Posts Tagged ‘birth siblings’

“For Just a Day”—An Adoptee’s Wish for a Deeper Awareness of Adoption Pain

Sunday, October 19th, 2014

Adoptee, Daryn Watson was compelled to pen this poem after learning the news that a fellow adoptee had recently ended her own life. He movingly reveals some of the realities of many adoption reunions after the initial tears of joy have been swept away.

 

For Just A Day

 

For just a day

I wish my pain would go away

 

For just a day

I wish I could say

I knew what it felt like

To fit into a family

Without feeling like I had to earn my approval

 

For just a day

I wish I didn’t fear second rejections

From the woman who gave me away

And who gives me her rationalizations

 

For just a day

I wish I could say

The words “birth” or “bio” mother

Without them being such a bother

 

For just a day

My hopes of my siblings to say

“How are you doing?”

Let’s plan a visit in May

 

For just a day

I want to convey

The angst I feel in my life

That causes me much strife

Without being judged or condemned

Day after day, all over again

 

For just a day

I hope for the news

That we won’t hear of a blindside

Of another adoptee committing suicide

 

For just a day

I want to segway

Into our own truth

That was formed in our early youth

 

For just a day

I wish the adoption industry

Would stop trying to betray

Adoptees from finding their history

 

For just a day

We hope lawmakers would join the fray

By stop making us feel ignored

And give us our identity records

 

For just a day

I wish couples wouldn’t pay

Tons of money to fulfill their heart

While ripping other families forever apart

 

For just a day

I wish I truly fit in

With the people around me

Without losing connections again

 

For just a day

I desire inner peace to stay

Without the rumblings of emotional famine

Or feeling overwhelming grief at random

 

For just a day

I wish I wasn’t cast away

To live my life in a twister

Without my natural brother or sister

 

For just a day

We wouldn’t have to pray

That our feelings aren’t swept under the rug

Or that we don’t abuse alcohol or an antidepressant drug

 

For just a day

I want my birth mother to acknowledge and say

“I’m sorry I abandoned you” with her voice

“And I didn’t give YOU a choice.”

 

For just a day

I wish my pain would go away

 

October 8, 2014

 

I wrote this poem soon after I heard the troubling news of a fellow adoptee taking her own life.  Although I did not know this person, I knew that she had been reunited with her birth family. Upon learning about her tragic decision to end her pain, the phrase— for just a day—kept running through my mind. I finally succumbed to that inner mantra and put my feelings and words to paper.

In the 19 years since I reunited with my own birth family, my emotions have run the entire gamut from feeling elated, to feeling completely rejected and abandoned again. Reunions and the adoption pain that follows them can be hard, complex, and confusing to say the least.

Society usually sees the happy reunion story during its initial honeymoon stage. Those moments are almost always filled with tears of joy, leaving the impression that the reunion and new relationship will lead to a “happily ever after” fairytale scenario. However, throughout the reunion process, the emotional undercurrents of grief, rage, shame, guilt, rejection and abandonment often lurk beneath the surface for both the birth family and the adoptee.

Thankfully today, adoptee rights organizations and social media outlets are creating a deeper awareness of the adoption pain the adult adoptee may face throughout the course of his or her life. Still, in light of the recent string of adoption-related suicides, adoptees are in need of far more resources, guidance and emotional supportive measures as they navigate the search and reunion roller coaster ride.

It is my hope that by sharing this poem, others will see another realistic side of adoption reunion and how that experience may really feel for many grown-up adoptees across the world.

Editor’s Notes:  Enjoy another of Daryn Watson’s poems here on Secret Sons & Daughters: Thanksgiving Reunion ’95

Pictured above is author, Daryn Watson and his paternal natural brother.

Thank you for visiting Secret Sons & Daughters. In addition to stories, you can find valuable resourcesdiscover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page. Comments are always welcome. And we’d love to hear your story. Please subscribe and join our growing community.

Never Will I Know

Thursday, May 29th, 2014

A woman born and raised in England discovers her Northern Irish roots and longs to know the father she was too late to find.

Father – “unknown,” his name is John.
He has blue eyes, just like me, I am told.
To my 5-year-old-self, the mystery of my origins began.

The earliest search started within my heart,
In my imagination,
Searching the faces of strangers,
In the street, in pictures, on television,
Anywhere that I might find the connection,
A deep sense of loss, a yearning, emptiness,
A marrow-deep need to know, and to belong.
There were no words to describe the longing,
Only an intangible feeling, etched in my soul.

