Meant to Be

Miracles, in the sense of phenomena we cannot explain, surround us on every hand: life itself is the miracle of miracles.

~George Bernard Shaw

In the spring of 1992, I was eighteen years old, a senior in high school, and deep in a dark, suicidal depression. I was taking medication and going to therapy, but I didn’t seem to be able to find my way out of the abyss that had a hold of me.

One night during that time, I had a dream that I couldn’t shake afterward.

I was walking down the middle of a dark street with my parents and brother at night. I didn’t know the area we were in or why we were there. Suddenly, a dark truck turned the corner and headed down the street toward us. We all moved to the side of the road. As the truck drew nearer, my brother suddenly exclaimed: “Hey, it’s Corbin!” I no longer felt anxious and afraid. Instead, I felt joyful and light when we realized it was Corbin. When he got out of the truck, we saw he was a big man — over six feet tall with a stocky build and brown hair. I just couldn’t make out the features of his face.

The dream ended then, but the joyful feelings stayed with me.

At that time in my life, I dreamed every night, but the details never stayed with me, and I never bothered to write them down. This one lingered, however. I had no idea why seeing the mystery man named Corbin brought such joy to my day, but it buoyed me in ways that nothing else did at that time.

Fast forward eight years, and I was married and trying to start a family. We went through cycle after cycle of infertility treatments with no success. Once again, I fell into a deep depression. In the spring of 2000, we decided that we would try one last infertility treatment and move on to pursuing adoption if it didn’t work.

The night before the last treatment, I dreamed once again that I was walking down the street with my family. We all grew very happy and excited when a man named Corbin arrived in his truck.

I didn’t know why, but the dream reassured me. Somehow, things were going to be all right. Even when the pregnancy test was negative and I was devastated, I still felt optimistic in a small corner of my heart.

In 2002, we finished our home study for the adoption process and were informed that a child had been selected for us. We would hear about him and his history before deciding if we wanted to meet him. My husband decided that, to be impartial, we would hold off on knowing the child’s name or seeing pictures until after initial disclosure. Our adoption worker shared all the information she had with us, and my husband and I looked at each other and both exclaimed, “He’s for us.” Then she took out some pictures and handed them to us. A three-year-old with an impish grin, wearing one hat and holding another, smiled at us in the picture. I had thought I would feel an automatic connection with the picture, but while he was a cute kid, I found myself flipping through the pictures searching for a spark. Then our social worker asked if we wanted to know his name. When we said yes, she shared, “His name is Corbin.”

There and then, I knew I was meant to be his mom, and it would all work out okay. Today, Corbin is over six feet tall with a stocky build.

— Tina Szymczak —