For a New Father, Philippine Adoption Is Ordeal by Jet Lag

I left New York at noon on Monday, alone. I returned from the Philippines 77 1/2 dizzying hours later--with my new 10-month-old daughter.

In the interim, I traveled 20,000 miles. I slept a total of 13 hours. I changed diapers in the cramped bathroom of a 747. I got stuck in rainy-season traffic in Manila. I spent five hours in Japan, never leaving the airport.

Someday, when Samantha has grown up, I will tell her that I went to the ends of the Earth for her, and back. It was not the same as childbirth, but it was an ordeal in its own right.

When my wife, Donna, and I decided to adopt a second child two years ago, we assumed the process would be the same as it was for our son, Alexander. We would fill out the paperwork and someone would escort the baby to New York.

But the rules had changed. Our adoption agency, Wide Horizons for Children in Waltham, Mass., said the government in the Philippines wanted parents to pick up their children. They spoke of the enriching experience of seeing your child’s homeland and meeting the caretakers in the orphanage.

The experience seemed more life-threatening than enriching with each report of political unrest and resentment toward U.S. bases in the Philippines.

We had turned to foreign adoption because we couldn’t afford an estimated $15,000 to $20,000 for a domestic adoption. Wide Horizons charged according to a family’s ability to pay.

We applied for a second child--a girl--in September, 1988. After 20 months of fingerprinting, background checks, immigration forms, passports and other documents, we got a picture of our daughter-to-be.

She had been born Dec. 13, 1989. Her mother was not married and could not afford a child.

At first, my wife planned to go with her mother. But the trip would have exhausted them, leaving me to care for our son and new daughter. It was decided that I would go, pick up our baby girl, rest for a night and return.

The worst-case scenario? Thirty hours with a crying baby, compounded by jet lag.

Our adoption agency provided 20 pages on Filipino culture and instructions about what traveling parents could expect, down to the specific detail on where to meet a prearranged escort at the Manila airport.

We packed clothes for me and the baby, diapers, bottles and three bags of clothing and over-the-counter medical supplies for orphanages in Manila.

The flight was uneventful--but nearly sleepless. After two planes, four movies, seven meals and 36 hours, I arrived in Manila, having slept three hours. Anxiety kept my eyes from closing; I checked my papers and instructions countless times, and chatted with fellow passengers.

I arrived after midnight. Three times, I heard my name on the airport public address system. Each time, the heavy accent of the announcer prevented me from hearing where I was to meet my party.

Finally, I connected with Ron Fullerton. He and his wife, Lita, operate Chosen Children, a private adoption agency, and they were to be my guides through the 30 hours I spent in the Philippines.

Ron is a native of Maine; his wife was born in the Philippines. The next morning (despite my fatigue, I was wide awake after four hours of sleep), I saw their orphanage, which houses disabled children under age 3.

The Fullertons raise money to care for the children and provide operations for those who can be helped surgically. Although parents are sought, Lita Fullerton said there were at least five children with severe birth defects--such as cerebral palsy and blindness--who would be hers for life.

This was just the first of three orphanages I would visit that day. Next was St. Rita’s, where my son had spent the first 17 months of his life. A bulletin board there is adorned with pictures we had sent of Alex.

Then--through chaotic traffic that put New York’s to shame, made worse by rainy-season floods--we took the hourlong trip across the city to the International Alliance for Children to get my new daughter.

I met the orphanage director and Violy, the woman who took care of my daughter for nine months. Then we walked down a long foyer to a rear bedroom, the day nursery. Violy held up a brown-haired baby in a tattered T-shirt and diaper, her feet crusted with sores caused by scabies.

“Here’s Daddy,” Violy said.

Numbed by fatigue, I picked Samantha up and raised her above my head, inadvertently frightening her. I quickly brought her down and hugged her, and for the first time my daughter smiled at me.

For a half-hour, I took pictures of the nursery, other children and Samantha. The orphanage’s director gave me instructions on her diet, medical condition and sleeping habits.

Violy, a thin woman of about 30 with short, black hair, said little. But when it came time for us to leave, she broke into sobs.

My voice cracking, I promised to write and send pictures. And we left.

We slept for six hours. Ron Fullerton dropped me at the airport at 5 a.m, and the job of juggling baby, luggage and documents began.

The plane was half-full, so we stretched out across three seats. Samantha slept for most of the four-hour flight to Tokyo.

We had a five-hour layover there. We walked around Narita Airport twice, changed three diapers, drank a bottle of soy milk and had a 90-minute crying fit. We were an unusual sight--a 6-foot, 210-pound Caucasian tending to a 15-pound Filipino baby--and four people took our picture.

I arranged to have a bulkhead seat with a bassinet on the flight to New York. Samantha had been so good on the first plane, I was certain the next flight would be easy.

Samantha had other ideas. Maybe she was used to me and ready to exert her influence, maybe her body clock was still on Manila time, maybe it was the confusion of the last 24 hours or maybe she was sick and tired of soy milk.

She cried for the first four hours of the flight.

She hated her bassinet and would not rest in my arms. Other passengers tried to amuse her with funny faces, peek-a-boo and cooing sounds. I walked her up the aisle, trying to rock her to sleep and give my neighbors a break.

After four hours, she slept. I didn’t. When she awoke five hours later, she was hungry, and not in the mood for soy milk.

I shared some of my chicken dinner, giving her pieces of the roll dipped in gravy and some mashed vegetables and small pieces of chicken. She was happy for most of the rest of the flight.

About an hour before getting into New York, it became clear she had to be changed. I decided to take her to the lavatory, rather than offend my fellow passengers. It was also a good time to give her a final cleaning and dress her in a new pink outfit to meet Mommy.

I wedged myself into the tiny bathroom with the changing bag, diaper, powder, wipes.

The roar of jet engines, magnified by the lavatory’s acoustics, must have been a frightening orchestration to the little person watching Papa fumble around while trying to hold baby on a blanket draped over the toilet seat.

After what seemed like hours, we emerged. My fellow passengers certainly wondered how I had made out; I smiled like it was a piece of cake.

Arrival at Kennedy Airport was not the end of our odyssey. First, we had to deal with a Disney World-like line at immigration.

I was holding an antsy baby who was beginning to wonder when this series of buses, planes and lines would end. An officer said he would check on my paperwork. One minute later, he returned our passports and said Samantha would get her green card in a few weeks.

Mommy, Nana and brother Alex were waiting in the airport lobby.

Donna--surprised by how well we both had weathered the trip--reached for Samantha, and was rewarded with a smile.

Alex, age 4, approached to kiss his baby sister; we reminded him that she’s delicate. Ever since, he’s told all who would listen that she’s “deck-o-lit.”

He believes babies come from the airport. After all, that’s where he came from, and that’s where his baby sister came from.