Another Christmas has come and gone. All over the world people are
clearing up the detritus of another year's holiday, carefully putting
away decorations, moaning over the extra pounds gained from holiday snacking,
trying to find places on already teeming shelves for this year's haul,
and opening the refrigerator only to roll their eyes in disgust at the
prospect of leftovers for dinner yet again. Like everyone else, I still
have a refrigerator full of leftovers. I have gifts to put away.
Decorations will come down, probably next weekend after Epiphany,
assuming they don't drive me nuts before then. And I confess to having
slapped on a couple extra pounds from holiday noshing, in spite of the
fact that my thoughtful daughter went out of her way to find Weight
Watcher-friendly snacks for my stocking this year.
As things get packed away, most people's focus inevitably returns to
creating another list of New Year's Resolutions, which those same people will start
to ignore three days after the holiday is over. Life will go on, as
will we, secure in the knowledge that we have survived one more would-be
(Mayan) apocalypse and are therefore able to begin another year afresh. Everyone will start thinking about work or school or chores or
whatever and forget about the holiday just past.
Normally, I would too. This year, however, I am still a little obsessed
with one of my Christmas gifts, which I received two weeks before
Christmas. And that's okay, because this is a gift like no other, nor
is it one I was expecting to receive in time for Christmas (if at all).
This year, I was given the most epic of Christmas gifts. I was given
back my history--my
heritage. And that's a priceless gift.
Some of you may not realize it, but I was adopted when I was only five
weeks old. Sometimes my mother claimed she picked me because I had a
cold and she felt sorry for me (probably because she thought she was
being funny and/or noble) and sometimes she said it was because I had
red hair (which is probably more accurate--she was obsessed with
redheads). At any rate, the call came that a little girl was available
and so they drove to the children's home to collect me. They had to
stop on the way home for supplies because the call had come so unexpectedly that they weren't entirely prepared; the only baby things in the house were my brother's, none of which would fit me since he was 10 months old when he was adopted. So after some minor scrambling they got me and the supplies home, and thus my life began.
I always knew I was adopted; my mom went out of her way to make sure we
knew long before we were old enough to understand what adoption really
meant. Because this information was never hidden from us, it became
commonplace and I grew up not thinking much about it one way or another.
It was just another random fact, as much a part of my everyday
identity as my freckles or eye color or auburn hair or height.
As I got older, I did occasionally get curious about my birth parents, or more specifically about my genetic background.
I used to fantasize that one day I'd pose as a Gallup
pollster (back when that was still plausible) and would "interview" my birth parents to answer all the questions I
had, such as who liked to draw or who liked music or what country they
were from or who had blue eyes. Afterwards, I'd pack up my clipboard,
shake their hands, and quietly leave with nobody the wiser. After all, I
figured that, for whatever reason, they'd made a difficult decision in giving me up and
there was just no reason to upend everyone's life by pursuing the
matter when I could simply do an informational hit and run to satisfy my
curiosity. Or so I thought. Obviously, such a plan wasn't very
realistic for a number of reasons, not the least of which was whether my
birth parents could even be found and were still alive, never mind willing to talk to a "stranger" about something so personal or that they might prefer forgotten. But then
that's how childish fantasies often work. Most of the time, though, I
was reasonably content with my lot. I never felt abandoned by my birth
parents; if anything, I felt (perhaps naïvely) that they'd given me up
because they wanted me to have a better life than I might otherwise have
had. So I never held a grudge.
Life continued. I went to college, I got married, I had a child. Some
days I'd still wonder about where I'd come from, some days not. I became
interested in genealogy through B's grandmother, who had traced her
family back several generations (which was impressive in the days before
Ancestry.com). She was convinced that the family had descended from
Bonnie Prince Charlie (they didn't) but she could never find the direct link between her family and Charlie. Years later, after my daughter was
born, I became much more interested in pursuing my origins if for no
other reason than to glean medical information that suddenly seemed
infinitely more relevant with an infant at home. After several
inquiries the only new thing I was able to discover was the time of day I'd been born; everything else I already knew from the adoption papers
my mother had given me before she and Dad moved to New Mexico to
retire. At the time I was told I could pursue my origins if I were
willing to petition the courts or pay for a private investigator, but
that was about my only shot since all the records were tightly sealed.
