while this was happening, Yana was occupied with other kids. I assume she figured I had things in hand, but it just underlines that even here, it is impossible to provide the level of attention these kids need if you don’t have enough people on hand.

Some of the other children are older, in their teens, and clearly higher functioning or without any noticeable mental impairment. Again, they seem happy…but I cannot imagine what it must be like to spend day after day on the same routine, with no schooling or outside social contact, much less any hope of ever having a real family. One teen came over to watch us play with Alex for a while; he said he sometimes played with Alex. He seemed very friendly and engaged, and at one point pulled out a cell phone (possibly supplied by his family; not every child here is an orphan) and was looking through text messages. Another time, we were walking in the garden when we came across a fifteen-year-old girl in a wheelchair. We had seriously considered also adopting this girl, because she is just months away from being transferred to an adult mental institution, where she would almost certainly not be as free or well-treated as she is here. (Restrained or forced to stay in bed are real possibilities.)  When we came across her in the garden, she was picking roses with another girl; they were chatting amiably, laughing a little, but she clammed up when we showed up—shy, I guess. She has beautiful light brown hair that someone had done up in a fancy braid. Other times, when we are outside, she watches us very closely. She smiles and sings along, clapping with the music, when the accordion man comes to play for the kids every other day.

Fortunately, another family has committed to adopting her; their paperwork was officially submitted today, which means they should be here in a couple months, just a week or two shy of her transfer deadline. What a relief. Some of the older children who “age out” of this institution get to stay on longer because the director persuades the officials in charge of such things that they would be useful around the place, especially helping the younger kids. This girl would not have had that option because of her physical disability.

What would you do to help these kids, if you were here? Perhaps simply being present is a start—acknowledging their presence, smiling at them, touching them, showing them a little bit what a family looks like.

Yesterday we had our first extended conversation with the director of the orphanage. The occasion was the donation of the money that had accumulated in Alex’s government-sponsored trust fund, about $3,000, to the orphanage. They will buy seven new windows to keep out the winter cold; the current ones are drafty, and frost over. The director wanted us to see the receipt for the windows—she even invited us to come along to the factory to pay for them ourselves. She is clearly very concerned that there be no question of whether there is any corruption going on here.

In the course of the conversation, we began talking about our visits, and mentioning how warm and friendly the staff has been. The staff truly are very friendly, with us and with the children. “These children are loved,” she said, and we believe it. Obviously not every staff person is smiling every second, but I don’t know a single parent who would want to be held to that high standard. “This place is no replacement for a family, but these children are loved,” she said.

We offered condolences for the assistant director, a woman named Lena who has been especially warm, friendly, and outgoing wiith us; her only son was killed when he was struck by a drunk driver a couple days ago.

She told us about the training her staff receive from university professors in the United States and Holland who specialize in therapy for disabled children. And then she said something that ended up being my “Aha!” moment—my realization of what may be our most important role in helping the other 119 children here.

“You have been playing with Sasha out in the open, where all the staff has been able to see and hear you,” she said through our facilitator’s translation (we have been singing to Alex a lot). “And they have calmed down a lot about international adoption. They are glad that Sasha will be going to your family.”

Earlier in the afternoon, over lunch at The Restaurant, we had been talking with our facilitator about the possibility of listing more children from this orphanage for adoption, particularly the older ones in danger of aging out. She had counseled patience; this is the first adoption from this orphanage in many years, and the director and staff are understandably cautious, taking a wait-and-see attitude. What they see happen in this adoption, and in the adoption of the fifteen-year-old girl in August, will make a big difference in wheher other the other 119 children in this orphanage (or at least the ones whose families have severed ties) will have a shot at getting a family.

And so perhaps our “larger role” here is as simple as that: to show what is possible for these children, and to show that adoption can be a very positive experience for them. In court, someone testified that “all the staff have confirmed that these are good parents,” a comment that was repeated by the director in our meeting. That is half the battle. The other half will be following up. Far too many adoptive families never follow up with the orphanage, which is a shame, since part of the transformative power of international adoption is showing that these children have great potential, if given the proper attention and resources, and showing just how happy they can be in a family setting.

“Please, stay in contact with us,” the director told us. “We would like to know what happens to him.”

And so that will be our “mission” for the next fifteen years…documenting (we hope) the positive influence of a loving family in one child’s life, and in the process, perhaps helping to break down the institution doors in Eastern Europe for future children.

* * *

We received our appointment at the U.S. Embassy today—Tuesday morning at 9 a.m. It is looking increasingly likely that we will return Thursday, arriving in Minneapolis around 7:45 p.m.

If you were signed up for the Meal Train this week and got cancelled, we will open up the schedule for the week after our return. We don’t NEED meals, but we won’t refuse them, either, as we adjust to our expanded family!