Tears From Cold Water

August 1, 2000.  That was the day my half-brother died.  I’d never met him, but since I’d learned about him in 1982, his 5th grade photo always had a prominent place  on my dresser (along with that of his younger brother, a half-brother I have met, though we don’t ‘do fractions’ very well… he’s my brother, and I’m “Hey, Sis.”).  Those photos are  still there. I remember looking at my e-mail at work for the last time  that day, and seeing the message from my cousin. (I didn’t have a computer at home).  She let me know that he was gone, and what we knew of the details at that time.  He’d drowned.  He was  a competitive swimmer as a child, and I couldn’t make sense of it.  I cried.  I went  up to the front office where the accounts person was still working.  I told her what I’d found out, and just sat there, numb, for a few minutes.  I stayed numb about much of his death for years.

My thoughts  immediately went to my birthmother.  She’d been through a lot in her life, and then her eldest son was gone.  I wanted to write to her, but I didn’t want to seem like I was being opportunistic in getting in contact with her during an unimaginably painful time.  I wanted her to know how much I was thinking about her, and that I wished I could do something.  What, I’m wasn’t sure.  But, I was horrified that she was having to go through the death of a child.  He was closing in on 30 years old, but as a nurse, I’d seen many parents face the deaths of their much-older children, and it was always a kind of grief that is unmatched.  But during that time, my bio-mom and I weren’t in contact.   I heard about her through other biological relatives, but it was a complicated situation.

Then I thought about the ‘what ifs’.  What if my bio-mom and I got back in contact, and the chance came about that I might meet my half-brothers?  I’d never know that with A.  What if I ended up with a relationship with my half-brothers, whatever it might be?   I’d never have that with A.  Had he known about me?  I later found out that he had.  But at the time of his death, all I knew was that possibility was gone in ever knowing A, face to face.  My hopes of some sort of  contact died that day.  It’s not a tangible loss.  It’s the loss of a dream.

In 2010, I ended up with leukemia.  I was expected to do well, but in case things ended poorly, I wanted to let my bio-mom know what was going on, and not just find out I’d died, if that should happen.  We hadn’t been on ‘bad terms’ by any means, it was just very complicated, and time was needed since our first contact by mail in 1982.  She did want to reconnect in 2010 and had been trying to find me (my name is pretty nondescript, and I’d moved from the last place she knew I’d been), and we’ve had an incredible relationship since then.

While I still have trouble talking about him, she told me what happened to A.  It was an incredibly hot day, and he’d gone out to the river to swim.  What he didn’t know was that the dam upstream had been released the day before, and much colder water than usual was flowing down the river.  When his body hit the water, that was so much colder than his core temperature, his heart just stopped.  Done.  Over. A life ended.  From cold water on a hot day.  He’d been used to going to the river.  He knew about water safety, and was an incredibly strong swimmer.  None of that mattered.

In some ways, that helped in easing some of the horrible images I had in my head of his last moments.  It’s unlikely he struggled, or couldn’t get his breath. He didn’t fight underwater.  He hadn’t suffered.  He may have felt an odd chest sensation for a few moments, not really long enough to register anything, but then…nothing.   That has been somewhat  comforting, to know that he wouldn’t have felt pain or the panic of final minutes.

But I still cry.  I have some CDs of his music sessions with friends, and it’s very hard to listen to them.  I’ve managed to at least hear his voice on a few songs, and I’m so thankful I have those CDs.  I’m sure I’ll get to the point that I can listen to them. But now, I still just cry when I think about the day I got that e-mail.   I can talk to my birth mom and brother about A.  I love hearing about when my two brothers were kids.  I have a bunch of photos of all of them, which are treasures, and I’ve got some of my bio-mom, brother, and myself together, which I’m also so thankful to have.  I think the three of us ‘kids’ could have been a nightmare together, in a good way 😉

When I see stories about drownings, I always think about A.  When I see those looney ‘polar bear’ ice water swims in the winter, or jumps into ice water after saunas,  I cringe.  When I think about how easy it is for life to be done, I am thankful for the days I have, and wish with indescribable intensity that A had had ‘his share’ of time on earth.  It took me about 12 years to be able to wash my face in the shower. I didn’t want to have to hold my breath in water when I thought my brother had drowned.  (I finally got the bright idea to look down when I rinse my face, so there was no need to hold my breath… :/ ).   Even though I never knew A personally, he was a part of my life for the 18 years prior to his death, in the form of ‘what ifs’, trying to guess what he looked like ,  and those precious photos on my dresser.   Now, I do have contact with my bio-mom and brother, and I’m  so incredibly thankful for the relationships with them. They really are special parts of my life, and knowing them has helped me know myself better.   I still think about A, though.

He’ll always be part of my life.

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Finding Myself As I’ve Connected With My Biological Mother

I was placed for adoption at birth.  Growing up, I was told about the adoption as soon as I was old enough to grasp the concept of being a ‘chosen baby’ (name of a book my mom read to me).  It wasn’t a big deal, and I was accepted into both sides of the family like any other kid.  My parents (what I call my adoptive parents, since they’re the ones I knew growing up) made sure I had everything I needed, as well as a lot of ‘extras’ (music lessons, sports lessons, trips around the country, trip to Europe, etc).  And yet, there was the natural curiosity about where I came from, and who was ‘out there’ that was my biological family.  My parents were aware of this, and always told me that once I turned 18 or 21 (I forget which), they’d help me find my biological mom (or bio-mom as I refer to her on paper… sounds like some type of bio-fuel). :/   I call her by her first name in person, and with people who know me; I do respect her privacy by not naming her in posts.

I was encouraged to do a search when I was 19 by a psychiatrist I was seeing for eating disorders.  He thought that if I felt like I’d ‘come from somewhere’, I’d feel more secure in general.  I’m not so sure about that, but I did want to find her.   The adoption agency was contacted, and with two phone calls, the social worker had her on the phone. He explained that her wishes would be respected if she didn’t want contact, but she did.  We began writing and exchanging photos.  I was so excited to learn about her interests in photography, animals, and that she played the flute (I did, as well).  I was thrilled to hear that I had half-brothers.  She was still in contact with my bio-dad, and shared some information with him.   Both of their situations were complicated, and he didn’t feel comfortable writing, but he saw photos, and I found out I also had half-brothers on his side.  My bio-mom and I wrote for a while, but it was hard to just jump into a relationship (for both of us, actually).

She’d gone through hell during the pregnancy with me, mostly being shunned and shamed by her immediate family, and being sent across the country for the sole purpose of ‘giving me up’, staying with her aunt, uncle, and cousins (it was more complicated than that, but that will work for a blog post).  She wasn’t given a choice, and didn’t feel she had any options.  She never wanted to give me up, and back then, the biological fathers didn’t have any say.  She was almost out of high school when I was born, but for decades, having in illegitimate child was something that was dealt with in cruel ways.  It was felt that ‘it was for the best’, or (mostly) ‘what will the neighbors think?’ were more important than the impact that giving away a child would have on the two who created that baby.  My biological parents had dated for years.  They stayed really close friends until his death from cancer in the 90s, even with their own families.

