When you're left holding the baby

Adopting children from abroad can lead to problems in later life, as their medical histories or early experiences can remain mysteries. But anxious parents have nowhere to turn, reports Nadine O'Regan

She drove home trying not to panic, trying to be positive, but with the words searing her brain. She and her sparkly-eyed, Harry Potter-fanatic son had already lived through three long and gruelling years of tests and evaluations, three years in which five psychologists, three GPs and two schools had featured. This time around, doctors had suggested the worst but, once again, confirmed nothing.

The doctors' underlying difficulty was always the same. Although they were experts they had little expertise in Sam's area. Sam was adopted from Russia by Claire and her husband when he was three years old. His medical history is full of gaps and his problems - lack of social skills, language problems and writing difficulties - are attributable to a wide range of issues.

"It's hard to know how much of the problem is organic and how much is because he was in an orphanage for three years," says Claire. "The teachers were looking at dyslexia, but I said to them he didn't use a pencil until he was four, he never touched a ball, he never crawled. There is no place in Ireland to go to where somebody has experience of dealing with children of this background. We're totally isolated."

Lucy, a woman in her 50s from the Dublin area, can identify with Claire's distress. She and her husband were overjoyed when, in the 1970s, they adopted their second child, a baby girl. But three weeks after Lucy brought her home, her natural mother decided she had made a mistake and wanted her back. Talking about it still upsets Lucy.

"It was a harrowing time," she says. "If she had died you'd have had a grave to go to. People say, 'Oh well, you only had her three weeks,' but you had the build-up of months and months. It was also very worrying for my little son. I had to reassure him that he wouldn't be touched." Lucy badly needed help in the aftermath of her loss, but, with the exception of a social worker who called round to ensure she wasn't drinking or abusing substances in her despair, she didn't get it.

Fast-forward three decades. You would assume the circumstances for adoptive parents would have improved. But when it comes to post-adoption support parents are still staring into the same horrible void. "Post-adoption services are non-existent in this country," says Marian Connolly, secretary of the support group Parents of Adopted Romanian Children. "Barnardos were the only people that helped us. But everything has been cut, their social workers are gone. They gave great talks, but they can't do much for us now."

However, their help is needed more than ever. While there were 4,933 domestic adoptions between 1991 and 2002, 1,766 children were adopted from overseas in the same period. The Internet teems with worried parents seeking answers to all the questions they have. Many voluntary groups have also sprung up in an attempt to accommodate people's needs. Frequently, they represent all the support that adoptive parents have.

"I get phone calls from people who have no place to go," says Claire. "And they're afraid to name the problem. One lady met me three times before she eventually said she had a problem with her little girl. People don't talk about their troubles."

There are many reasons why parents keep quiet about their dilemmas, but one of the most depressing relates to their feelings of insecurity. Adoptive parents are often reluctant to reveal their problems in case they end up seeming incompetent. This is true with regard to family, friends and, particularly, social workers.

"You're afraid to say that you have concerns," says Lucy. "You feel vulnerable, because you're wondering if they think you're up to scratch. The day my son was put into my arms was the happiest day of my life. But I remember thinking, how in the name of God am I going to rear him? I was afraid of my life they would think I wasn't adequate."

Some parents no longer have the option of hiding their troubles, however. Owen, an Irish businessman in his late 40s, has a 20-year-old adopted son called Alan, who is currently serving a prison sentence for car theft and cannabis possession. "He got into trouble hanging around with the wrong crowd," Owen says. "He started taking cars when he was high, and he crashed them and burned them out. He started taking stuff when he was 13 or so, but we didn't know about it until he was 17. The guards started calling to the door. It's been very distressing."

Owen finds it hard to talk about these issues. He's protective of his son and, despite the intense anger he has sometimes felt towards him, doesn't want to hurt him.

A few days after our interview he rings back to say he feels there was an aspect of his story we didn't discuss in enough depth. What was it?

"The love," he says. "He's still my son. I still love him. That hasn't changed. When you adopt a child they're so precious and you love them so much. Despite the trouble, the love is still extremely strong."

It's a point worth making. Sometimes people don't understand quite how special adopted children are to their parents. They also forget that there are natural-born troublemakers all over Ireland. Kids flunk exams, dabble in drugs and get thrown out of school all the time.

Yet, even in this era, there are those who make unfair distinctions between natural and adopted children. Sometimes they even make distinctions between adoptive and natural parents.

"People will make comments to you," says Claire. "Your mother-in-law will say, 'Oh, if he was your own child you'd understand better.' You're lucky that she says it on the right day, so you can leave the room rather than get upset. Because if you get upset she really thinks you have a problem."

One of the few shards of light to be cast on the situation in recent times comes courtesy of a Dublin adoption agency. A new private course that begins a second run next month has been set up through the organisation to help adoptive parents cope with the needs of their adolescent children.

Christine Hennessey, the social worker in charge of the initiative, contacted parents who had adopted children in the late 1980s and early 1990s through the agency to ask if they would be interested in attending the programme. There has been so much enthusiasm for the course that the agency has asked not to be named in this article, lest it be bombarded with calls from parents it cannot accommodate.

Hennessey understands why the need for support is so overwhelming. "Even with the best parents in the world it can be hard for teenagers to verbalise what's on their minds. For teenagers who are adopted there are lots of questions. Some teenagers show anger and sadness, and some have feelings of loss or rejection as well."

The change in values can also contribute to their distress. "In 1989 there were 6,671 non-marital births and 615 adoptions," says Hennessey. "In 2002 there were 18,815 non-marital births and 266 adoptions. These young people are looking at classmates who are having their babies as single parents and seeing these babies beingwelcomed by family and friends. It's difficult for them to understand that it was much harder 17 years ago for single parents."

In common with many others interviewed for this article, Hennessey is keen to stress that not every child will experience difficulties. "We're not suggesting that just because you're adopted means you're going to have problems," she says. "But it's good to be prepared."

Unfortunately, it seems preparation is exactly what this country lacks. Asked what adoptive parents require, Marian Connolly is unequivocal. "We need a post-adoption centre where children would be assessed by someone properly qualified and then channelled into the services where their needs would be met."

Connolly and her colleagues are preparing a submission to the Government that will outline these issues in greater detail. They have also spent time educating psychologists around the country about the range of problems they face. But they are battling lack of funding, ignorance and, occasionally, even indifference.

In the meantime their children are growing up fast. Problems that could perhaps have been solved had more information been available are becoming ingrained, and wounds are festering. Parents are struggling to cope.

Claire, for one, fears the future. Sam gets angry regularly now, becoming frustrated and lashing out. She could deal with it when he was seven. She's managing now that he's eight. But what will it be like when he turns 13? "It's much harder to turn around a 13-year-old boy than an eight-year-old," she says. "The years are flying." And time is running out.

• Some names have been changed

The figures

Between 1953, when adoption legislation was introduced, and 2002, the courts made 42,177 domestic adoption orders in respect of children placed for adoption in the State.

In 2002, 266 domestic adoption orders were made (167 of these were family adoptions, where a child was adopted by the spouse of their natural parent). In the same year, 336 children were adopted into Ireland, and their adoptions were entered in the Register of Foreign Adoptions.

Of the foreign adoptees since 1991, 774 have come from Romania, 350 from Russia, 135 from Guatemala, 109 from Vietnam, 108 from China, 70 from Kazakhstan and 47 from Belarus.Claire's worst moment - the moment her heart nearly stopped in fear and pain - came about a month ago, when a psychologist said her eight-year-old son, Sam, showed symptoms of autism.