Xavier's mom is HIV-positive. She informed us during her pregnancy so that we could make an informed decision on whether to go ahead with the adoption process.
Neither of us wanted to intentionally seek out an HIV-positive baby. We felt that being first-time (and gay and interracial and non-South African) parents would be challenge enough. But we did our homework and learned that the risk was less than 1% if the mother did everything correctly, so we decided to move forward and hope for the best.
Ellen was already HIV-positive when she had her previous baby, so she knew the drill. Eat well, stay on your meds, go for regular check-ups, inform the nurses when you go into labor so that they can give an extra dose, and keep the baby on meds as well for the first 8 weeks.
Ellen did everything she should and was in great health when she went into labor. The delivery was quick with not much blood, which was another good sign. For 8 weeks we gave Xavier his daily dose of nevirapine syrup, at 7am religiously. And then we took him to get tested.
A few days later, the pediatrician called us to say she had bad news. Xavier had tested positive. She would do a confirmation test, but wanted us to know that there was very little chance the result would be different. We were on a road trip at the time and wouldn't be back home for 12 days. The pediatrician told us just to continue giving him the nevirapine syrup until we returned, now as treatment rather than prevention.
For the next 12 days, we tried to process the news and what it would mean for our lives. Turning back was never a thought. Although we hadn't wanted to sign up for an HIV-positive baby, we were no longer thinking about it in the abstract. "A baby" was now "Xavier" and he was already our son. But we were angry and we were sad. It felt so unfair that a little baby would have to live with a chronic illness for his entire life, as well as the stigma and discrimination that comes with being HIV-positive.
When we got back to Pretoria, we took Xavier for the confirmation test. I happened to overhear the nurse say, "We need to give him the PCR this time." Which is the HIV test that should always be used with babies. So I said, "Wait, what do you mean by 'this time'?" And that's when we learned that he was previously given the HIV test for adults, called the ELISA. The ELISA picks up HIV antibodies, so the baby of an HIV-positive mother will nearly always test positive with an ELISA, even if he is not infected. They had given Xavier the wrong test.
When the results of the second test came, we learned that Xavier was in fact HIV-negative. In the moment, we felt so relieved that we didn't think about feeling angry about the incorrect first test.
In hindsight, we probably should not have taken him to a private, white pediatrician in an upscale neighborhood. The odds are good that she had never dealt with an HIV-exposed baby before. She clearly had no idea what she was doing. Instead we should have taken him to one of the government clinics, where they test dozens if not hundreds of babies a month. Lesson learned on making unthinking assumptions about where you'll get the best care.
In the end, we are just thankful that Xavier is healthy.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Monday, December 17, 2012
Is he yours?
I'm just back from taking Xavier to the US to meet his grandparents, aunts and cousins, as well as lots of friends, with stops in England and Germany en route.
Over the course of our two weeks of travel, I get a dozen variations of the same question from smiling strangers: "Is he yours?"
I suppose there could be two dimensions to this question: 1) "Are you his father or are you somehow just watching him at the moment?" and 2) "Are you the biological father, or is he adopted?" I suppose Xavier is light enough that it is not impossible that he would be biologically mine, though obviously the more likely explanation is that we adopted him.
In that context, the easiest answer initially seems to be, "Yes, we adopted him." But the first time I use that one, it feels almost like I'm saying, "He's mine but not really mine."
So, for all subsequent inquiries, I simply say "Yes." Yes, he is mine. No qualifying phrases. He is mine.
Over the course of our two weeks of travel, I get a dozen variations of the same question from smiling strangers: "Is he yours?"
I suppose there could be two dimensions to this question: 1) "Are you his father or are you somehow just watching him at the moment?" and 2) "Are you the biological father, or is he adopted?" I suppose Xavier is light enough that it is not impossible that he would be biologically mine, though obviously the more likely explanation is that we adopted him.
In that context, the easiest answer initially seems to be, "Yes, we adopted him." But the first time I use that one, it feels almost like I'm saying, "He's mine but not really mine."
So, for all subsequent inquiries, I simply say "Yes." Yes, he is mine. No qualifying phrases. He is mine.
Talking with the ancestors
A few weeks after Xavier is born, his mother mentions that we need to take him up to Witlaagte, in Mpumalanga province, to meet his family. She means family both living and passed.
Xavier and I get up early the following Saturday, pick up Ellen at her house, and drive up to Witlaagte together. We go first to her aunt's house and spend an hour or two with the family. Ellen introduces them to me and to the baby and then gets caught up on local news and gossip.
After we've been there a while, Ellen tells me it is time to go talk with the ancestors. We get in the car, along with her uncle, and drive over to the cemetery where her mother and grandmother (among other family members) are buried. It is a true rural cemetery, dusty and overgrown with brush but with the tombs still displaying the plastic flower bouquets that serve as telltale signs of an ongoing connection to the living.
Uncertain of my role, I initially stand by the car holding the baby while Ellen and her uncle walk towards the graves. Noticing that I am not with them, Ellen quickly motions me to come over. We kneel down first by her grandmother's grave and then by her mother's grave. At both, her uncle begins by pouring water from a small plastic bottle around the perimeter of the headstone. Then Ellen and her uncle both speak briefly.
