Amazes me how long and complicated my journey has been, the hows and whys are all now answered, but knowledge seems to be the only real difference in me. As I reflect back I remember my mother telling me how I came to be adopted and what condition I was in when my parents first got me. All these years of knowing how sickly I was and how several pediatricians told my parents I would die, the reality just never registered. The doctors told my parents to give me back to the agency, that if I didn't die, I would be a drain on them emotionally and financially.
One Dr. thought I had cystic fibrosis and was certain I would never make it. I was frail and had lost weight, I screamed relentlessly and inconsolably and kept my mother pacing the floors night after night. In today's world, I would be termed a "failure to thrive" baby but by the standards of 1959, they didn't know any better. To think that all my life I had an indescribable pain inside me, a bitter emptiness that I could find no words for, is horrible and yet it is an amazing relief to finally put words and reason to it.
I read the notes from the orphanage countless times over the course of my life, that plainly state how I spent the first month and a half of my life. I was seldom held or given much of anything but the usual diaper change and bath. The notes they wrote describe how I guzzled the bottle they propped up for me in my bed, and then vomited. But until just the other day, it never occurred to me that this pain and fragility that has always been mine to bear came from having little or no human contact in the first six weeks of my life. I had no one to bond with, no real nurturing, no touch to ease me and I was dying, quite literally.
I am here today because my mother did not return me to the agency, she had faith that with time and love, I would pull through and I did. Today I am able to make sense of it all after finding my birth family and delving into the many mysteries of science and the human condition. There is so much that we seem to take for granted and ignore in the adoption arena but I for one am glad that we are making progress. It is astounding to me that my mind had no words or prior experience on which to base my pain, but my brain and my body kept a very accurate account. Every nerve ending remembers those first lonely days, that tremendous loss of "mother" that every infant needs to thrive. And I am grateful for the loving arms of one woman who never gave up and I praise her defiant and rebellious heart. If she were here today, I would say thank you, not only for adopting me... but for giving me life.
My Mother and My Mom
"Do you know what it means to be adopted?" the judge asked. "Yes, it means you are special", I answered. And I was special. I was chosen. I was ten years old. For my little sister and I, the adoption process had been a very long road. At five years old, I had stopped calling my parents "aunt and uncle" and they became "Mom and Dad".
That was when I began to feel special. I remember sitting in the judge's chambers and thinking that the whole process was a big waste of time. I didn't need approval from a judge to know who my parents were. They were my Mom and Dad and whether it was official or not, they were my family. At the same time, I must admit, it was kind of nice knowing that we officially belonged together.
It took me a long time before I would even acknowledge to anyone, especially myself, that I ever had a "biological" family. It was as if my life really began when my parents brought my sister and I into their home. My family has always been just that. My family. My biological mother died when I was eight years old and I never really knew her. I knew of her. I knew her as 'Ellen', 'the alcoholic', 'the woman that gave birth to me', she was 'my mother's sister' and 'the woman that abandoned us' - I never considered her my Mother. My limited memories of her were painful and I tried my best to disregard them. I did not cry when I found out that she had died. She was no one to me. She was certainly not my Mother.
As I evolved into my own role as a mother, I gradually began an understanding of who 'Ellen' really was to me. I had grown up hearing from the adults in my life that "Ellen had problems", she was "sick", she was "weak" and "couldn't handle things". She had been abused by her first husband and resorted to alcohol to heal her wounds. Once she started, she couldn't stop. As a kid, I would hear the words but never really had the understanding of the path that Ellen's short life took. My own adult life often paralleled Ellen's. We were both victims of abuse in our marriage. We both struggled with weakness. We were both mothers. I never knew Ellen, but years later, I was dealing with similar life lessons. During this difficult time in my life, the persona of "Ellen" was always present in the back of my mind. It was as if my life was mirroring hers and I was constantly threatened by her weaknesses. Whenever I felt as if I were giving in to the pressures of life, Ellen's spirit would propel me forward. I would not allow myself to become like her. I would not let my mothering pattern hers. I was not weak, I was strong and I would survive to become a mother to my children.