Funding an investigation was not an option at the time, so I let it go.
Every now and again I'd still wonder about my ancestry, but mostly I
went on with the daily business of raising my child, which kept me
plenty busy. Sure, I often amused myself by making up my ancestry on
the whim of the day. One day I'd be French since my maiden name was
French, and another I might be English. On St. Patrick's Day (my
birthday) I was always Irish, along with every other person trying to
make up an excuse for drinking green beer. My supposed Irishosity
seemed more plausible, I thought, given such an auspicious birthday and
my leprechaun coloring. Certainly I immediately discarded several possible ethnicities because of my pale skin; my friends' prevailing opinion was that I was either Irish (possibly
Scottish) or German. Maybe both. Anyone's guess was as good as mine.
In April, though, things changed. In April, my mother passed away at age 80. I
know that she wouldn't have begrudged me wanting to search for my
birth parents, but I also know she would have been hurt; the
one time I said anything about searching back in high school she became depressed.
She wanted me to be happy, but I think she was afraid of having to share me or of losing me. No doubt it sounds opportunistic
of me to start searching for my birth parents right after my mother
died, but that's not exactly how things happened. I wasn't even
thinking of searching at the time. My mother died and I grieved for her, though I
was glad that she was finally free of her dementia and at peace with my
dad. It wasn't an immediate thing, this search. One day in August I
was cleaning up piles of stuff on my desk when I ran across a clipping of Mom's obituary. I started to file it away with my
adoption papers and my other genealogy stuff. Of course as I did so I had to look through them all
again. After rereading my adoption papers for maybe the 100th time, I thought to
myself "I should try again. I'm getting older. Medical information
could prove useful." So after playing with the magic Google I did some research, found some links, and submitted some forms with the
requisite fees to the Indiana Department of Health.
A couple weeks later I got a letter back from someone named Darcy. Darcy informed me that I had used an
incorrect form and was therefore returning my check. She also noted in
her letter that if I was interested in continuing my search, she could
suggest a couple of options. I admit I was intrigued. I thought about
it for a couple of days, then decided "what the hell" and called Darcy.
Darcy suggested that I register with the state's adoption database
because if my birth parents were likewise registered then the database would
find the match and I could then get a copy of my original birth
certificate. She also told me that another option would be to hire a
Confidential Intermediary (CI) who could be appointed by the court to
research my case and make initial contact with any living birth parents.
It seemed unfathomable to me that some 47 years after my birth I might
finally be able to discover something about my origins; I found the
prospect both frightening and exciting. I followed Darcy's advice and
immediately registered with the Adoption Registry and Database. In a follow-up letter thanking me for registering with the database, Darcy also sent the names of several available CIs
in case I chose to pursue the matter further. So back to Google I went, letter and names in hand. Next
thing I knew I was looking at the Facebook page of a woman named Jill
who worked as a CI for an law firm in Indy which focuses exclusively on
adoptions and adoption law. The whole thing seemed entirely too easy.
A few days later I nervously called Jill. She told me how everything
worked and how much it cost. For $500 plus court costs I could
potentially find out something about my birth parents--an amazing
thought after all these years. The cost seemed reasonable
compared to that of hiring a private detective, with the added benefit
that Jill could personally access the court records. I gave Jill all the information I had regarding
the adoption and she filed a petition with the court to be made my CI,
warning me that it would take around a month to be processed. I sent
off my fees and proceeded to wait. In October I got a call that Jill
had been officially appointed and could begin searching on my behalf. Jill told me
that if my birth mother was deceased (as well she might be considering
my age, never mind hers), then both my original birth certificate and
hers would be released to me. A part of me almost hoped that would
be the case; not to be all macabre, but it seemed to me at the time that
it might be easier under those circumstances because I could get the information I craved without
having to potentially deal with awkward situations...I didn't want to rock anybody's boat. Of course, that was before I met my birth mother. Everything was
just happening so quickly. But I tried not to think about it. I told
Jill that my primary objective was to get information and that while I
was not necessarily opposed to any relationship that came out of this,
it was also not the main goal. She told me she was happy that I was
"managing my expectations." Good Ginger. Gooooooood Ginger.