Everything is in seSotho, so I have no idea what was being said. But on the way back Ellen provides an explanation that I somehow find both moving and humorous. "I just told them that if they see a white man with the baby, they must not worry. They must know that it is his father and that his father is taking care of him. So now they know who you are and there will not be any problems."
We would not finalize any of the legal paperwork for another couple of months, but for Ellen I think this is the moment when everything is final. The family knows. The ancestors know. Everything is now as it should be.
Xavier and I get up early the following Saturday, pick up Ellen at her house, and drive up to Witlaagte together. We go first to her aunt's house and spend an hour or two with the family. Ellen introduces them to me and to the baby and then gets caught up on local news and gossip.
After we've been there a while, Ellen tells me it is time to go talk with the ancestors. We get in the car, along with her uncle, and drive over to the cemetery where her mother and grandmother (among other family members) are buried. It is a true rural cemetery, dusty and overgrown with brush but with the tombs still displaying the plastic flower bouquets that serve as telltale signs of an ongoing connection to the living.
Uncertain of my role, I initially stand by the car holding the baby while Ellen and her uncle walk towards the graves. Noticing that I am not with them, Ellen quickly motions me to come over. We kneel down first by her grandmother's grave and then by her mother's grave. At both, her uncle begins by pouring water from a small plastic bottle around the perimeter of the headstone. Then Ellen and her uncle both speak briefly.
Everything is in seSotho, so I have no idea what was being said. But on the way back Ellen provides an explanation that I somehow find both moving and humorous. "I just told them that if they see a white man with the baby, they must not worry. They must know that it is his father and that his father is taking care of him. So now they know who you are and there will not be any problems."
We would not finalize any of the legal paperwork for another couple of months, but for Ellen I think this is the moment when everything is final. The family knows. The ancestors know. Everything is now as it should be.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Peaceful parents, peaceful baby?
We were in a shop a few weeks back, with Rodney carrying Xavier in the baby backpack. The shopkeeper commented, "What a calm and happy baby!" I said something like, "Yeah, we really got lucky." And she responded, "Well, you know, peaceful parents, peaceful baby."
I should start off by saying that I don't completely buy into that. A friend who is one of the most even-keeled, laid back people I know has a baby who apparently will not stop crying for hours on end. I suspect some babies are just wired to be cranky while others are wired to be easy.
But we have also seen some truth in the idea that nervous adults can make for nervous babies. Xavier has met a lot of new people in the past few months. A good number of them seem eager to look for signs that something is wrong. One actual comment from an office baby shower (delivered in the same tone used when something is on fire): "He's chewing on his sleeve! Shawn!! He's chewing on his sleeve!!!" Um. Okay. And that is a crisis because...?
We have also gotten our share of "You just wait..." comments when we tell people what a happy baby he is. As in, "You just wait until he starts teething/crawling/walking/talking/etc. You'll be sorry then!"
We might be going through an easy phase and about to hit some tougher ones. Xavier will be who he will be, and I know some days/months/years will be harder than others.
But for now, we are thankful to have such a peaceful, happy baby. And we are doing our best to remain peaceful, happy parents and to enjoy this phase for as long as it lasts.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Men as fathers
We get a lot of comments from well-meaning people who seem quite surprised that Xavier has survived as long as he has with two men as parents. As if men are fundamentally incapable of figuring out how to raise a baby.
Xavier is probably just a little bit on the chubby side. Or at least definitely not thin. Yet we were out on a walking tour last weekend, ending with lunch at a neighborhood restaurant, and one of the women on the tour turned around from her table to say, "My friends and I were just wondering--are you going to feed him at some point?"
He was not fussing or squirming, or giving any indication that he was hungry, so I have no idea where the question came from. We politely explained that had stopped to feed him during the walking tour, and he was fine. And we restrained the impolite part that wanted to say, "What the hell do you think? Of course we feed him."
But this has not been an isolated experience. Random people (ok, random women) have no reservations about telling us, at a glance, that our baby looks hungry / cold / hot / tired / cramped / uncomfortable / etc. / etc. Even when he looks perfectly happy and healthy.
Maybe some of these things happen to mothers as well. But I suspect a big part of it is that people don't automatically see men as capable of being caregivers. Even when evidence to the contrary is right in front of them.
Xavier is probably just a little bit on the chubby side. Or at least definitely not thin. Yet we were out on a walking tour last weekend, ending with lunch at a neighborhood restaurant, and one of the women on the tour turned around from her table to say, "My friends and I were just wondering--are you going to feed him at some point?"
He was not fussing or squirming, or giving any indication that he was hungry, so I have no idea where the question came from. We politely explained that had stopped to feed him during the walking tour, and he was fine. And we restrained the impolite part that wanted to say, "What the hell do you think? Of course we feed him."
But this has not been an isolated experience. Random people (ok, random women) have no reservations about telling us, at a glance, that our baby looks hungry / cold / hot / tired / cramped / uncomfortable / etc. / etc. Even when he looks perfectly happy and healthy.