At some point during my adult life as a mother, I was forced to come to terms with the reality that that my biological mother was a real person with a heart and a soul. She was, in fact, my Mother. She was a woman who struggled just to live day to day under extraordinary pressures and battling a terrible disease of the mind and spirit. She was a mother in her own right and the tragedy of her life was the direction that it took. My sister and I were not the losers in our family picture. We were the winners because we were special. We were chosen to be raised in a wonderful loving family and in many respects our childhood was ideal. It occurred to me that Ellen was the real loser in the picture because she was not able to live to raise her children. She missed watching her children grow up. It was Mom who was there for us when we were sick, through all the sleepless nights, there for us as we struggled through our lives, when we broke our bones, scraped our knees and birthed our babies. Mom was there for us for every single school play, every concert, every teacher's conference, sharing in our accomplishments, rejoicing in our happiness, watching us graduate and for every single birthday. For every holiday and every season it was Mom who journeyed with us. It is Mom who we pick up the phone and call with our constant questions, life dilemmas, to share our happiness and when we need a shoulder to cry on. Our Mom. We were the lucky ones. And Ellen deserves our sympathy.
My children are only six years old and 5 months old and yet I cannot even begin to imagine how I would feel if I missed even one second of their childhood. I am their mother and to have my motherhood taken away from me would be like ripping out my soul. My role as "Mom" is the most important role I could ever possibly have. My sympathy for Ellen has overtaken my anger. I now know what helplessness feels like. I know what it is to be the victim of abuse. I can only imagine the heartbreak it must have caused her to live with a disease that took her away from her children. A disease that she did not choose to have and did not have the strength to fight. I grew up angered by her weaknesses and devoid of sympathy to her condition. I matured into a mother who is saddened for her loss.
The ten-year-old girl that sat in the judge's chamber has grown into a mother who not only feels special but also has an enormous amount of gratitude for the life that she was given. Being adopted has always made me well aware of the fact that my parents chose me and my sister. I have always known that my life could have taken a very different path and I will always have a deep understanding and respect for my Mom and Dad and for the sacrifices that they have made during their lives for the benefit of their children. My Mom has been a pillar of strength and tenacity throughout my life. She meets her problems head on and teaches her children by her example. Many of my own mothering techniques have come from my Mom and from the strength that I have witnessed through her. My innate sense of purpose, my self worth and my inner strength that has developed throughout my life has come from my roots. Not roots grown from a bloodline but roots grown from a firm foundation of a family of love.
In my family, it is common knowledge that my sister and I are adopted. I never felt the need to hide this fact. Actually, I have always been proud of it. My Mom and Dad were always honest with us about our biological parents and never tried to hide the truth from us. My sister and I knew that if we ever wanted to know anything about our biological parents we could always come to them with our questions. When I was about 8 or 9 years old, one of the children in the neighborhood teased me and said that my "real parents" abandoned me and didn't want me. She made me feel like an outcast. I cried the whole way home and right into the arms of my Mom. She comforted me, she wiped my tears and she was honest with me. She sat me down on her bed and very calmly and lovingly told me about her sister Ellen, my Mother. She told me about Ellen's problem with alcohol abuse and by doing this she gave credence to the few memories that I did have of Ellen. It was during this conversation that I found out that Ellen had passed away. She told me that it was o.k. to cry and to feel sad. She told me that I would not be hurting her feelings by showing my love for my Mother. But, I did not see Ellen as my Mother. I saw her as my Mom's sister. I felt sorry for my Mom that her sister had died. I did not shed a tear for Ellen. I was not angry with Ellen. I felt nothing. I had all of this love for my Mom and I was just grateful to feel better and not be so sad. I was just a child who was surrounded by a supportive loving stable family. I did not have the maturity to feel sorry for myself or feel a sense of loss. I felt comforted, loved and above all, special and privileged. This is just one example of the countless times throughout my life that I have been overwhelmed with gratitude because I was chosen to become a member of my family. My sister and I were lucky to have been raised by my Mom and Dad.
As a mother, I always strive to be better, to do more for my children and constantly question my decisions on their behalf. I am growing with my children and my Husband and I are developing the roots of our own family tree. My family is my gift from God. It is my job to nurture and cherish that gift. The gift is not what is viewed by the physical packaging of my family. The gift is ever changing and the gift is reciprocal. I take care of God's children and I receive the honor of being called Mom. I have learned firsthand throughout my life that being a Mom and Dad is not about making a baby. A Mom and Dad are not created when a life comes into the world. A Mom and Dad are created throughout the lives of their children. Mom and Dad are titles that are earned and that deserve the utmost gratitude, respect and love. Ellen was my Mother - Ellen was not my Mom. My Mom is the woman that rescued my sister and I from a very uncertain future. My Mom gave us our life. She loved us unconditionally and we became her children. We were chosen. We were special. We were adopted.