Anyway, during the time we had  contact  when I was 19, things were  getting  more complicated, and she let me know she needed some time, but that if I had ANY questions, I was free to contact her.  She never cut me off completely, but I felt like giving her time and space was best.   If it meant that I wouldn’t have contact for years, and that it was best for her, that was gonna be  OK. I did have periods of time when I was frustrated with not having ‘general’ contact, but I understood that she had more people and situations to consider.  I had a lot of my own ‘stuff’ to work out, which became much more intense after I was raped a few months later, so I really wasn’t  in a great place to build a new relationship at that time.  It probably worked out for the best that we both took the time we needed to get some things ‘settled’.    I moved to Texas before and during this general period of time, and had contact with the aunt and uncle she’d stayed with during her pregnancy with me. The first Christmas in Texas, I got to meet the cousins in that family, which was amazing. There were times when we were talking, and I’d say something… they’d all get quiet, and finally one of them would say “You sound JUST like __  (bio-mom)!”. 🙂   I got close to one cousin in particular.   We’ve stayed in contact since  that Christmas in 1985, seeing each other whenever she was in Texas, talking on the phone, e-mails, and my visit out to her and her husband’s home in 1986.

Fast forward (I’d been back in my hometown for 8 years, not in Texas) to the period of time I was on chemo for leukemia.  My prognosis was generally quite good, but being an RN, I know that things can go wrong.  Complications can change things in a heartbeat.  I decided that if something should go wrong, I didn’t want my bio-mom to get a call telling her I’d died without the option of reconnecting before that.  I wrote her a letter, deciding that whatever her decision, it was going to be what was right for her, and that was what I wanted. As it turns out, she was ready to reconnect.   I had been talking to the cousin I’d been close to for years (bio-mom’s first cousin) when the call waiting clicked , but I decided to finish the conversation with my cousin, and figure out who had called after that; I didn’t get a lot of phone calls.   When I hung up and checked the call log and saw my bio-mom’s name, I freaked (in a very good way !).  I immediately called my cousin back and told her who had called, and she told me to call her after I called my bio-mom back !  She was excited, too !

I was elated and nervous to talk to my bio-mom, but something that had never happened in 48 years happened. I  heard her voice.   It was on October 30, 2010… coincidentally on the last day I had the arsenic chemo.  When she answered the phone, it took about two seconds to feel comfortable talking with her.  I don’t remember how long we talked, but long enough to do some catching up, and some general interests type of stuff. We also agreed that we wanted to keep talking on a fairly regular basis.

The next Spring (2011), she came to visit.  We met for the first time, and had fun getting to SEE and hug each other, and taking photos (which I won’t post out of respect for her privacy… her friends and family all know about me, but throwing it all out there for the world is different 😉 ).   She and my dad met; my mom had died in 2003.  My mom would have loved to meet my bio-mom.

That summer, my cousin (bio-mom’s first cousin) and my bio-mom surprised me when they BOTH visited !   I’d known my cousin was coming (we hadn’t seen each other in about 13-15 years or so), but after she’d been inside for a few minutes there was another knock at the door (VERY unusual for me to have two people here in a MONTH, let alone a few minutes), and bio-mom was at the door !   We had a ball for the next few days.  They brought me a laptop and all of the accessories and a digital camera.  The laptop has been my primary source of social interaction; prior to that I had no way to interact besides the phone, as my other computer had croaked at least a year earlier.  The computer has been a life-changer, not only with social interaction but with the ability to have things delivered as it’s become more difficult to shop and drag things inside from the car.  They showed my YouTube, iTunes, and some other fun stuff, and I found Facebook a few weeks later.

With the computer, I’ve been able to have contact with my biological dad’s family (his brother, and a cousin), as well as extended family on my bio-mom’s side… I don’t have a family tree.  I have a family tree farm !  And it’s great.  (I’ve started doing genealogy stuff on Ancestry.com, and I literally have five trees going).  The next summer (2012), I got to meet my  maternal (half) brother, which was wonderful (and I really like him- not just care because we’re related- he’s a fun guy ! ).   I’ve messaged my paternal half-brothers (who are considerably younger), but so far no contact with them, and that’s OK.  They found out about me after their dad’s death (by many years), so I’m sure it’s all a little weird.

I’ve listened to my other maternal (half) brother’s recorded music sessions, though I haven’t been able to listen to all of them; he died in 2000 (I’d been told back then what had happened, and it destroyed any possibility of ever meeting him, even though I wasn’t in contact with my bio-mom at that time).  Since getting their elementary school photos in 1983, I’ve had them on my dresser (they’re still there).  They’ve always been close to my heart, and when A died, it was really hard, even though I didn’t even know if he knew I existed.  I later found out that he did.  But it’s still too hard to listen to his voice, knowing he’s gone.  I’m able to talk to my bio-mom and brother about him more now, but sometimes I still just cry, remembering the day I got the e-mail telling me he was gone.  I couldn’t stand the idea of my bio-mom going through that when she’d been through so much (more than I’m writing). I have some great photos of A, as well as the brother I’ve met.

Since that first phone call, my bio-mom and I speak at least weekly, and we sometimes have ‘marathon’ calls lasting for hours.  We have so much in common, and our general interests are very similar.  How we dress, our views on ‘dressing up’ (clean t-shirt, or if it’s really fancy, a woven top :p ), sense of humor, and other things are so, so similar.  It feels  great to know where I get some of my preferences and traits- even though I never knew what she liked/disliked until we started talking regularly (the letters had some general stuff).  There’s absolutely no awkwardness when we’re together.

We’re family.

Mother’s Day, Two Ways

Today is Mother’s Day, 2014 (May 11- kind of early this year).  So much comes up whenever there is anything to do with moms and family.  I was put up for adoption at birth, though not at the wishes of my biological mother (by a long shot).  She was nearly 18 years old, but in the early 1960s, the ‘image’ of the family was one to be protected at all costs in most families, totally blowing off the wishes of the biological mother, AND biological father.  The fathers weren’t considered at all- his name isn’t even on my birth certificate, though I know much more about him now.

The mom who raised me, who I just call my ‘mom’ since she’s the one I knew the longest, and who raised me, died on March 13, 2003 after a brief illness (urosepsis that wasn’t treated properly at an ER near Phoenix, AZ).  She had become demented after radiation to her brain after a tumor was removed- that was the last cancer she had to deal with after breast, some suspicious pre-cancerous cells on the other breast, and lung metastasis.  She went through hell with cancer- and it didn’t kill her.  She survived cancer free for seventeen YEARS from the last cancer surgery when she died.

