Vol. 1, No. 1 • Spring 1997

The Other Mother
by Cheryl Ezell

It was December 7, 1992 when our first foster child passed
away and February 7, 1997, when another foster child died,
just 4 years and 2 months apart. Both were daughters; the
first (whom we nicknamed "Niki") had turned two just hours
before she left us. The next (whom we called "Porsche") was
not quite 15 months old. Both were born not just HIV-Positive,
but with "full blown" AIDS. There were 17 other foster children between the girls, eleven of whom were born HIV-Positive, but none of them taught us more or gave us more than these two.

At the same time, there were none who required more: more physical care, more doctor visits, more hospital stays, more medical equipment, more sleepless nights, more prayers and tears, more physical therapy, more special formulas and foods, more worry, more over-protectiveness on our part, more of all we had to give.

Just as some questioned when Niki passed away, others asked upon Porsche's death, "Will you take another child who is HIV-Positive, knowing that they might die?" And just as emphatically the second time, we answer, "Yes!"

For these special children are the reason we are foster parents. And though there is always a chance we may lose another child to this horrible disease, most of the children serorevert (lose the virus) by 18 months of age.

But this isn't a story just about us. It is about working with the biological parents. Though Porsche was "our" child, when death was approaching we decided to welcome without judgment her biological family into our home because visits outside our home were neither practical nor in Porsche's best interest.

My heart was asking them, "Where were you when she ran fevers over 103 degrees? Where were you when she couldn't stop vomiting? Where were you when I sat up with Porsche night after night after night? Where were you when the morphine wore off and she cried for hours unending? Why did you neglect and abuse this beautiful child? And why did you have unprotected sex when you knew that you had AIDS and could pass it on to your unborn child?

But my voice didn't speak those words. I welcomed them into my home, updated them on Porsche's medical status, and filled them in on the many months of her life that they had missed. I pulled out Porsche's "Life Book" and let them take all the photos they wanted, explaining when and where each had been taken. We shared bits and pieces of one another's lives and, after a while, we formed a kind of bond.

But most importantly, I treated them with respect. Above all else, we had one thing in common: we all loved our daughter.

I spent my last day with Porsche alone except for those who stopped in for a visit: the hospice nurse and social worker, my pastor, and Porsche's HIV nurse and medical social worker. I put the Kathie Lee Gifford lullaby CD in the stereo and held Porsche continually, I carried her to the refrigerator, the phone, the bathroom, the front door--I couldn't put her down.

I sang to her, I read her "Just In Case You Ever Wonder," by Max Lucado. It's a wonderful story about how God chose just the right baby to give to me and how I will always love the baby, and about heaven. I told Porsche all about Heaven and that I would see her there some day. I told her she didn't have to fight any longer; I told her she could go and be an angel now. I told her over and over how much I loved her, how much everyone loved her.

I kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, her mouth, her chin, her hands...and I pulled her to my breast and whispered "Listen to Mommy's heart. It says 'I love you' with every beat." And then she was gone.

At her funeral three days later, her biological family asked me to sit with them. They introduced me to the extended family as Porsche's "other mother" and we held and comforted one another as we said our final good-bye to our daughter.

I am blessed to have been able to love Porsche and share her life for a short while. And the bond with the biological mother? Two days after the funeral, she prematurely gave birth to a little boy whom she asked me to help name. Though I am not his foster mother (he was placed in another foster home for children with HIV), I am his Godmother.

Cheryl Ezell is a foster parent in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Copyright � 2000 Jordan Institute for Families