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A Bittersweet Reunion
On St. Pattie's Day, I meat my mother for the second time in 36 years. The last time we met, I was a day old and we were only allowed to spend 10 minutes together. "Your mother cried at the separation" the adoption records say....what they didn't say is that she has never stopped crying all these years.
Her story is very tragic. The only way that I think I can cope with the sadness is to tell her story. And in doing so, I hope to touch some hearts and change the current abusive adoption system and its laws.
I knew little about my mother, except that she was a 23 year old elementary school teacher when I was born. I dared never talk about my curiosity for fear of being labeled a "bad daughter." In December of this year, after 36 years I awoke to an urgent need to meet my birth mother. I nervously mailed a letter to the adoption agency requesting information about my origin. I was particularly intrigued to know my heritage and medical history. I didn't know the significance of it then, but when I mailed the letter in December, I whispered "Don't worry mom, I'm coming."
I was devastated to receive a phone call from the agency several days later, two days before Christmas. They told me that there was one on one staff to process my request. Could I try back in 3 months? I knew that I could not wait.
Luckily my Internet friends helped me find a lawyer in Philadelphia and he contacted the agency in mid-January. I would have my non-identifying information in a month. I was hopeful to learn more about my origins.
Finally the agency pulled the file. They told me I was "American" on both sides. They told me that there was no medical information and that was "just the way it would have to stay....when I left the agency I became the child of my parents." I was flabbergasted. Did they really think that my DNA had been erased as I passed over their threshold? Did they really satisfied my hunger for a heritage telling me that I was "American" ? They told me that I had been named Deborah at birth, despite the fact that my adoptive parents named me Deborah. But the most devastating part was that they told me that my birth date was February 9. I had been celebrating April 9 all my life. I cried for hours.
That was it. I was taking things into my own hands. My lawyer told me that I could petition the court, but that might take 6 months or longer. For some reason, I knew that I couldn't wait. My Internet friends put me in touch with a private investigator. I gave them my date of birth (not the agency's typo, but my real one) and where I was born. Within 24 hours I had my mother's name and where she was living. I was not ready to hear the news...at the age of 59 she was in a nursing home, in failing health.
After speaking with her brother, my husband and I were on a plane to Pennsylvania. I had to see my mother. I thought about calling her or sending flowers but time was of essence. After a restless night, we decided to just drive to the nursing home in Philadelphia. If she was too ill, I decided, I wouldn't tell her who I was.
The two hour drive to the nursing home was the longest of my life. I was afraid of what I might find. We stopped to get a frame for pictures of me growing up and some flowers. I told all the sales clerks that I was seeing my mother after 36 years.
As we started down the hallway of the nursing home, I saw what looked like an 85 year old woman, but with my eyes. I had never seen my eyes before. She asked me who the flowers were for. I told her they were for her. She grinned. I asked her if I could visit with her. We sat down in the day room. I held her hand. She told me that I was a very beautiful woman. I said "there's a reason for that." My voice wavered. "I'm a relative that you haven't seen in a very long time." I showed her my baby picture. She stared at the photo and guessed "that's me as a baby?". I answered, "No, that's me...I'm Deborah, your daughter." She beamed. I cried. "I've been calling to you since December," she insisted. I said, "I know...I heard you." "Well, what took you so long?," she kidded. "Well, the agency was...very difficult," I stammered. She paused. "Well, those baby snatchers will never keep us apart again." My husband snapped pictures.
She called over the nurses. "This is my daughter. I told you she would be visiting me soon." They picked their jaws off the floor. "We'll have to go on Oprah now," she said. And then she went to tell me her story. "I've never told anyone," she whispered..."I went back for my sneakers in the dorm, and he grabbed me and threw me in a room. I think I was raped." I gasped and told her that she didn't deserve that. She proudly said "yes, but look what became of it."
Jane's story is not unlike my birth mother's. She didn't want to give me up...she was told that it was the right thing to do, that I would be labeled a bastard child. She grappled with the decision. She finally signed the papers 6 months later in PENCIL (she told me that she thought that would mean it wouldn't be legal). She tried to go back to teaching, but couldn't stand the pain of seeing other children. She pretended her brother's children were hers. She went into a deep depression from which she never recovered. Instead of being treated for her loss, she was heavily medicated all her life. She dreamed of finding me but never got back on her feet. She lost her mother to breast cancer. And then she herself fought two bouts of breast cancer.
I'm grateful for meeting Jane and learning about myself. We're alike in many ways...we're both fighters, we love talking to people and helping others, we both love the theater. She named me Deborah unbeknownst to my adoptive family who also named me Deborah. And she called to me in December...and I heard her.
I want to spend time with my mother...to make up for the 36 years we have been apart. I think in order to heal, she needs to tell her story and be heard for the first time in her life. And she needs to feel beautiful again.
During our visit, I told her that her hair was pretty and she said she didn't know since there are no mirrors in the nursing home.
I need to share our story. I hope it will inspire others who are thinking of searching for their lost loved ones, point out the problems with the system, and in doing so, we will all begin to heal.
D., California |
Dear KI,
I would like to share my reunion experience with you for The Vanguard.
To me, Kinsolving Investigations is a part of my family.
Three days after KI started my case I had my son's name, address and telephone number. The last time I saw him we was learning to walk. Twenty three years later, I was fixing to call him. The day after I received his name I made the call. It was a call I'll never forget, especially when he told me that he was looking for me too. It was a good thing that my long distance telephone company had 10 cents a minute rates!
On February 1st my husband and I were sitting in my son's house having dinner with him and his adoptive parents. The best thing -- he wants to be a part of my life, and he wants me to be a part of his life. On April 24th I will be able to tell my son welcome home, because he will be here with me at my house for a week. He will be meeting the rest of his family - grandparents, uncles, sister, step brothers.
KI, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for bringing my son home to me. You brought me through a lot of questions, times of being scared. You were always there to answer my silly questions. You treated me as a personal friend. You made it easy for me to make that call.
Please keep me on your mailing list for newsletters because I want to read about other happy reunions. I will send you a family picture of the family reunion.
With all my love and many thanks,
D.
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