In July 2012, I was managing my immunotherapy and had my MS in a symptom-free remission, which I hope to maintain for a good many years. I was making decent money with Hollywood Exes, and in this business, work begets work, so I was getting more one-off acting jobs as well. I was busy with Mayte’s Rescue, a charitable organization that finds loving homes for abused and abandoned animals. I adopted Boogie, the dear old golden retriever, and together we had a really nice life going. But there was this achingly open space. Not in my schedule, but in my soul. In my heart. I’d been thinking about adoption for years. I finally felt ready—way beyond ready—to be a mother again.
My friend Diane had adopted a child, and she nudged me to take the first step: a seminar that educated me on the whole process and explained the legal requirements and procedures. I loved the idea of having a baby in my arms, but I would have been just as thrilled to adopt an older child with special needs. But with my MS diagnosis on the paperwork, I wondered if I’d even be able to make it onto the long waiting list. I filled out all the state-required paperwork, but something stopped me from sending it in. I knew they’d ask me to be a foster mom first, and it was terrifying to risk loving and losing another child, but I was ready to take that leap of faith. The paperwork was on my desk, ready to be sent out the next day, when God decided it was time to play some jazz.
Fate or coincidence? I’ll let you decide.
Gia’s birth mother (her name and identifying details will be kept private here) is tough but beautiful. She’s a feisty, intelligent girl and she owns it. Her choices are inked into her skin, a personal manifesto that was in her bones long before tattoo needles brought it to the surface. She made the choice to have Gia and place her for adoption, and she was adamant about finding her a good home, but she didn’t want to put her into the foster care system, so she asked a counselor to help her find someone and navigate the legal issues. In August 2012, Gia was nine months old, and the counselor still hadn’t found anyone who wanted her—not anyone who measured up to the standards of Gia’s birth mother, that is.
One day in August, this girl had a minor accident at her job. Some cleaning solution splashed into her eyes, and she was sent home for the afternoon to take care of it. As she lay on her bed, thumbing the remote control, she settled on a reality show about fabulous women formerly married to famous men. Rich ladies, she figured, with rich lady problems. Drama, drama, drama. Gossip about the drama. More drama. It made this girl roll her swollen eyes.
But she decided this one chick was different. She was Latina, like her and her sisters. Like Gia. In the midst of all that fake reality, something about the Latina chick seemed real. She displayed no bitterness toward the rock star she had been married to. She spoke of him with respect and affection. It was obvious she still loved him. This woman talked about devastating losses and about moving on.
“In a perfect world, I’d be pregnant right now,” she said as the cameras followed her into a doctor’s office. “I’m nervous but optimistic. Whatever works, right?”
The lady was so flustered when the receptionist called her name, she dropped a stack of papers and had to get down on the floor to pick them up. After some uncomfortable small talk, the doctor said, “Currently, you’re thirty-eight years old, and you’ve been pregnant twice, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And what were the results of those pregnancies?”
“They’re not here.”
“Did both pregnancies result in miscarriage?”
“No. The first one was to term.”
“Was there a genetic issue?”
“Yes.”
“And the second one?”
“The second one was a partial molar pregnancy.”
The girl watching the show didn’t know what that meant, and they didn’t break away to explain it, so she figured, Whatever that is, it must be bad.
“I can’t wait for this part to be over,” said the lady in the doctor’s office. “It’s hard for me to talk about the past, especially when I’m here to talk about the future.”
But the future she envisioned was fading by the minute. A stark conversation about ovarian function, daily injections, chromosomal anomalies, and surgical procedures basically boiled down to the harsh reality that her perfect-world pregnancy was not going to happen.
The girl clicked off the television and stared at the ceiling. Gia was in her crib, crying the demanding, full-throated cry of a nine-month-old. The depth of the woman’s sadness resonated in a strange harmony with the sound of Gia’s crying—a motherless child and a childless mother—their need for each other vibrated like the silver tines of a tuning fork. The girl picked up her cell phone and Googled the name of the woman in the doctor’s office.
mayte garcia
Thousands of results spilled out, led by the Wiki basics: Mayte Jannell Garcia is an American belly dancer, actress, singer, and choreographer. She is of Puerto Rican ancestry… On Valentine’s Day in 1996, Garcia, then 22, married Prince, then 37, in Minneapolis.