One of my favorite photos of my mom... Taken around 1988.

One of my favorite photos of my mom… Taken around 1988.

Our last Christmas, 2002... we had no idea she'd be gone less than 3 months later.

Our last Christmas, 2002… we had no idea she’d be gone less than 3 months later.

Cancer wasn’t the only thing my mom had to deal with, and that was much less emotionally painful than the death of two newborn sons about 2 years apart, by the time she was 26 years old.  She never got to see either of those babies.  They were a bit early from placental abruption (tearing away from the uterus – in her case, partially), and their lungs weren’t developed. Back in the late 1950s and early 1960s, they didn’t have NICUs, so it was sort of a crapshoot who lived and who died.  They both succumbed to hyaline membrane disease.  Now, they would have had an outstanding chance of survival, especially since they both weighed enough that they had no weight to gain in order to be sent home.  Their little lungs just didn’t work.   My mom wanted kids (so did my dad, but mom was the one who ‘needed’ a baby).  She was the oldest of four siblings, and she wanted the same. I ended up being an only child.

But the deaths of those two babies changed her, understandably so especially considering how infant deaths were handled back then.  She never saw them, never had photos, couldn’t go to their burials (which my young dad had to take care of on his own), and was basically told that it was in the past, don’t bother with it.  She was in the hospital for at least a week, so she was there as long as both of them lived- and never saw them. She was basically told to move on.  It was cruel.  She never forgot those boys.  It made bonding with me difficult for her, but I never doubted that she loved me.  My guess is that she didn’t want to get ‘too’ attached, should something happen to me, especially in my early years.  Later on, beginning when the adoption was finalized in August of 1964, she knew I couldn’t be taken from her, which helped.  But she still had a lot of grief that never was dealt with in a way that was of much help.  Things like that just weren’t considered  an ‘issue’.   And she hurt from those losses.  When I finally understood that, it helped me see her with much more compassion.

My mom did the best she could.  She returned to college and became an elementary school teacher.  Her students loved her, which confused me, since they saw a side of her I didn’t .  They weren’t a ‘risk’ to get close to- they went home every night, and she knew her relationship with them was just distant enough to allow for more displays of warmth and ‘teacher affection’.  Many of her students came to her visitation after she died, and still remembered her very fondly.  She and I had a strained relationship for many years.  I never doubted her love for me, and knew she wanted me. From the beginning, she read stories to me about how adopted kids are ‘chosen’, and how she and dad waited a long time to get me (about 2 years).

She and I had our worst battles when clothes shopping. There were some epic fights that dad learned to listen for the number of slams from the garage door when we got home. One meant one of us was mad, two meant he needed to lie low for a while, since we were both seething.  😮  I’ve never been a frilly girl.  I loved dolls and dollhouses, and also chasing frogs and turtles and climbing trees.  I was NOT cut out for fancy smocked dresses (Polly Flinder’s was her favorite brand), and much preferred shorts and t-shirts, and loathed anything ‘girly’.  My favorite dress as a kid had monkeys on it- no lace or smocking or bows.   But, she and dad made sure I had everything I needed, and then some.  I took all sorts of lessons (ballet, tap, tumbling, figure skating- my favorite, flute, piano, swimming, tennis, horseback riding- at camp), and I got to go to camp for a week every summer before 4th-11th grades (and later worked on summer staff there).  I went to day camps in the summer before then.  They exposed me to all sorts of art (which annoyed me- I much preferred the natural history and geology museum next to the local art museum, where I could look at rocks and fossils). They traveled extensively, and when it was appropriate (like being gone ON Christmas for the Hawaii trip, or when I was older and in my teens for the month in Europe, or traveling throughout the US), I went with them. On several trips, dad made sure that we saw historical and/or National  Park sites, as well as stuff that was just fun (the Olympic Ice Rink in Innsbruk, Austria, where Dorothy Hamill had won her gold medal the year before we were there- he had hoped I’d be able to skate during a public session, but they were doing lessons).

My mom drove me to Texas when  I moved there after getting my RN license in late 1985 (back in the days when they came by mail).  We had a GREAT time going down there.  Whenever she and dad visited, we had wonderful holidays together (usually they came at Christmas, but sometimes in the Spring- either going to or from their winters away from the cold Midwest).  I loved when they came.  The memories I have are mostly good, and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become so much more aware at how much pain she must have had when those babies died.  She never had any image to remember them by- just that she had two babies that never got to come home.

My biological mother and I have a great relationship.  Out of respect for her wishes, I don’t post photos of her.  We had a brief connection back when I was 19 years old, but it turned out both of us needed some time to get it all figured out- suddenly connecting after 19 years of wondering about each other was hard.    Then we had many years of no contact, except via word through  an aunt and uncle, and cousins that I got to know during our initial contact and several months of letter writing.  She had wanted me.  Giving me up wasn’t her idea.  She went through a lot, and also had no image of me to ‘know’ after I was born.    We now talk about all of that stuff, and it’s been amazing to find out how much we’re alike in so many ways.  It’s been good to know where I came from, and where I get some of my personality traits and other characteristics.  While I was always accepted by my adoptive family, there’s a gap that can only be filled by knowing about origins- at least for me.  I understand myself a bit better by getting to know her.

It’s been awkward with all of the ‘labels’.  My mom is the one who raised me, yet without my biological mother, I wouldn’t exist.  I call her by her first name, or ‘bio-mom’ when writing.  When looking for Mother’s Day cards, this is the first year I’ve seen a ‘real’ one from Hallmark for birth-mothers. There are some  through some specialty online sites, which are fine- but it’s nice to be able to choose one… and one it was.  :/   They had one to ‘choose’ from.  I had to make a couple of adjustments, since adoptive situations aren’t one-size-fits-all.  And the ‘regular’ ones talk about years spent together from infancy on, and those aren’t appropriate.  For her, I’m her daughter- that’s the only term that’s appropriate.  For me, it’s a little more complicated.  But I’m so thankful for both of them.  I wish my mom could have met my biological mom.  She knew when we were writing when I was 19, and also wrote to her during that time.  But my mom died almost 7 years before my bio-mom and I reconnected.