Maybe some of these things happen to mothers as well. But I suspect a big part of it is that people don't automatically see men as capable of being caregivers. Even when evidence to the contrary is right in front of them.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
The things parents do
July 29, 2012. My first night at home with Xavier. He seems a little congested, which I have read is common for newborns, and I've bought saline drops for his nose, as the baby bible suggested.
As the night goes on, he gets more and more congested, snorting and crying and getting more and more worked up. The saline drops don't seem to be doing anything. I am starting to feeling panicked, since he appears to be struggling to breathe.
Ellen is still staying at our house. It's late, maybe 2am, but I reluctantly walk over to her room, knock on the door, and admit that I have no idea what to do. She takes him, puts her lips to each of his nostrils, and sucks the mucus out. (Sorry, I don't know how to describe that any more pleasantly.) For a second he is even angrier, but then suddenly he is fine.
I take him back to my room and we settle back into bed, but before too much longer he is snorting and crying again. So almost without thinking, I put my lips to his nostrils and take care of it. And that is our routine every hour or so for the rest of that night and the following night.(At which point the congestion thankfully subsides on its own.)
Anyone who knows me knows that I am generally squeamish about slimy substances. I guess parenthood, for everyone, immediately challenges and changes things like that. I never, ever would have imagined myself sucking mucus out of a baby's nose, and if he hadn't been mine, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have. (Other person's kid, you're on your own...)
Not saying there is anything noble or virtuous about it--it was an unthinking reaction more than a considered decision. But it was also my first experience of feeling like a father and feeling changed by fatherhood. And that part was pretty good.
As the night goes on, he gets more and more congested, snorting and crying and getting more and more worked up. The saline drops don't seem to be doing anything. I am starting to feeling panicked, since he appears to be struggling to breathe.
Ellen is still staying at our house. It's late, maybe 2am, but I reluctantly walk over to her room, knock on the door, and admit that I have no idea what to do. She takes him, puts her lips to each of his nostrils, and sucks the mucus out. (Sorry, I don't know how to describe that any more pleasantly.) For a second he is even angrier, but then suddenly he is fine.
I take him back to my room and we settle back into bed, but before too much longer he is snorting and crying again. So almost without thinking, I put my lips to his nostrils and take care of it. And that is our routine every hour or so for the rest of that night and the following night.(At which point the congestion thankfully subsides on its own.)
Anyone who knows me knows that I am generally squeamish about slimy substances. I guess parenthood, for everyone, immediately challenges and changes things like that. I never, ever would have imagined myself sucking mucus out of a baby's nose, and if he hadn't been mine, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have. (Other person's kid, you're on your own...)
Not saying there is anything noble or virtuous about it--it was an unthinking reaction more than a considered decision. But it was also my first experience of feeling like a father and feeling changed by fatherhood. And that part was pretty good.
Day One
5:30am, July 29, 2012. Sleeping soundly when I am awakened by knocking on the bedroom door. It's Ellen. All she says, or needs to say, is "Shawn. It's time."
We quickly gather our things, throw them into the car, and head to the hospital. At the moment I have no idea how extremely close we are to the baby being delivered in the car. Ellen tells me later that she was squeezing her legs together as tightly as possible, trying to keep him where he was.
About 6:00, we pull into the hospital, I lift Ellen from the car into a wheelchair (thankfully she is about 5 feet tall and less than 100 pounds), and we rush her up to the labor ward. The nurses get her onto a bed, and then hand me some paperwork that they say must be completed before anything else can happen. I run back down to the front desk, complete everything as quickly as I can, and run back up.
It must be just after 6:15 at this point. I walk back into the delivery room and there is Xavier, on a table, still being cleaned up. For a second I can't figure out what I'm seeing. How is he already here? Then my eyes well up and the tears begin to flow. All I can say is, "My son."
The nurses stare at me with a mix of confusion, concern and amusement. I don't care at all. I am too busy admiring my son.
Later I will realize that he still looked a little half-baked that day and needed some time to unfold. But in the moment, he is just perfect.
We quickly gather our things, throw them into the car, and head to the hospital. At the moment I have no idea how extremely close we are to the baby being delivered in the car. Ellen tells me later that she was squeezing her legs together as tightly as possible, trying to keep him where he was.
About 6:00, we pull into the hospital, I lift Ellen from the car into a wheelchair (thankfully she is about 5 feet tall and less than 100 pounds), and we rush her up to the labor ward. The nurses get her onto a bed, and then hand me some paperwork that they say must be completed before anything else can happen. I run back down to the front desk, complete everything as quickly as I can, and run back up.
It must be just after 6:15 at this point. I walk back into the delivery room and there is Xavier, on a table, still being cleaned up. For a second I can't figure out what I'm seeing. How is he already here? Then my eyes well up and the tears begin to flow. All I can say is, "My son."
The nurses stare at me with a mix of confusion, concern and amusement. I don't care at all. I am too busy admiring my son.
Later I will realize that he still looked a little half-baked that day and needed some time to unfold. But in the moment, he is just perfect.
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