His name is John…

And here I stand, not alone, for my brother holds me strong,
Your firstborn son, sharing my grief, bringing me to you,
I am too late, my journey’s end, no more searching, no more hope, just the cold, hard truth.
As frigid as the tombstone before me, you are gone, the dream is over.

Never will I know —
The warmth of your hugs,
Hold my hand in yours,
Hear the sound of your voice, your laughter,
Feel your kisses planted on my head,
The tousle of my hair beneath your fingers,
Your acceptance of me,
Your love for me.

His name is John…

Your headstone majestic, yet humble, in death, as you were in life,
The grief threatens to overwhelm me—my knees buckle beneath me,
You will never be there to catch me when I fall.
Silent tears for all that is lost overwhelm me.

I light four candles at your graveside– beacons of light, of hope,
For the grandchildren you never knew,
Who bear your ancestry, and who live because you did.
My existence denied in death, as in life.
No acknowledgement of me, the relinquished one.
Silently I scream, I am here, I am yours.
No acknowledgement of the loss I feel,
I was your firstborn, the first wain you held in your arms.

His name is John…

I still grieve for you every day.
I live a life full of love and gratitude in deference to you.
Your grandchildren will always be proud of the man you were—
They will respect all that you achieved and acknowledge their heritage,
Even though we are denied and eradicated from your life.

I often wonder…
Did you ever think of me? Did you ever question what became of me?
Did you ever grieve the loss of me?
Would you have protected me from the hurt and shame?
Would you have loved me and accepted me for all that I am?
Will you forgive me for not finding you in time?
Would I have been enough?

His name is John. He is my father. And he is gone…

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.

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Shattered Fantasies and a New Journey: A Young Woman Meets Her Birth Parents

Thursday, May 8th, 2014

[dropcap size=dropcap]M[/dropcap]y incredible parents adopted me in East Tennessee, when I was just two days old. They named me Taylor Rebekka Perry— though they told my birth parents my name was Rebekka in order to protect my identity until I might wish to find them on my own. That wish became a strong desire shortly before my 18th birthday.

My parents gave me their full support, and they understood my reasons for wanting to search. I had always been curious about my family history, where I had come from, and most importantly, why my birth parents had put me up for adoption—which I believe most adoptees can easily relate to.

My uncle (my mom’s brother) had been the attorney who handled my adoption, so I was able to obtain my birth parent’s contact information quickly.

A fresh blanket of snow laid across the ground on the December morning of my long anticipated reunion day.

My boyfriend at the time, accompanied me in an attempt to calm my nerves, but that did little good. My heart raced a mile a minute. I worried if I looked okay, if my hair was okay, and was my breath fresh enough? So many silly thoughts sped through my mind.

We arrived on time to the arranged meeting place: A Cracker Barrel that marked the halfway point between my hometown and my birth parent’s home. I called my uncle. He was already inside the restaurant with my birth parents, letting them know that I was in the parking lot. My uncle came out to greet my boyfriend and me, and he gave me a few moments to catch my breath.

This was it. My boyfriend handed me a Kleenex so that I could wipe the sweat off my hands. I felt out of control, my legs shook, and my voice was small and hoarse.

My uncle took me by the arm and escorted me inside. We slowly walked to a table in the back of the restaurant where my birth parents were already seated.

As we approached them, they immediately stood with their arms stretched out, ready to embrace me. My birth mother hugged me first. I could not believe I was finally in the arms of the woman who had given birth to me.

She was nothing like I pictured her—her hair was much darker than mine, and her body was larger as well. My birth father hugged me next. He towered over me, and with the exception of our matching dark brown eyes, we shared little resemblance.

My uncle quietly slipped away.

My birth parents talked most of the time, filling me in on the past twenty-plus years. I learned that I had a full-blooded sister. A little sister—a full sister—I was shocked!

When they showed me her picture, it was as though I was looking at a younger version of myself. We look almost identical.

Sadly, I also discovered that my younger sister was never told of my existence—I was the “secret daughter”.

After I was born, my parents had stopped seeing each other, and my birth mother believed she had no means to care for me. Eventually, they got back together and married several years later. I was thrilled they had had another child. Even though my boyfriend and my parents did not understand, I was neither angered nor hurt that I was the secret daughter. I felt for my birth parents and I understood their situation at the time.