When I was going through chemo for leukemia, I wrote to her- and wanted to give us a chance to reconnect should the leukemia stuff not go well.  I didn’t want her to hear that I’d been sick from someone else, especially since she’d already buried one son (I still have a very alive half-brother that I’ve met and had some contact with- he’s a hoot, and I really enjoy talking to him on some holidays, and whenever he is en route to see  his dad’s family – who have also ‘readopted’ me; there are also two half-brothers on my biological father’s side).  Turns out, it was the right time for both of us, and we have been in regular contact since then, sometimes spending 3-4 hours on a single phone call !  I love when she visits 🙂

I’ve been blessed.  I was wanted from before my birth, by two mothers. On the day I was born, my mom told my dad that she knew that ‘their’ baby had been born that day (this was in the day of closed adoptions, where there was never any contact with anyone in the biological family at all).   One was forced to give me up, and the other was doing her best to grieve the loss of two newborns of her own while becoming a mom to me.  One wondered about me for decades, while the other created memories for as long as she could.  I love them both.  One gave me life, and the other taught me how to live.  I was able to hug one throughout my childhood and until I was thirty-nine years old, and the other has been in my heart and thoughts since I was old enough to understand what it meant to be adopted- and now I have the personal relationship with her.

I’ll never know what it’s like to be a mom… but I have ( or had) two amazing women in my life in that role- however it’s described.

Dad Went To The Oncologist Today

Over the past few months, my 80-year old dad has been dealing with some health scares, starting with an egg-sized mass in his neck. Several weeks after it was found, he had surgery to remove it on November 30, 2012.  Surgery was considered very successful, as the surgeon was confident that the edges were all well encapsulated, and the mass had been completely removed. But they needed to figure out what had caused this thing. He hadn’t had any symptoms- it was found when he’d gone in for a routine exam to get his thyroid medicine refilled.  He had had two biopsies prior to surgery, and then the pathologist had the entire mass to dissect and tear up, and there was still no definitive answer as to the type of cancer this thing was. They knew it was an extremely low grade cancerous tumor that had actually replaced his thyroid tissue on the right side. They felt very certain that it wasn’t going to have any impact on his lifespan…but they still were not sure exactly what it was.  It had all of the characteristics of a ‘good’ cancer- but that’s about all they knew.

So, he was referred for a PET scan (fancy CT scan) and to an oncologist (who just happens to be the same oncologist I see- and like). I’ve gone to every appointment with dad (until today), since he’s not up on all of the medical terminology.  I’m quite comfortable with medical stuff, being an RN since 1985 and though I have been on disability since 2004, my own medical issues and cancer have kept me somewhat up to date on many things. And, I know how to use the search engines online 😀   I’ve been looking up everything that the docs have said, and I’ve been just as confused as dad.  I wanted to hear what the docs said, since dad calls me with questions, and I wanted to have the info as accurate as possible.  Sometimes dad’s translation of medical terms is a bit iffy !

At the first oncology appointment, the doc was very straightforward. They needed to rule out multiple myeloma. This is a cancer that dad has been terrified of since his mom died of it in a long, dreadful 9-month death back in 1979 at the age of 74.  I remember it fairly well (I was protected from some of the more sordid details- but I was 15 years old, and knew she was very sick), and knew she had been on dialysis 3 times a week during those months, had a horrible ‘quality’ of life, and had coded twice during dialysis.  Back then, they didn’t offer people hospice care like they do now. They went for the maximum treatment, even if they knew it was essentially pointless. Grandma went through hell, and dad remembers that very well.

At that first appointment with the oncologist, dad was told he’d need a bone marrow biopsy, as well as some other lab work.  Dad was offered the choice of doing the bone marrow biopsy then, or scheduling it for another day. I piped up and said he needed to do it then. He did NOT need to spend days worrying about it and imagining the procedure in his head (as he asked me about it, since I’ve had five of them).  The procedure does sound dreadful.  They drill a hole in the back of the pelvic bone to suck out bone marrow.  But, these days it’s much easier than the one I saw during nursing school.  That was the only thing that nearly dropped me to the floor in a dead faint during all of nursing school.  I don’t ‘do’ bone noise. But having them done, I learned that they aren’t that bad. I drove myself to and from three of them (the first two were done when I was in the hospital). So, dad got himself on the exam table, took some deep breaths, and had it done. He did extremely well, however, he didn’t really convince the nurse of his ability to drive home when he answered her with “well, I guess we’ll find out”.  Good one, dad.  We all felt so safe with that answer.

The oncologist also said during that first appointment that his PET scan did not show the usual ‘holes’ in the bones that someone who had multiple myeloma would likely have. And, dad hadn’t had any symptoms. This whole thing was sort of found by accident.  That was all good news. But, the bone marrow biopsy would say one way or another if he had multiple myeloma or any other bone cancer.  SO, after that appointment, there were about two weeks of waiting. He saw his surgeon last week and he felt that the results didn’t show MM- and could possibly be something so rare that he might write an article to be published on dad’s case.  There’s a possibility that this thing actually started as a couple of very slow growing cells transferred to him while he was still in his mother’s womb.  That sort of rare.

Today, I couldn’t go to the follow-up appointment to get the bone marrow biopsy and other lab work results.  I’ve got a nasty cold, and nobody in an oncology office with lousy immune systems needed my germs floating through the air.  Dad promised that he’d call me as soon as he got home, and he did. NO multiple myeloma. No chemo. No chance of that sort of agonizing death (though treatments and chemo are far different now than they were in 1979).  He does have to have some radiation, more as ‘housekeeping’ to be sure that if there are some stray cells they get nuked (the oncologist had mentioned the possibility of this at the first appointment). Dad will have some lines drawn on his neck so they know where to aim the radiation- so it will be visible that something is going on. Until now, I’ve been sworn to secrecy (well, that hasn’t actually been revoked).  But this is good news, and those radiation lines will be visible. People will know ‘something’ is going on.  And here’s the bottom line: dad is going to be OK.  This will not kill him.  🙂

As much as I love Texas and the 17 years I lived there, I’m so thankful to be here now for my dad.  I’m also thankful for the last 10 years that I’ve had to spend time with him. Though face-to-face contact is not as much as I’d like because of my own health issues, we do talk daily, even if he’s on vacation (well, those cruises and other international trips were some blips of time without daily contact, but I didn’t hear that any boats sunk, so I was fairly certain he was safe). When I am able, we do go out and do things together. And he’s always got my back. No matter what, I know that he’s always had my best interests  in mind, and now I want to be there for him to help with medical language translations, and just ‘be’ there.

Time is something that no one can ever get back.  Once it’s gone, that’s it.  I’m trying not to waste what time is left- and that is the kicker- nobody knows when it’s going to be over.  I know that one day he will be gone, and I dread that thought.  I’ve learned during these 10 years back here, as an adult, that he is, and always has been, much wiser than I ever gave him credit for (I think that’s pretty normal- when I moved to Texas, I was 22 years old and still had that post-adolescent ‘all parents are a bit dim’ outlook).  I’ve learned much more about what makes him him, and have so much more respect for him. Being adopted, I could have landed in a lot of places.  I’m SO thankful that I was ‘given’ to the dad I got. While no parent is ever perfect, he did an amazing job as a dad.

I thank God that he is MY dad.  And I’m glad he’s going to be here for a while longer 🙂

Tis The Season…..

