This is a story about adoption. Or rather, it is a story about one adoption; mine. At this writing there is no ending to my story; it is very much a work in progress. After a long pause, 48 years to be exact, a new chapter began with an email I received a few months ago.
Let me back up a bit. In 2006, shortly after it was published, I read The Girls Who Went Away by Ann Fessler, and was deeply moved by the stories of these birth mothers who were sent away to give birth to their babies and surrender them. Few were given a choice; all were told that they would get over it. Virtually none of them did. According to Ms. Fessler, every one of the women that she interviewed for the book describe the surrender as the most significant and defining moment of their lives. It was because of this book, because of the possibility that my own birth mother had experienced that kind of pain, that led me to register on an adoption web site. I listed my name, what little I knew about my life prior to being brought home by my parents as a newborn, and my contact information.
Fast forward to April of 2012, when I received a letter from a woman who thought I might be the birth sister she had been searching for. We compared stories, but as her mother was unwilling to discuss the birth and surrender of her first born, the little that she knew came second hand, and the details were sketchy. I visited the website for Catholic Charities, who had arranged my adoption, and got the phone number for the correct agency. A phone call got the forms necessary to request the non-identifying information about my birth parents in my hand, and a day or two later I had them notarized and sent back, check enclosed. About two weeks later I received a letter telling me to expect a wait of a month or more, depending on the amount of information in my file, along with some literature for searches and reunions, which I glanced at but did not really need. I had no intention of embarking on a search; I was simply getting the information to determine if this woman's mother was, in fact, also my birth mother.
The envelope containing the information arrived in my mail box on the afternoon of Saturday, June 9. I sat at the kitchen counter and stared at it for a long time before I opened it. I knew that once I did, my reality was going to undergo a remarkable shift, and it did. On three pages of paper, neatly typed, were the first names of my birth parents and their parents, their ages at my birth, their ethnicity, religion, education, occupation and health (all were healthy; "Good as far as known") and a few paragraphs about the circumstances of the adoption; about how my birth mother met my birth father, that he felt they were too young to marry but paid her maternity home expenses, the name of the home where she stayed and the hospital where I was born, the details of my birth, and even a few lines about her visit to the agency to sign the papers. Two things happened as I read all of this. The first was that I realized that I was not the sister the woman who contacted me was looking for, and second, that I was going to have to do a search of my own.
I think that locating my birth mother had to be one of the easiest searches ever done, due in no small part to the fact that her father had an unusual first name, and her mother's was not incredibly common, either. After a total of about five or so hours spent on the Internet between Sunday evening and Monday morning, I had her full maiden name and married name, the name of her husband and her adult daughter, and her most recent address and few associated phone numbers. I knew as certainly as I have ever known anything that I had to place a call immediately, without over thinking it, or I might never do it. When none of the numbers I had worked, I called information. They had nothing current listed for either her or her husband. To have come so far and hit a wall was a real possibility, until I thought to ask for a listing in her daughters name. There was a number! A moment later I dialed it, and a little girl answered. I asked for her mother, and she got on the phone. It was a surreal moment for me; the first time I had any contact with someone that I was biologically related to. She was very pleasant, and gave me her mother's personal cell number without asking me who I was or why I wanted it. I think that where they live is a much calmer and more trusting place then I am used to! She said that her mother was at work, so the phone would go straight to voice mail, but that she was in the habit of returning her calls in the evening.
That was on Monday; two evenings have gone by since my call, but it has not been returned. I sent her daughter a quick email yesterday, asking if her mother mentioned my call, but I have not heard back from her either.
So here we are, at the explanation for why I started this blog. This is obviously not going to be something quickly resolved, and I needed an outlet to process my emotions. I had started some long hand journal writing, but as a blogger I know that I may want to share this story publicly at some point, and the thought of having to type out handwritten journal entries was not a pleasant one. If this does not go well, I know that reliving it in the transcription would be painful. I also thought about writing a post for my main blog, but decided against it for two reasons. First, it really does not fit with the theme of finding the joy in the every day. And second, I am not really ready for everyone in my world to know about this, and I promote my blog posts on Facebook and Twitter. So here we are, on a brand new, {obscure for the moment} blog.
Thanks for reading!
xoxo, Anita
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