When cancer dashed my brother's dreams, it spurred me to follow mine and adopt my daughter

This First Person column is the experience of Kerri McCourt, who lives in Edmonton. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

The day before he died, Jon reached up and placed his hand on my cheek. Slowly and softly he traced my face in a tender, excruciating goodbye. 

It was a moment that came back to me six years later on a bus in China with my newly adopted daughter sitting on my lap. Jill, one year old, turned suddenly to face me. Her eyes, steady and curious, looked into mine. Exactly as my brother had, she trailed her delicate hand over my eyelids, nose and mouth, familiarizing herself with this stranger — her mom. It was the sweetest, most joyful hello. 

As a young girl, I dreamed of being a mother one day, through both birth and adoption.

Five years older than Jon, I cherished the role of his big sister. When we were little, he let me mother him a bit. He was a gentle, cuddly and affectionate boy. I adored him and how he made me feel protective and nurturing. Growing up together, we were playful, attuned and connected. 

I was in my 20s when my husband and I married and had our first child. We added three more children to our family over the next 10 years before my husband and I agreed we were finished with pregnancies. 

But we left room for the idea of adoption. It has always felt important to me to make a difference to someone, somehow, and specifically to a child — a child who needed something I could give. I remember watching a movie once that brought attention to children in desperate situations throughout parts of the world. Aware of the news and the state of the world, it wasn't a revelation. What stayed with me was the resolve to put my feelings into action.

My husband told me he had thought about adoption too, and like me, he might want to pursue it "someday." 

We never imagined the painful path that would bring "someday" to reality.

At age 31, my brother was diagnosed with Stage 4 esophageal cancer. I realized life can be over sooner than we ever expected, and nothing about it was fair. At the time of his diagnosis, Jon was a husband and a father of one. He had another baby on the way even as his own life was ending. 

Jon's illness shifted everything as my priorities came sharply into focus. I wanted to be with him as much as I could and bring him as much comfort as possible. He was deeply loved and our entire family rallied around Jon. 

During the five months he had left to live after his diagnosis, I felt helpless. I wanted more than anything to do more but all I could do were small, seemingly insignificant things. I held his daughter in my arms and sang to her while her mom accompanied Jon to various appointments. I crocheted a blanket to comfort him during treatments. I brought him some favourite foods which he still unabashedly enjoyed. Later, in the hospital I fed him bites of peanut butter toast as I held his hand. I treasured every simple moment.

During this incredible darkness, my wish to adopt became more than a desire. The unequivocal intention to adopt a child became as unquestionable as my purpose in being there for Jon. 

With abrupt and agonizing clarity, I realized that there is limited time to bring dreams to fruition. "Someday" was now and I took the official first step to adopt my baby girl. 

Weeks before Jon died, my husband and I filled out applications and corresponded with Edmonton and Ottawa agencies that help arrange adoptions from China. The meetings set off an avalanche of paperwork, home visits, security checks and a long, long wait. 

Despite knowing this was the right path for me, I felt despair as I visualized having a new child in my life while Jon had two babies he was leaving. It was unfair that I could anticipate and trust in a future at all while he was being robbed of his.

Perhaps in some way, the loss of Jon's dreams had made going after mine even more important.

On his last night, it felt like a magnetic force drove me to the hospital where, over and over, I told Jon I loved him. My parents and other family members had been with Jon throughout the day, and I arrived with my husband that evening. Jon's wife was there, holding their precious three-week-old daughter.

I arrived only moments before Jon took his last breath. I believe he waited for me. I was later told that as I walked out of the hospital room, down the hallway and exited the hospital, Jon left too.

The adoption

International adoption from China was changing drastically when I began the process, and the timeline was unpredictable. It would be a long wait before we'd receive the referral — the information, photos and immediate travel plans — to complete the adoption for our baby. 

During this time, I was unravelled by grief from the loss of Jon. I'm still heartbroken for all he is missing and how deeply he is missed by us. 

So, when I held my daughter for the first time in Nanchang, I realized how grateful I was.

She rested her head against my shoulder and snuggled in close. We'd spend two weeks in China before flying to Canada. 

I know Jon would celebrate Jill's adoption, and find the same joy I do in her creative, bright and playful personality.

He would be incredibly proud of his two girls — young women now. Children have come into the family that never had the opportunity to know Jon, to hear his laugh and experience his heart of gold.

Sorrow doesn't end. But neither does love.

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