….to have all sorts of things churned up.  I don’t really get ”depressed’ over the holiday season, but more a vague sense of being overwhelmed since there are a lot of ‘anniversaries’ around this time.  This year added a new one with the death of my amazing, crazy companion- my miniature schnauzer Mandy, who died on December 27, 2012.

I’m still crying pretty much every day when I think about her, and especially about that last day.  I’m very thankful that that ‘end’ part was pretty fast.  And she was in my arms.  At first, she whimpered enough to alarm me, and from that point until she was actually gone, no more than 15 minutes went by.  After she  peed, and then froze in her tracks, she seemed confused, and not sure what to do, so I just held her and told her how wonderful she’d been.  Her breathing slowly stopped as I held her on my lap.  The ‘new normal’ of not hearing her come running when I mess with the dishwasher or clothes dryer (she had a thing for appliances), of her not leaving the room when I sneeze (or even said the word ‘sneeze’), or escorting me to the door when I got my keys to get the mail.  I didn’t have to say anything; she just knew.  I miss her more than words really can describe.  She was my only companion here in this city, for the past 10 years.  I talk to my dad every day; I saw my dog 24/7- especially since being on disability since April 2004.

Then there is the whole issue of being disabled.  It is somewhat worse in the winter months since everybody has the heat on. I don’t tolerate heat- to the point I shaved my head again (well, I had a professional do it; I wanted to avoid slicing my ears off).  With my ‘normal’ hair (mine is really, really thick), I can’t tolerate the heat it retains. Think dead animal on my scalp.  I also have to see a surgeon this next week about some (more) cysts on my scalp that are painful.  They need to go, so the poor doc has to be able to see my head.  The other issues with disability include being in more pain when it’s cold outside, and my joints just not liking getting in and out of the car.  Sounds wimpy.  Maybe it is.  All I know is that I have to manage it the best I can- so whatever I can get delivered to my door (Schwann’s frozen foods, Walmart for laundry and paper goods, Amazon for miscellaneous stuff, etc), I do.   It’s still very painful just grocery shopping for the dairy/fresh items, but it definitely helps to get stuff delivered when possible.  I’m thankful that those things are available.

Early January is rough for anniversaries.  January 7, 1978 my figure skating coach’s six kids were murdered by her then husband.  I was 14 years old, and it rocked me to the core. I can’t imagine how she has done.  I think about her often, and have always prayed that somehow she’s managed to have a life after that.  January 10, 1987, I was raped and ‘tortured’ (word the newspaper used- don’t want to sound overly dramatic on my own) for 6 hours when the uncle of a baby I took care of regularly lied his way into my apartment… he did things to me I’d never heard of, being very naive…and a virgin.  I’ve never let anybody get close to me since then.  I’d always thought I’d have a family of my own.  That day changed a lot- but I survived.  And I’m thankful for that.

In 1982, the semester that started in late January was a bad one.  I was in the midst of some serious eating disorder stuff, and the depression I only get when I’m starving and purging.  I ended up getting sent to a psych hospital (no eating disorder ‘treatment centers’ back then) for several months.  That was a bad year. I ended up attempting suicide the next semester when I returned to the university.  I was in a coma, and then shipped back to the psych hospital for many more months, once I woke up and was medically cleared.  Things weren’t done in a week to 10 days back then.  I spent about 8 months altogether at Forest Hospital (Des Plaines, IL) in 1982.  They were good to me; I did do better, but the eating disorders were on-again/off-again for decades.

This is the first winter since early 2010 (when I was diagnosed with acute promyelocytic leukemia) that I haven’t been on chemotherapy or waiting for the built up amounts of toxins to leave my body.  I’m still dealing with the weight gain and changes in my blood sugars and insulin doses, as chemo messed that all up.  The diabetes is getting better faster (great endocrinologist with a Joslin Diabetes Center affiliate here in town). I wasn’t on steroids long enough for that to be an issue- it’s ‘just’ the arsenic, tretinoin (ATRA), methotrexate, and M6Mercaptopurine.  They rearranged my chromosomes (literally…. they ‘re-translocated’ the arms of 15 and 17). I guess it will take some time to get my body back to ‘normal’.  I hate the weight.  I’ve had a long history of eating disorders, so can’t just do some crash diet and hope for the best- it could easily trigger a relapse that I just can’t afford.  But I’m going to turn 50 in late 2013; I don’t want to  look like this when I turn 50.  I didn’t want to look like this at all… but it was chemo or die.

And yet, I have a lot to be thankful for. I’m alive- that’s the big one; people with APL sometimes aren’t diagnosed until autopsy (and I know of 2 people just a few months ago who only had one and two days from the time they were told the diagnosis and the time they died; one was 11 years old).  I’ve survived being raped, and other stuff. And, with my health, I am glad to just have a day when I can get the basics done around here.  I’d like to be around people more, and am hoping to get to that Bible Study I’d mentioned in another post; last week (the first meeting of this topic- Ephesians) I wasn’t feeling well- that doesn’t mix well with indoor heat, even with my ice vest.  A childhood friend who I’ve reconnected with on FB came over one Saturday, and helped me with some generalized clutter (result of not being able to unpack after the last time I’d packed to move BACK to Texas), and is coming again- that has been a huge help.  I want to get this place puppy-proofed for the new puppy I hope to get this spring.  That helps, too.  I can’t imagine not having that hope for a new little companion to fill the dog-shaped hole in my heart.

2013 isn’t starting badly… just ‘complicated’ by past and present stuff mixing together.   There is still more good than bad.  I still have a lot of interests, and while I can’t physically do a lot, I do find things to keep me happy and make me laugh, especially online.  Blogging has been a great way to blow off steam, and some days that makes  a big difference.  🙂

Christians, Rape, and Abortion

Periodically,  I see something about adoption being the ‘best’ option with pregnancies from rape, usually by someone who has never been in that situation.   I got pregnant from a 6 hour violent rape in 1987, and was tormented about what to do.  As a Christian, abortion was something that was too painful to even think about, but I did think about it (and felt guilt and shame for just that).  And I understand why other women do as well.  I’m in no way condoning abortion, but I understand the pain behind it.   Being adopted, and knowing how much that had consumed my life with wanting to have contact with my biological family, giving away the baby would have been incredibly difficult as well.  Now that I’ve had contact with my biological family, I understand how that changed my bio-mom’s life forever.  She wasn’t given a choice about what to do with me… she was shamed  (or totally ignored about that pregnancy after returning back near her childhood home) because of getting pregnant with me when she was 17.  Nobody really thought about HER during that time.  Just get rid of that baby (me).  In terms of emotional outcome, a forced adoption leaves lasting, intense scars; so does an abortion resulting from painful circumstances, even if the latter involves more relief as well. The situations  are very different- but it would still have been very difficult to give away something that was %50 ‘mine’.  And a disaster to raise it.

