Posts Tagged ‘adoption intermediary’

A Texas Adoptee Comes Full Circle When He Finds His Birth Mom

Tuesday, March 25th, 2014

[dropcap size=dropcap]I[/dropcap]n July of 2012, at forty-two-years-old, I found my birth mom. It was an unbelievably awesome and life changing experience! The funny thing is, for most of my life, I never thought I’d ever want this to happen.

I grew up in Waco, Texas, and I always knew that I was adopted. I had great adoptive parents, grandparents and extended family. My adoptive family never hid anything from me, and I never thought much about being adopted. My parents were my only parents, and to tell you the truth— our friends never even knew that I was adopted.

I fit in with my family perfectly. I shared the same beliefs, values and personality traits. When anyone learned of my adoption, I’d hear something like, “C’mon, you know you are not adopted—you look just like your dad.” Our family got a kick from that because it was so true. I was treated well, and I felt very loved and spoiled. I’d say my childhood was as good as it gets.

In fact, my life was so good, that I think if my birth mom had called me on my eighteenth birthday, I would have freaked out. Without a doubt, I would have run from her. It wasn’t that I was angry with her for giving me up—I just hadn’t ever explored the idea of knowing her.

In 2000, I met my wife-to-be, Robin. It wasn’t until four years into our relationship that I told her I was adopted. I wasn’t keeping secrets from her; my adoption just wasn’t a big deal. She was shocked. Robin also thought I looked just like my dad, and she couldn’t understand my lack of curiosity or my lack of desire to search for my birth mom. Our conversation prompted me to research the subject of adoptee behavior and searching. I was surprised to learn how so many adopted people wished to reconnect with their birth families.

Nonetheless, my desire and interest to reconnect with my birth mom did not increase. When I reached my late thirties, however, I started to wonder if I might have a brother or a sister in the world. I didn’t go too far out of my way, though I did post the date and state of my birth on a few adoption registries to inquire if any siblings were searching for me.  Nothing.

Life went on, until my wife and I started to look into what it would take to adopt a child. We had endured some heartbreaking losses and adoption seemed like a good option at the time. While we did not end up choosing to adopt, the exploratory process opened another door.

When we had attended an adoption seminar, we had heard some birth moms speak about their experiences of giving up their child. I was really moved to hear all of them say that they just wanted the best for their children and that they wanted to know that their children had turned out okay.

The words of those birth moms hit me hard. Had my birth mom worried and wondered about me for all these years? Now, I felt I had to do the right thing. If she had worried, then I felt the need to bring her peace.

Boy, did things change quickly after that. In May of 2012, I began my search. I viewed many sites and registries, but all of them led to dead ends. I requested my non-identifying adoption information from the state of Texas, which took a few weeks to receive. Wow. Just getting that and reading about my birth mom and dad was amazing.

My initial motive to search for my birth mom went from wanting to help her— to having a burning desire and need to know everything about her. The search experience was all encompassing.

Ultimately, I came across something called a “search angel.” All of these search angels were helpful and each of them gave me sound advice. After interviewing several of them, I chose to work with Marianne.

On July 1st, Marianne located my birth mom and birth dad. Even with the little information I was able to provide her, she had found my birth parents within only twenty-four hours. We discovered that they had married, and that I also had two younger full birth sisters. I was blown away.

Marianne found the addresses and phone numbers for all of my immediate birth family members. I was even able to see my sisters’ pictures on Facebook. Now what? My wife and I were too scared to call my birth family. So, Aimee, an intermediary and a friend of Marianne’s, made the call on our behalf.

I was a nervous wreck. What if, after all of this, my birth mom did not want to talk to me? On July 3rd, Aimee made the call. Five minutes later, Aimee called me…

She had spoken to my birth mom! She said that she had never talked to a birth mom who was so emotional or excited to have been “found.” My birth mom told Aimee that she would need a few minutes, and that she would call right back to get my number.

Two long days passed. My birth mom had not called back. I freaked out—why wasn’t she calling? I couldn’t take it.

