Today my parental rights were terminated. There was no courtroom, no judge, just a multitude of people crowded around a hospital bed.

Earlier, my foster son looked scared as they prepared him for the heart operation.

"Everything will be okay." I encouraged, squeezing his hand. "I love you." He said he loved me too.

The medical procedure could last from two to eight hours. Catheters would be threaded throughout his body, ending in his heart. The mission was to search and destroy the extra electrical pathways that made his 26 year-old heart beat too fast.

An assortment of relatives from various melded families held a vigil. Some, like myself, took up residence. Others filed in and out all day.

Immediately after they wheeled him from his room, people went to breakfast. I couldn't leave. I remembered when we were the only constants in his life, so I remained in his room and read.

News of the operation was scarce, incorrect, and unreliable. One person would contradict what another said earlier. We worried.

His natural family worked on crosswords. I read. They shared photos with each other of a time before me. I watched TV without seeing. We all dealt with stress in our own way.

Later they went to lunch; I stayed in the room. I felt irritated no one seemed to take this seriously but me. Sometimes, my husband and I were the only ones present. Information revealed he would be back in his room soon. Later, it was changed to 'an hour." His 'real mom' went to get more details. She returned with, "They don't know, they think he is done, he should be back soon."

"He's in recovery." But that wasn't true. The hour they had promised was long past. "Sorry, he's not in recovery, he's still in the procedure." An array of worried faces showed concern.

Finally, information came. The procedure went well. The doctors expected a full recovery. An audible gasp of relief filled the air. Checking my watch, I realized he had been gone for ten hours.

Anxiously, I awaited his return. He used to be 'my son.' My husband and I were 'ma and pop' at a time when absentee parents were unreliable. When his birth parents 'couldn't reach him', we connected. Together, we jumped hurdles. We handled discipline problems at school. We endured his 'battle with chemicals.' We even eased his anger at being abandoned.

When his time in foster care was over, he chose to remain with our family. We couldn't adopt him, he already had parents, and he was almost an adult. We just included him. Holidays and vacations were shared with him. He was part of the family.

We launched him again and again. Finally, we said the time had come for him to make it on his own. We encouraged, we helped, but he could no longer live with us. He needed to take his place in the adult world.

He made it. He no longer had to retreat to our house for safety. He worked with others like himself till a more permanent job came along. then the heart trouble appeared. He drove himself to the hospital. His heart had to be shocked to reset the rhythm. The pain, the numbness, the blackouts were no 'big thing.'

Recently, after nine years as our son, his relationship with his birth parents improved. Our role was unclear. Things felt wrong. It felt bad to be replaced although we worked toward renewed relations with his parents from the beginning. We fostered the feeling of family-his and ours.

At last they're wheeling him in. He looks up unseeing, eyes fluttering out of a pale face. Beneath the sheets, the long, thin body of 'today's youth' appears fragile.

They have hooked him up to all sorts of monitors. Wincing in pain, he lets out a small moan. Soon, he forces juice down a throat dried from the tube inserted during surgery. His stomach rejects it. Quickly, I reach for the pan; his mom already has it. She's stroking his forehead. I'm feeling uncomfortable. She's wiping his mouth. I want to shout, "Get away; let me do that." I keep silent.

I wonder where these strangers were when he cried the tears of a broken-hearted young man. Okay, so I didn't change diapers, but I did wake up at 3a.m. to offer him cough syrup. I wasn't there for his first steps, but stood up for him in court when his steps had gone astray. I didn't suffer through chicken pox with him, but I did when he was on that chemical seesaw. For years, these people were not part of his life, now they took center stage.

To comfort myself, I say now he will receive the love from them he always deserved. They are acting like parents now. Blinking back tears, I remember broken promises and forgotten birthdays which wounded his soul and brought pain to those blue eyes.

Now, here we are vying for position at his bedside just like in his life. Mom takes the chair closest to his head. My husband sits far away, almost unseen. I'm more pushy, making myself room to stand by the bed.

I feel relieved he's okay. He's looking like he wants some dignity. I squeeze through the mob. I stroke his arm. We say goodbye. Today was too painful for me. I won't come to the hospital tomorrow. My role as parent needs to move aside, so his can assume their role.

It's not about making choices; no one needs that conflict. It's about relinquishing my son to strangers. I remind myself children are only borrowed. Some day, maybe he will be part of our life again, but now...

As I'm leaving, words come to mind, "If you love something, let it go. If it's yours, it will come back to you."

Credits: Jo Ann Wentzel