It was a horrendous 10-12 weeks from the time of the rape and the actual miscarriage that started  one morning before work.  God saved me from the decision. I had horrible morning sickness all day long starting very early in the pregnancy.  Whenever something was in my mouth, I dry heaved.  I lost 30 pounds in the first month, and agonized over what to do with ‘it’. The ‘dismissal’ by other Christians that I see in various articles/posts about other people  is really hurtful.  “Just pray.”  Prayer is so important, but sometimes God could use another Christian to actually DO something tangible to be of some support to a woman going through a pregnancy from rape, without judging (something Christians are so good at).  The shame gets dumped back on the rape survivor.  I was VERY thankful that God took the decision out of my hands.  That miscarriage in my situation was a huge blessing. I still have the image of it in the toilet.  It took years to tell anybody about what had happened.  Ironically, it was a nun who happened to be the nurse practitioner doing my annual female exam who validated what I’d known for years.  I’d been pregnant.

Normal Christian response to a rape pregnancy:  “Just buck up and give birth to the kid”.  THEN get rid of it through adoption.  It’s not that easy!   But that’s what most Christians want done with babies from rape, mostly in situations they have no personal connection to… makes their judging so much easier.  No consideration for how difficult the decisions really are for the one who was raped, impregnated, and then basically disregarded by the Christians she grew up with, or even didn’t know (why turn to a church who shows disdain towards someone who is hurting).   The platitudes are incredibly painful.  God can do  anything- I truly believe that.  But He doesn’t keep those who love Him from making some thoughtlessly  painful comments.  Those who knew me before the rape know just how much I loved babies.  I spent eleven years in the church nursery taking care of little ones during church services. By the time I moved to another state, that was half of my life.

I need to clarify a few things. I am not pro-abortion.   I’m not even moderately pro-choice. But I ‘get it’.  I couldn’t go through with it.  I also don’t believe that it should be a legal/political matter; legal or not abortion will happen regardless.  People don’t want government in their business, but they’re all too eager to crawl up in a woman’s womb and tell her exactly what she should, or can do.  Having been through the experience of needing to make decisions, I ‘get it’.  It is excruciating It’s not done with some flip sense of apathy- at least in my situation. I was a virgin, and was raped for 6 hours to the extent that uterine ligaments were torn from the ‘impact’ of his penis, fists, and a wine cooler bottle he used repeatedly to  impale me- for six hours.  I still couldn’t choose abortion.  But I definitely understand the mindset for many who do…. they’re not hateful women who don’t care.  They’re traumatized women facing more trauma.  This wasn’t some flash of consideration of an abortion as some sort of cheapened birth control from a mistake the woman made…I’m absolutely opposed to  lack of accountability for actions.  But getting pregnant in the case of rape isn’t by consent… the woman who is raped is forced into accountability for a criminal action and situation that  she didn’t initiate.  Or deserve.

I’m also adopted. That wasn’t a choice I was comfortable making, and not so much because of the adoption itself. I believe adoption is  a very viable solution to unwanted children in many situations.  I’m thankful my birthmother didn’t get rid of me (I was born before Roe v. Wade) and I was even more thankful to know I wasn’t conceived in violence, or even indifference.  There was love behind my existence. That was hugely helpful in feeling like I did belong on the face of the earth after all !   I was the product of monogamous teenage love (who ended up staying in contact until my biological father’s death in 1994, though they’d gone different ways to have their own families, primarily because of my biological maternal grandmother’s absolute refusal to have a bastard child in her family).  I wasn’t the product of deceit, violence, and pain.

I  don’t think I would have made it emotionally if I’d had to carry a baby to term, and then give it away, even though I didn’t want anything around me that reminded me of the man who raped me (he got a 60 year sentence after being shot in my bedroom by police, and is in and out on parole; he’s a career criminal, each more violent offense committed while on parole, including my rape- not fodder for genetic material).  I feared that my ability to parent without prejudice towards the kid wouldn’t be good for the kid- and yet ‘giving away’ a baby also hurt, though would have been the only option when it came down to it.  But, I felt backed into a corner, and my 23-year old brain wasn’t doing well. I wasn’t equipped to cope with any of it.  My faith in God was strong.  I think people don’t think it was, since I don’t tow the  pulpit line of ‘no clue’ when it comes to actually being in an inflicted  felonious situation with ongoing complications.    God got me out of that rape alive (the ‘plan’ , as the rapist spoke to me during the rape,  was to dismember me alive, then leave with my car; I was still on workman’s comp for a back injury, so nobody would have missed me for a while).   God  gave me the opportunity to escape after six hours- as soon as it was as safe as it was going to be, I got out.  God  allowed me to meet my downstairs neighbors (where I ran to, in a towel and barefoot) just days before the rape, after moving to a new apartment complex.   And I talked to God a lot during that morning.   God is the reason I survived.  And I’ve known that as far back as when the rape was still going on.  My faith has been intact when it comes to God.  My ‘faith’ in many of His followers?  Not so much.  I know of a man from my childhood church who survived a brutal attack, much worse than the beating I survived .  Nobody questions anything he had to deal with afterwards.  Of course, no unwanted child involved there.

What would I tell the child when it came looking for me 18 + years later?  How could I ever make it “right” that the child was fathered without my consent by a career criminal?  How could I ever tell that kid that it was never wanted by the woman who carried it to term, even if indirectly just by saying the word ‘rape’ ?   I know all of the Christian platitudes by people who have never been in the situation.  I know of some stories about Christian women who have carried the rape-baby to term and given it up for adoption, and how they all ran towards each other in lavender fields one day, to live happily ever after. That’s great that it happened to be such a blessing  for them to get raped (you know what I mean).  I was just flat out violated and tormented.  My miracle was surviving.  I could never have moved forward with any sort of intact mental functioning with a rape-child returning as an adult.  As it was, when the parole protests started I was a mess. A lot of stuff I’d managed to bury for 20 years blew like Vesuvius ( 20 years is 1/3 of the mandatory part of the 60 years he agreed to in a weird plea bargain).  Twenty years after the rape, it was like I was back being threatened again.   My faith was strong (still is).   That doesn’t make dealing with ongoing reminders of Jan. 10, 1987 easy.  Nobody forgets that kind of attack.Miscarriage for someone who is actively trying to have a baby, or who would welcome a baby at any time during their life, is a kind of pain I can’t even imagine.  I’m not saying I’m thankful for the miscarriage itself;  I was SO glad that the situation was ‘fixed’.  It’s never over, but I had no decisions to make about a child.   My heart goes out to anyone who has suffered the loss of a child through miscarriage (or any other reason).  That has to leave a huge hole in someone’s heart. My mom (adoptive- one I grew up with from the time I was 10 days old- so who I consider to be my mom) lost two newborns a couple of years apart in a time when it was just sort of explained as what was ‘best’ (babies were too sickly).  She wasn’t even allowed to see either baby, who lived two and six days (now they would have had more than a %90 survival rate).  Her derailed grief process went on to impact her intensely, as she was unable to really acknowledge any bond with me. She was terrified of another loss. I truly believe she wanted me and loved me – but she wasn’t able to convey any sort of warmth in a way that a child understands.  Looking back, I see all sorts of examples of her love.  But a kid needs things that are much more tangible- hugs, patience, etc.  That isn’t the same as what I went through at all.  I understand that.   I recognize her losses as the losses of wanted babies.  I hope that one day in Heaven I’ll see that unwanted baby that I lost, in a place where pain is erased.  But for here on earth,  God saved me from the agony of deciding what to do, and the aftermath.  Giving up a baby isn’t ‘simple’, regardless of its conception.