Two months went by. I kept busy. I knew it would probably take awhile
to discover anything, so I wasn't too concerned by time passing. Then earlier this
month it occurred to me that I hadn't heard from Jill since her
appointment as my CI, so I shot her a quick email to check in and ask if
there'd been any progress. I didn't want to be pushy but figured I
should remind her I was still out here waiting patiently. She called
the next morning to say that she was "so close." My heart skipped a
beat. Jill said she knew who my birth mother was, who her brothers were, and
everything about
her and was trying to make contact but had been unsuccessful so far.
Talk about dangling a carrot in front of someone's face. She said she was
glad I had called because it gave her the impetus to push a little
harder by trying to send a certified letter, etc., etc. Okay.
Whatever. Excuse me while I go twitch in a corner for several hours.
The next morning I was in my room working out. As I sat on the floor
stretching, my phone buzzed with a message from Jill to call her because
"I have good news." With my hand shaking a little, I called her back
and was told "I FOUND her. And she's
HAPPY." I sat there,
stunned, not quite sure what to say or feel. Jill, meanwhile, was
positively giddy with excitement because she "loves it when
they're happy and not slamming doors in my face." Well, who could
blame her, really? Jill told me I'd need to send her an email, as
would my birth mother, stating that it was okay to release personal
information. I agreed to
send one immediately and off Jill ran off to see about getting a court date so she could get records released.
I was flabbergasted. Later that night Jill called again to inform me
that there had been an "interesting development." I couldn't even
imagine. This was all becoming quite a roller coaster ride. Turns out
she called the family of the person she
thinks is my birth father
(I gather he has a common name so it was not 100% sure) only to discover
that he was dead and that his daughter was more than a little freaked at
the possibility her dad may have fathered an unknown child. Jill asked
what she wanted me to do, as though I had the first clue. Let's face
it--it's not every day someone asks whether or not you want to strong
arm a potential sibling. We decided to back off on the birth father
search for a bit and see what happened with my birth mother, thinking
perhaps more information would eventually surface as she and I chatted,
after which I could decide how and if to continue pursuing my birth father. Besides, it
seemed only fair to give the girl time to process the possibility of a half-sister; after
all, I certainly didn't want to traumatize anyone because of my search. That was never my intention. Everything was becoming
real (with a capital R) at breakneck speed.
On Wednesday morning, December 12, Jill called to inform me that she
could "now release information." She gave me the name, phone
number and email address of my birth mother NJ and asked whether I was
going to contact NJ or whether she should contact me. I drew a blank.
How does one answer that? I hardly knew where to start after nearly 48
years of limbo. I told Jill that I would contact NJ either sometime
that day or the next but that first I wanted to think of some questions
so I wouldn't sit on a phone and stutter stupidly like a fool since
there was no way to know how I'd react in such uncharted waters. I ended up
emailing NJ later that night, making it clear that I was looking
primarily for information because I didn't want to mislead her and telling her that
if anything more was to come of this it would have to happen slowly
over time. As a result, I wanted to start from the safe distance of email and go forward from there.
Once my missive was sent, I proceeded to sit on tenterhooks while waiting to see how long it
would take to get a reply.
Meanwhile, I shared this stunning revelation with my "Posse" of friends in our
online forum. They were thrilled for me even as they advised caution initially. While I was chatting with them I looked up and saw that an
email from NJ had suddenly appeared in my inbox. I gaped at it in awe.
Then I read it. And read it again. And again. NJ very respectfully
answered my email just as carefully and cautiously as I had approached her in my
own. The irony that her message came through at 12:30 am was not
lost on me either...perhaps NJ was also a night owl, I thought. I
soaked in her words, marveling at them, then answered her back
immediately. It took longer to get a response the second time and I was
surprised to find myself so twitchy and antsy with anticipation while
awaiting her next email. I nearly had to tie myself down to keep from
calling her immediately. So much for dignity and caution.