Finally, I remembered that I had sent her an anonymous email through Classmates.com to ask her if either my birthday or Waco, Texas had had any meaning for her. Since she should have received it on the very same night that Aimee had called her, I checked my email for a response: “You’re the son I’ve thought of every day for the last 42 years. Please call me.”

My birth mom had been waiting on me to call her. She must’ve been a nervous wreck, too. Seconds later, on July 5th, I called my birth mom and heard her voice for the first time. She cried, laughed, and cried some more, and I could tell that she had needed and wanted this every day— since the day that I was born.

I also spoke to one of my birth sisters, who had been at my birth mom’s house at the time. On July 4th, just the day before this reuniting phone call, my birth mom finally told my sisters that they had a brother. They were stunned as I was, and yet, our conversation was so good, and so natural.

On that day, I learned my full birth story. When my birth mom had gotten pregnant with me, my birth dad’s parents insisted that I be given up for adoption because my birth parents were not married at the time of conception. My birth mom’s parents were quite religious and several of her relatives were even ministers. She felt then, that under all those circumstances, she could never tell her family that she had become pregnant with me. She believed she’d bring great shame to everyone.

At that time, my birth dad was in the Army. He had asked my birth mom to marry him while she was still pregnant. She had said “yes,” and together, they moved to the Fort Hood, Texas army station. She had me there in Waco, but like many mothers who relinquished children in that era, she never saw me on the day I was born. A year later, they moved back to Minnesota without me.

She told me that she didn’t want to give me up, but that she did what she thought was best for me at the time. No one back in Minnesota could know of my birth, but it was important to her and my birth dad that I was safe and that I would go to a good home. I believe she was being a good mom even when she couldn’t keep me. My birth parents stayed married for almost 30 years, until my birth dad died in an unfortunate accident. I never got to meet him.

On August 16th, in the same year that I had found my birth mom, I traveled to Minnesota to meet her. My reunion was something out of the ordinary—and not something I can explain well to others. It was surreal—like I had entered into a world of fantasy. Hugging my birth mom for the first time, holding her hand and just being with her was so incredible. I got to meet my sisters, too. I had always thought that I shared the exact mannerisms of my adoptive family, but when I met my birth family, I couldn’t believe how many mannerisms I also shared with them.

I now know how hard my relinquishment was for my birth mom, but today—she, my sisters and I, share a nice relationship. I talk to my sisters all the time, and I talk to my birth mom almost every day.

I’ve never held one ounce of bitterness toward my birth mom. Times were different back then and my birth parents were only kids themselves. She was twenty-one-years-old, when she had to leave her baby boy in Texas and move back to Minnesota. I can only imagine that kind of pain.

On my 43rd birthday of this past year, my birth mom returned to Texas to celebrate my birthday with me for the very first time. We appreciated many special moments then, and I know I will enjoy the ones left to come.

My adoptive family is supportive of my reunion journey to this day. Although, my parents were understandably a little uneasy with my search and reunion at first, it did not take long for them to realize that I would never abandon them and that they would always be my parents. I love all of my families very much.

To think that a few years ago, I neither wanted nor envisioned all that led to this happiness, and now it’s my new normal. I feel fortunate to know my birth family— only wish I had met them sooner.

Image credit: photo provided by author.

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Sometimes a Reunion Gives an Adoptee New Secrets

Tuesday, January 28th, 2014

Heather Katz, Co-founder of Secret Sons & Daughters, shares her adoption reunion journey in search of peace and equanimity.

I have never kept deep secrets of my own, and yet, I was born one. I entered the world in an outdated era, darkened with shame, dishonesty and guilt. I am, at forty-two years of age, an adoptee still longing to fill in the low-lying branches of my biological family tree.

In the winter of 1971, the unthinkable came to pass for a good, unwedded girl from a devoutly Irish Catholic family—she fell pregnant. Mortified, feeling very much alone, and carrying the firm belief that there was no one to turn to for help, my frightened mother concealed her swelling belly from the rest of the world.

She was sweet, remarkably beautiful, and sought after by many suitors. As a college sophomore with a scholarship in language arts, she had looked forward to a bright future. Despite her dashed dreams, my mother hoped to keep her growing miracle.

