Vanessa McGrady is a freelance writer and mom to Grace. The views expressed here are her own.
Here’s what I knew from the social worker’s call that Friday afternoon nearly five years ago: Her name was Bridgett and she was 23. His name was Bill and he was 38. They were musicians who wanted to concentrate on their careers. He made enough money so they could live in a small residential hotel in Downtown L.A. Bill and Bridgett Sheffield were so close to their financial edge that they were falling off it. And they were about to have a baby any day.
Only four days later, Bridgett went into labor. I raced back from a business trip in Northern California, feeling cautiously hopeful. Then, in the instant Grace took her first breath of life, I became her mom, after a nearly interminable two-year roller coaster of waiting and hoping to be matched with a birth mother.
What I didn’t know was that once the hospital staff learned of Bridgett and Bill’s plans to place the baby for adoption, the couple said staff leaned on them — hard — to change their minds. The other thing I didn’t know: They had been saddled with $5,000 worth of bills, they said, and the adoption agency was no help in navigating this. They felt, in essence, like baby machines. (A hospital spokeswoman declined to talk about their case, citing patient confidentiality, and also declined to explain the hospital’s general policy in regards to counseling for birth parents.)
Jennifer Pedley, a birth mother who helped to found the On Your Feet Foundation as a way to support birth parents after adoption, said that Bridgett and Bill’s experience is not uncommon.
"Agencies say they provide post-placement [support] — most really don't provide much, but those who do, although well intended, usually struggle to make it successful," Pedley said. Part of the issue, also, is that birth parents don’t always use services available to them from the agency. "There are probably several reasons for this, but I think the biggest one is birth parents' reluctance to return to an organization who is seen as being a primary advocate for the adoptive family. They often also have mixed feelings about returning to the people who are associated with their relinquishment, a primary source of their grief."
On the way back from the hospital, my then-husband and I dropped Bridgett and Bill off at their place, then went home with our baby. We kept in touch through Facebook, and would occasionally meet up at a playground. Then, in the fall of 2013, I learned that my daughter's birth parents had become homeless through a brutal combination of factors. A bedbug infestation in their apartment, Bill losing his job at Pizza Hut, and Bridgett's unsuccessful search for work in L.A. drove them to move to Texas, where Bill had roots, in search of an easier life.
But nearly three years later, they are still essentially homeless. Bill is a Navy veteran, but things didn’t work out with Veterans Affairs housing. Bill and Bridgett say they don’t apply for state benefits like food stamps or unemployment because they don’t want to get caught up in the Texas "system" — they want to come back to L.A. as soon as they can. But they just can’t seem to catch a break.
They are the biological parents of my only child. My gratitude toward them is boundless. I have debt that cannot be repaid — and yet I don’t know how to help. Except by telling their story, which is what they asked me to do.
Ahead, Bill, Bridgett, Grace, and I share our story in photos.
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Bridgett was broke and without transportation, which, she said, made it nearly impossible for her to obtain any prenatal care — especially in her late pregnancy, when she was told she was “at risk” and needed a specialist. But after a quick labor, baby Grace was born in perfect health on a balmy spring afternoon.