With the dialogue between us freshly opened, we emailed regularly back
and forth the next several days. Within a mere 48 hours, questions I'd held in my heart for nearly half a century were finally answered. Then
suddenly NJ's emails stopped. I didn't think much of it at first,
since sometimes it took a while for one or the other of us to answer
(particularly as her laptop wasn't working and she was still getting
used to a new smartphone), but when I didn't hear anything from her for a
couple of days I began to worry that I'd unintentionally said or done
something to upset her. It seemed cruel that a door so suddenly
opened should be slammed shut just as quickly. After 3-4 days I finally
sent her another note saying that if she needed some space to process
things that was fine, but could she please let me know she was okay? I
got a message back the next day; turns out her phone and laptop had been
stolen so she'd been largely incommunicado while trying to deal
with insurance for the stolen items and for a fender bender she'd had the previous
week. I was relieved, far more than I might have expected. I was starting to like NJ.
Over the last two and a half weeks NJ and I have slowly been getting to
know each other. It's been difficult to think of much else, really,
especially before the girlie got home for break. How could it not be?
I have rarely faced more monumentally life-changing events than this.
I expect this has all been as much a miracle for NJ as for me; it never really occurred to me before now that my birth mother might have
just as much curiosity about me as I did about her. (You know how
selfish children can be.) This has already been a fascinating journey, and the more I get to know NJ, the more I respect
her--and not just for giving me life at a time when unwed mothers were
largely vilified. Now that I've had the opportunity to talk with her, I'm grateful she is still around to put my history into context with stories of real people and real family members. We are both getting long-sequestered questions
answered and curiosity slaked as we each discover the type of woman the
other is. We are uncovering hidden connections between us, such as that
NJ is indeed as much a night owl as myself. Along the way I've been
plugging in new information to Ancestry.com as it comes; for the first
time in my life, I have a genetic heritage. I can look online and see
the progression of generation after generation and know, even if I never
met any of them, that I am still a part of them. That half of my legacy is no
longer unknown. I have a past--well,
more of a past. I have a nationality, one which I no longer have to guess at or make up. I am learning my medical history. In short, I have knowledge, a knowledge I can now share with my daughter so she'll know the rest of her history too. And it's
brilliant.
Now, three days after Christmas, three days after a lovely day with my
family during which we opened fun and festive presents (one of which was
a new, non-possessed laptop--squee!) and spent quality time together, I
am
still unwrapping the biggest and most mind-boggling gift I've ever been given (short of my daughter's birth) and no doubt will be for some time. And it
is a
gift, a gift of epic proportions--one which has already changed my life
and will probably continue to do in ways I can't yet comprehend. None
of this changes the fact that I loved my mother or that I miss her or
that I am equally the product of her nurture as I am of NJ's genetics. I
consider myself more than fortunate to have been raised by a woman
generous enough to love another woman's child as her own; now the
selfless woman who gave me life in the first place has been selfless
enough to give me (and my child) back our history.
I am twice blessed.
*********************************************************
Now--bonus--a poem I've had on my wall for years, one which seems
infinitely more relevant and poignant in light of this month's
blessings:
THE LEGACY OF AN ADOPTED CHILD
Once there were two women
Who never knew each other.
One you do not remember,
The other you call Mother.
Two different lives,
Shaped to make yours one.
One became your guiding star,
The other became your sun.
The first one gave you life,
The second taught you to live it.
The first gave you a need for love,
The second was there to give it.
One gave you a nationality,
The other gave you a name.
One gave you a talent,
The other gave you an aim.
One gave you emotions,
The other calmed your fears.
One saw your first sweet smile
The other dried your tears.
One sought for you a home
That she could not provide.
The other prayed for a child,
Her hopes were not denied.
And now you ask me
Through your tears,
The age-old question,
Unanswered through the years:
"Heredity or environment,
Which am I the product of?"
Neither, my darling, neither--
Just two different kinds of love.
~Anonymous