At seven months into her pregnancy, her mother finally uncovered the truth. The following day, her parents set events in motion that would alter the course of many lives to follow.

The family arranged for my mother to leave her home state and move into the Edna Gladney Center for unwed mothers in Fort Worth, Texas. No one in her hometown, including her siblings, was ever to know of me—and she was never to speak of my birth.

For nine months, I innocently played beneath her beating heart, and on the day I took my first breath, they pried me from her arms. As she cried, the Gladney counselors tried to comfort her, saying she’d happily marry, have more babies and possibly even enjoy a satisfying career.

Focus on the present. Move on with your life. Those were the messages of that time.

Eleven days after my mother had returned home without me, I was enrolled in an unrecognized form of the American witness protection program. The state of Texas stamped, “Classified,” (or so it feels) across my original birth certificate, replaced the old one with my new identifying information, and then placed me into the (fortunately) loving arms of another set of parents.

I had a charmed childhood. My dad was a Rabbi (now Emeritus) of a large Reform congregation in San Antonio, and both of my parents are recognized leaders in the community. My mom was the Director of Family Life Education at Jewish Family Services and a full-time, attentive mother to my adopted, younger sister and me. I was raised in a warm, well-ordered, and accepting family, as well as in a large group of caring congregants.

We did not keep secrets in our family. From the moment I was adopted, my parents spoke openly of my adoption. When I was only three months old, my great-great aunt asked my mom when she was going to tell me I was adopted. My mom responded with, “I am just going to tell her that she is a girl, Anglo, American and adopted. Being adopted will always be part of her identity.” Indeed, it was. I do not recall a moment of not knowing I was adopted.

After years of trying to conceive, and then waiting even longer to adopt, my parents got “the call” from Gladney that made me their own.

I felt special and wanted. My parents continually expressed their belief that although my original parents could not care for me, they had probably wanted me. I’m unsure I believed that latter part at the time, but my parents still found numerous ways to help me feel loved.

They declared that their adopted children were unequivocally theirs, no matter how we each had come to them, and that we were, and still are, just as much a part of them as any biological baby might have been.

Appearance wise, I thought I fit in nicely with my family and friends. When folks would say I looked just like my mom, she’d say, “Well, thank you, that is a huge compliment, but Heather is adopted.”

I would follow with, “I love looking like my mom.”

Afterwards, and when alone, we’d chuckle.

Most of the time, I forgot I was adopted. If ever I felt unlike my childhood peers, it was more because I was a Rabbi’s daughter, and not because the two people who raised me were not my original parents.

In this broad-minded setting, whenever I was curious, I would ask a multitude of questions and openly fantasize about my genetic ancestry. When my sister, Alisa and I were young, we’d play all kinds of speculative games. Repeatedly, we’d tell my parents that each of us surely had the taller natural father than the other. I’d bet Alisa the trade of a laborious home chore that my father was the tallest, and resembled our six-foot-one dad the most. Therefore, I’d eventually grow to the required five-foot-nine inches to win a modeling contract. I lost. My sister’s natural father is enormous, and she is five-foot-seven. I barely rise above five–foot-two!

This intense curiosity persists today: I still wonder which unknown family member passed on their musical abilities to both my children and me; I wonder what family folklore I might never hear; and while I met my birth father once, there is much I cannot say or know.

My parents spoke kindly of my unknown family and assured me that they would help me search some day. When I was twenty-one-years-old, they set their own fears aside, rolled up their sleeves, and joined me in my journey to find the missing pieces.

My parents hired a search specialist. The weekend of my 21st birthday, while I was on a camping trip, my mom spent hours on the phone, calling all over the country to track down my natural mother. When I returned to my college dorm, my mom called me and said, “I found her!” I was scared to death. I did not want to contact her until I was in the supportive presence of my parents and had had the opportunity to meet this supposed saint-like intermediary. So, I waited a few months until I was home from college for winter break.