What saddens me so much is that the people who claim to be all about love and God are the ones who judge and shame  the most.  I’m a  born again Christian, and have been for more than 45 years.  I’m far from perfect, but I know where my spiritual foundation is. I love God deeply, and am so thankful for what Christ did on the cross for me. And yet, I’m afraid of having any sort of deep relationship with Christians because of the level of judgement.  I never get that shame from non-believers.  With most Christians, finding out that someone they know from church has been raped is met with silence, not support.  It’s as if I somehow deserved it- even if the silence is just out of ignorance. Ya can’t talk to a Christian about rape !   I wonder how many Christians suffer in silence over rapes they feel shame about, when they have nothing to be ashamed of.   I’ve had things edited and censored when I’ve tried to reach out to an age group ready to head out into the world on their own.   How I got raped was all about ‘helping my neighbor’, without thinking about myself, and that almost got me killed.

I’d never been taught at church that assessing my personal safety, or listening to that funny little voice that says  something isn’t right, is OK  (and in fact Biblical- Proverbs 27: 12 “The prudent see danger and take refuge, but the simple keep going and suffer for it.”).  I didn’t deserve it. Nobody does. Rape is about violence and defects in the rapist.  I was wearing a sweatshirt from the Christian  camp I went to as a kid  (and worked at during 2 1/2 summers in my late teens)  when he started to violate me. I was answering a call for help (turned out to be a lie, but I took it at face value, and felt obligated to ‘help my neighbor’).  And yet, Christians are the ones who have been the most critical of me (or anybody who is raped) and the things I have felt about the pregnancy.  I’d love to speak to church high school groups (and their parents if they wanted to come) about making smart decisions when going out into the world/college.  Being a Christian isn’t a safeguard from non-Christians who have evil intentions.  Evil comes disguised as a beautiful creature, remember.   We’re in the world, even if we’re not of it. 

I also thought about what I’d do if I’d had the baby, given it up for adoption, and it later came to me asking about its father. I would not have lied to that child.  To have a child come back in 18+ years and ask about its biological family, only to hear that it wasn’t wanted from the get go (no matter WHO wanted to adopt it) would have been heartbreaking for the child… and there’s no way to tell a kid they were conceived during a rape, and make it out to be a desired conception.  I know what sort of things ran through my head as a kid long before I met my biological family.  Even if “God has  a plan for you” would be pretty hard to take after “You were conceived during a 6 hour rape, where your father was shot by police shortly after I got away.”  How can that come out as something less than devastating?   I found out I WAS wanted (even if unplanned), conceived by teenagers who had been monogamous for several years, and who loved each other.  I couldn’t give that to the child of rape.  I couldn’t sugar coat it, nor would I; a child seeking birthparents deserves the truth.  Finding a biological father’s primary address over decades is the Texas Department of Corrections would have been a nightmare for the product of a rape. The child would deserve answers, delivered with compassion.  But the truth no matter what.

Some may view me as ‘ a bad Christian’ for my views-  and that’s fine; they’re only human beings.  It hurts immensely, but judgement from  people is essentially meaningless in the long run.  God knows my heart. He knows the struggles I had with being pregnant, and trying to figure out what to do. He knew I wasn’t emotionally strong enough to handle what was going on. That is why the miscarriage was a blessing. That is why I can understand why some people consider abortion after rape.  That is why I couldn’t just give a baby away, though I wanted nothing to do with it.  It’s NOT simple.  It’s horrifically painful, and continues to be a very tender subject.  And I know that I can’t depend on the majority of Christians I know for any sort of support when I’m having a hard time (every three years there is another parole protest).  Christian love goes out the window when abortion, rape, and rape pregnancies come up.  Forgive the church member having an affair, but get that pregnant woman out of town if she’s not married, or was raped.   Regardless of the lifelong pain of being raped, and it not being my fault, there is judgement because I understand why someone would consider abortion.  Not because I had one.  That gets forgotten.  Just because I am honest enough to say I wanted nothing to do with that baby, I’m considered “less than” acceptable to include with the people they know.   Again, God knows my heart.

Here’s an idea to those who make abortion a political issue…. it’s going to happen no matter what the laws are.  It’s a choice that is between that woman, possibly the sperm donor,  and God.  HE is the one who will make the ultimate law when that woman stands before Him, and He sees her heart.  If Christians don’t like doctors who perform abortions, don’t go to them, and pray for them !  Don’t like an organization that deals with abortion?  Don’t support them, and pray for their management folks.  We have bigger issues in this country right now (like getting Congress to work?). Why is so much time blown on making abortion a political issue, when it has nothing to do with government?  Don’t like funding issues?  Then vote for a special referendum. And pray for the folks doling out the cash.   Maybe put more effort into realizing that an unwanted pregnancy deserves some compassion (for the baby, if not the mother), so the woman feels that there is some support out there to get the baby to term, and into a loving home.   Fussy, fussy humans trying to control the choices of someone else, who (in the situation besides rape/incest) made a bad decision, wasn’t on birth control to prevent more consequences from random/unprotected sex, and got “in trouble”.   God will forgive.  Why won’t His followers? Forgiveness isn’t condoning.  It’s leaving it to God, and is a mandate BY God (Matthew 6 and 7 ), and has little to do with the “offender”, but in the relationship one has with God themselves.   Even self-righteous Christians aren’t in charge of judgement.

Try timing the contractions of a 12 year old in labor with her father’s baby, and not thinking about appropriate times for abortion.  I had to do that when I worked adolescent psych.   Talk about heart wrenching .  Her child (a baby girl) was put up for adoption, and the 12 year old and her three younger sisters were put in foster care. The twelve year old was appropriately terrified (not even sure if she knew how she GOT pregnant).   All she knew was that daddy diddled her.  That was her ‘normal’.   Christians don’t like to think about the real world.  It happens if they think about it or not.  And the real world could use a LOT more Christian love, and kick the judgement to the curb.