Bridgett told me that, that day, after she had given birth, a social worker had separated her from Bill and grilled her for two hours about her plans to place the baby for adoption — making sure it was her choice, letting her know her social welfare options, asking just one more time, and one more time again, if this was what she really wanted. As if she were a child who didn’t know her own mind. But Bridgett never, ever wavered in her decision to place Grace for adoption.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
After Grace was born, Bill said that when they asked the adoption agency for help paying their hospital bills, they were put on hold for an interminable amount of time. Bill said they had to hang up because they buy their phone plan by the minute, but nobody ever called them back.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
A couple weeks after the birth, Bill, Bridgett, Grace, her dad, and I took a slightly awkward one-and-a-half-hour car ride to the adoption agency's office in Orange County. There, Bridgett and Bill signed “relinquishment” papers, giving us full custody of Grace. Bridgett never took her eyes off Grace.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
For the first couple years, we’d meet up every few months in the park. Bridgett and Bill were always very respectful of my role as Grace’s mother. They never, ever made me think they’d regretted their decision, or that they wanted to step in and do any kind of parenting. But they have expressed that they’ll be there for her whenever she needs them.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
Bridgett and Bill became homeless and moved in with us for a while during the 2013 holiday season. Grace’s preschool had a pancake breakfast and they joined us as part of the family. The school's Santa seemed a little confused by our arrangement.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
Bridgett and Bill move together, as one. They are of one mind about most things. They even look alike. Here's the portrait Grace made of them when they stayed with us. She captured a pretty powerful metaphor in this.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
When they had nowhere else to go, in 2014, Bill and Bridgett headed toward Hill Country, TX. This is the Medina River, a few miles from where they live now.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
When Bill was a teenager, he said the shores of nearby Medina Lake were hopping with 22 "juke joints," bars filled with tourists and locals alike. Bill said he used to bus tables and play music at this one, the Road House, which shuttered when the lake dried up and the people stayed away.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
Bill and Bridgett look out over Medina Lake, in Texas, where they now live. They are still struggling to get by.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
The proper road to Bridgett and Bill’s place is rocky, broken, and nearly impassible. They take a short trip around the back of the house to get there.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
They now live in the house that used to belong to Bill’s grandmother. The ownership is unclear, and the title is with another relative. Inside, everything is impeccable and pretty much as Bill's grandmother left it in the 1980s. They don’t have running water, and they borrow electricity from a neighbor. But it’s drier, cleaner, and safer than L.A.’s Skid Row, where the two were living on the street.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
For water, Bill and Bridgett hike about a mile to the Laundromat and fill up 1-gallon jugs.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
Bridgett and Bill do all their business at the library, where they can use the computers for free and buy VHS tapes for a quarter. They never check books out because they hitchhike or catch rides from a friend to get there, and don’t know when they’ll be able to return.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
Bill and Bridgett said they don’t want to get tied into the welfare system in Texas, so most of what they eat comes from the local food bank. Every purchase they make is excruciatingly considered, down to the penny or fraction thereof. On this trip to Walmart, Bill weighed two seemingly identical heads of lettuce that cost the same to see which one was heavier.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
Bill and Bridgett want to return to L.A. to play music, but said they aren't able to get Veterans Affairs housing — they need to be in the city to get it, but don’t have a place to wait in the meantime. Still, Bridgett and Bill keep a “go-pile” packed in case they find a last-minute ride share. Most of their stuff is in a storage locker in L.A., and only their Texas essentials and music gear would come with them, they told me.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
To pass the time, when they’re not playing music, Bill and Bridgett work on other creative pursuits. Here, Bill has handwritten his autobiography, which includes the true story of how he got to be a Grammy-winning songwriter for, “Hey Baby, Que Paso” with the Texas Tornados.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
Another way the couple spends their time is by developing and playing their own mad card game, set to music. The game involves a yet-to-be-invented timer that plays their original songs and a deck of manga-style cards drawn by Bridgett.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
The bunny they’d gotten two months before Grace was born, which they named Ynnub, is still alive and well at their Texas home.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
The three of us rested after an exhausting interview session, in which they told me about their experiences in the hospital and afterward. I had no idea what they’d been through; they didn’t tell me because they didn't want to trouble me as I was navigating new motherhood.
Photo: Vanessa McGrady
For me, Bridgett and Bill are never far away. I think of them pretty much every time I look at Grace. She has his eyes, her legs. She sounds exactly like Bridgett sometimes, and I see that she’s going to be close to a genius with words and numbers, like Bill. Grace is also her own magical, radiant self, but they are always, always with us.
Photo: Vanessa McGradyLike what you see? How about some more R29 goodness, right here?
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