I remember the intermediary’s words: “Adoption is about loss. Each member of the triad has faced some sort of loss, but hopefully some kind of gain as well.” She then asked if I was ready to face whatever I might find on the other side of that proverbial locked door. I said, “Yes!”

She turned up the volume on our phone and dialed my natural mother’s number. After several rings, she answered, “Hello?” in a soft, deep southern accent. I grabbed Mom’s arm.

The intermediary introduced herself as a social worker, then she asked: “Does October 30th mean anything to you?” There was utter silence. I felt my heart tumble in my chest.

I wondered if she was okay, or if she’d hung up. I did not want to hurt her. I only wanted to know her and tell her that I loved her. What felt like an hour, but was only thirty-seconds, passed. Finally, she asked if she could place the phone down. She needed to move to a more private location. Then, after asking the intermediary about my state of health and happiness, she whispered, “My family does not know about her. I cannot talk at this time.”

“Your daughter only wishes for you to know that she is doing well and that she’d enjoy exchanging letters when you’re ready and willing,” said the intermediary.

My natural mother took her number. Twenty-four hours later, my biological grandmother phoned our intermediary to request that I write to both of them soon—but only to my grandmother’s address.

And write we did–back and forth, for several months, before we all felt comfortable enough to meet in person. That long-awaited day finally arrived.

My mom and I drove all day until we reached my natural mother’s hometown just before dark. We checked into a hotel room and tried to relax for an hour. We thumbed through my baby book of first photos, which we had brought to share. That did not quell the sick feeling in my stomach. I could tell my mom was nervous, too. She had never heard of any mother meeting their child’s other mother before. With no handbook on reunions, she went with her gut— she wanted to help me find answers, and she wanted to thank my mother for giving her a daughter.

We heard a knock on the door, and the muffled sound of female voices. I pushed my mom in front of me—signaling her to open the door. We grabbed each other’s hands, and drew in big breaths as she unlatched the lock.

My natural mother was standing beside her mother. My mom reached out for a welcoming hug, while I stood frozen. Her eyes looked like mine, both in color and in shape, we shared the same shade of chestnut brown hair color, and the very same turned up nose. I looked over at my grandmother. Though she had bottled blond hair, she too, had huge eyes and a turned up nose. Here we were—two mothers, two daughters, all related in complicated ways.

My mom looked like me plenty, but for my turned up nose. That was my unusual trait—and now—for the first time in my life— after seeing my natural mother, I realized just how much I really looked like someone else!

We all exchanged hugs, made awkward chatter about hair highlights or something mundane like that, and then shared a light-hearted restaurant meal together. We spent close to four surreal hours with them. From that encounter, a phantom had been laid to rest and my ancestral tree had grown a few more branches. However, when I had asked questions about my birth story or my paternal family, I learned nothing more. At the time, it was too difficult for my mother to dredge up the past. Eighteen years later, the rest of my maternal biological family would learn of my existence. At almost forty-years-old, I finally met my maternal biological brother and sister. Knowing them has brought me much sought after peace.

I was thankful my mother and grandmother told me they loved me through those decades, but I withstood much pain over the missing elements in the rest of my birth story. Some years of not knowing were easier than others. Birthing my own beloved children brought about added bizarre feelings, but what’s more, they profoundly rooted me to the earth—allowing some relief from that yearning. I vacillated between anger and long periods of acceptance. I wished to respect my mother’s privacy and grant her forgiveness, but I also felt the burning “right” to know all the missing information.

Like me, many adoptees find a biological family member, and are forced to collude with the secret he or she kept—even in reunion.

As an adoptee, life feels like a mix of sharp curves and smooth corners. Today, some phantoms linger, but many do not. My natural mother did go on to marry, have two other babies, and has become a successful career woman. While it took decades to make life come full circle for the both of us, it was not too late to heal. My biological maternal family is happily reunited now. I find much joy with those whom I do know and love—both adoptive and biological relatives—and strive not to dwell on what was lost.

Thanks for visiting our online community. In addition to stories like this one, you can find valuable resources, discover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page.

Subscribe to our blog to receive more adoptee tales, and consider adding your voice to the Secret Sons & Daughters collection.