The rape is how I ended up never letting anybody get close enough to end up in a marriage, with my own family of kids.  I always thought I’d have at least four kids.   And, church is how I never thought it was OK to protect myself if I was asked for help.   The ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’ argument can also end up in one rape plus one pregnancy/abortion = one suicide.  Is that better?   I’m thankful God got me past that and took that baby away to a safe and beautiful place.  He definitely was in control.  And I’m eternally thankful.

EDIT: After seeing a comment on one of the searches for my blog, and seeing  “I was raped, am now a Christian, and can’t get over it”, I MUST let anybody who is raped know that it is NEVER your fault. Rape isn’t about anything you did or didn’t do, or what you wear, or anything else- it is an act of violence committed ON you- you aren’t the one who did anything wrong.  God isn’t going to judge you for being raped. ❤  Please, please… know that you are NOT damaged goods, and you are still a precious child of God.  I wish I knew the folks who are in pain who end up reading this- I’d want so badly to let you know that you’re not the one who is defective- it is the one who raped you who is accountable for what he did TO you.  Please know that God cares about you and wants you to feel His love for you.

Being Adopted

I’ve wanted to write about this for a long time, but haven’t really known where to start.  I still don’t, but I just got done watching the movie “October Baby”. The storyline isn’t anywhere close to the circumstances of me being put up for adoption, and yet there are things that I think go through the heads of most adoptees. At least while we’re young.

For clarification purposes, let me throw this out there: I differentiate between my families in the following way- my ‘real’ mom and dad (parents) are my adoptive parents- the parents I grew up with and knew from the beginning. This also applies to the rest of my family- my adoptive family is my real family. But, my biological family is just as important in different ways. My birthmother (who I address by her first name) is very dear to me. We had written contact in the mid 80s, and then first talked on the telephone on October 30, 2010.  We’ve talked regularly since then, and she has visited several times; we’ve both been amazed at our common likes/dislikes and interests. I’ve had various forms of contact with many biological relatives. One of my bio-mom’s cousins (I think that makes her my first cousin once removed) has been a very close friend (as well as my cousin) since we met during my first Christmas after moving to Texas in 1985.  

I ‘always’ knew that I was adopted. My parents never hid that fact, and it was essentially a non-issue. My mom used to read a book to me called “The Chosen Baby” that explained adoption to young children in a very positive way. My family never made an issue about me being adopted; I was just one of the kids. (On my dad’s side, I was the only grandchild; on my mom’s side, I am one of twelve grandkids- I’m # 7).  Several of my parents’ friends had also adopted kids, so adoption was just a ‘normal’ part of my life, and the lives of many people I grew up around.

First Birthday !

When I got older (teens) my mom and dad told me that if I ever wanted to find my biological mom, they’d be supportive. When I was 19, in the midst of some intense emotional stuff, it was recommended that I make contact. Through the adoption agency that handled my adoption, contact was made after just two phone calls by the guy at the agency. My birthmom and I wrote for quite a while, and then life was happening, and we didn’t have contact for many years. I understood that she had other things and people to consider, and while she NEVER cut me off completely, she needed some time  to sort through stuff that was stirred up.  While I missed having contact, I absolutely understood that things were much more complicated on her end of things. I  respected the need for time and space. In some strange way, I  ‘got it’.  And, I was also going through some things and needed some time to sort through those things, and to grow up a bit.  I now think that the time without contact allowed for us both to be ‘ready’ when we first talked and then met. 

When I was a young kid and into my teens, I did wonder about my birthmother.  All I knew is that she had gotten pregnant while she was in high school. Pretty standard story (at least from my end of things). I knew that she’d gone on to college, and that was about it.  I always wondered about siblings. I grew up an only child, and dreamed about having brothers and sisters.  I wondered if my bio-mom was OK.  I wondered about that a lot. I wondered if she was happy. I wondered about my biological father as well, but I think the maternal bond is stronger, regardless of any actual personal knowledge of the birthmother.  I  sometimes wondered  why I’d been given up, even though I knew she was still in high school.  I wondered if she’d wanted me, or just thought of me as a major inconvenience that just happened to come along before abortion was legal. I wondered if she cared about my biological father.  Since meeting her, I’ve had these questions answered, and I’m relieved with what she’s told me.

As far as anything ‘deeper’, there were times when I felt like I wasn’t meant to be, though my parents wanted a baby very badly. They’d lost two newborns within two weeks of their births during the 4-5 years before they got me. When I’d see happy scenes on TV, when someone had just had a baby, I imagined the day I was born as something that was a relief when it was over.  When I was going through rough times, I sometimes wondered why I hadn’t been aborted (legal or not, people were still having them).  I did have dark things go through my mind, but in the end, I know I’m around for a reason…I’ve survived way too much to have been a fluke.  🙂

I’ve been asked if I ‘hated’ my birthmother for giving me up for adoption. I’ve talked to pregnant teens who were relinquishing their babies, and also to people who were just curious, and the answer is an absolute “NO”.   I could never hate her.  I could never be ashamed of her. I could never think that she was ‘bad’ for getting pregnant. I could never imagine what it was like for her, going through a pregnancy knowing she was going to have to give the baby away. I could never judge her for the decision to put me up for adoption…sometimes people just don’t have any other choice- for whatever reasons.  Those involved in that decision thought it was the best thing to do- and since I wasn’t in their situation at that time, I have no frame of reference to judge my birthmother. Being an unwed pregnant teen in the early 1960s was judgement enough. Even when I was in junior high and high school in the late 70s and early 80s, I remember people sort of gasping when they heard about someone being pregnant and unmarried. The message was clear- and I can’t even imagine how hard that had to be to live through.

There were times when I wondered where she was.  When I was at the University of Illinois, I did wonder if she was any one of the thirty-somethings I saw walking around town. Or if she was even in that city; I knew I’d been born there.  I wondered if I’d know her if I saw her. Or if she’d know me. Sometimes I wondered if she were alive, or if something had happened to her. I wondered if she’d ever seen my birthfather again. I wondered if she’d like me.  I wondered if I looked like her.  I wondered a lot of stuff.  There was a ‘hole’ from not knowing her, and ultimately about myself, and who I was …where I came from.

I understand why I was given up for adoption. I feel much more badly for my biological parents than I ever did myself.  I grew up in a ‘good’ home, and was given a ‘normal’ life.  They had to give part of themselves away.  I ended up with two families; they lost their child- though they both went on to marry other people and have their own families.  I’ve been able to talk to my birthmom about anything related to my birth and adoption, and that makes me incredibly fortunate.  I don’t have any other frame of reference than being an adoptee.  That’s my ‘normal’.  There are many things I won’t write about, out of respect for privacy for my birthmom.  But I’m lucky. While we don’t have a traditional mother-dauther relationship, I can’t imagine my life without knowing her.  🙂