Still, building a relationship with my birth parents and little sister was a rocky one from the very start, especially with my birth mother. She attempted to control me— always wanting to know where I was, whom I was with, and why it was that I would not answer her calls and texts immediately.

She talked to me about things no mother would ever talk to their daughter about, things like her love life and her dramatic one-night stands. It was disturbing to hear these kinds of things, and unsettling that so many of our conversations had become one-sided.

At one point, I had become so overwhelmed, that my mother stepped in and took over. She told my birth mother that she needed to give me more breathing room.

Two-and-half-years into our relationship, and on the eve of my 21st birthday, my birth mother called to tell me that she and my birth father had separated and would eventually divorce.

After they finalized their divorce, I experienced even more of my birth mother’s deceit and lies. She had falsely claimed both cancer and pregnancy, and she had stolen money from my sister. She told my sister that she regretted knowing me and tried to turn her against me. My birth mother proved to burn me time and time again.

Naturally, I started to distance myself from her, and in January of this year, I finally sent her an email that outlined my true feelings. I never heard back from her.

For almost four years, I allowed myself to be sucked into an unhealthy relationship with her. It took much soul-searching, but I finally realized that having this woman in my life was bringing me down and keeping me from growing in an emotionally positive way. My birth mother has hurt others so much more than she has ever helped anyone.

I never imagined my reunion would end up like this. It brings on tears of deep pain.

Maybe I was too immature when I made the decision to reunite with my birth family, or maybe I set my expectations too high. Either way, I fell for the fantasy—a fantasy that I had come from a wonderful woman who had given me life, was perfect, beautiful, smart, strong and independent. The tarnished reality and finding out that she was not who I had hoped her to be, has broken my heart.

My birth parents have been divorced for over a year now. My birth father is grappling with many of the same things I am, and he and I are working on building a strong and healthy relationship.

My younger sister and I have fallen on patchy times. It’s hard to know what lies she was told, and she is too young for me to sort that out for her. She will have to make her own decisions in time about me and about our mother.

My birth father tries to point my sister’s thoughts in the right direction and only time will tell where all this will lead.

I am flooded with regret and sorrow for no longer having the woman I had fantasized about for 18 years in my life. Sometimes I think my life would’ve been easier if I had made the choice to leave well enough alone, but when I dig deeper, I am glad that I searched.

I’m glad I know where I came from. I’m glad I know my history, I’m glad to have a beautiful little sister, and I’m glad to have a relationship with my birth father.

I’ve also learned that I’m a much stronger person than I ever thought I could be. I hope and pray that down the road my relationship with my birth mother will mend, but I have come to terms with the knowledge that it may not, and I am okay with that. My sister is still young, and I feel that with time and work, our bond as sisters will grow stronger.

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.

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A Michigan Adoptee Reflects on the Concept of Choice

Tuesday, April 29th, 2014

[dropcap size=dropcap]T[/dropcap]en years ago this month, the phone rang at 7 a.m. That was my first indication that it was bad news—nobody ever calls that early with good news.

“Are you sitting down? You better sit down,” said Jenifer, my sister-in-law. “There’s been an accident. Cristi is dead.”

My predominant reaction to the news was confusion. Cristi was my 36-year-old full biological sister, 14 months younger than me, and a sister I’d only known for 15 years.

I was adopted in 1966 as an infant, in a closed adoption. I met Cristi when I reunited with my birth family in 1988. A year-and-a-half after we had met, we were both surprised to learn that we were full sisters.

Apparently, my birth mother met my birth father secretly six months after my birth, and as a result of that encounter, Cristi was born. Our birth mother went on to marry another man, one her family approved of, and he raised Cristi as his own. She grew up believing he was her father, that is, until I came into the picture.

I should be really sad about losing Cristi, I thought when the news of her passing settled in. I pretended that I was. Don’t get me wrong, on one level I was sad. Christi was young, she had two small children, and this was a tragedy. I had had little history in common with her—no shared memories of growing up together—only our genes. We were not close.

Like many adoptees, I spent my life denying, repressing, and stuffing my feelings, and even medicating them when all else failed. Expressing my feelings, I thought, might destroy me.

I had received society’s message to be grateful because I was special and chosen. I was supposed to feel lucky that my parents had adopted me. Other children, in an attempt to be sympathetic, would remark that their parents were “stuck” with them. Being adopted made me special and chosen? Who wouldn’t be grateful for that?

But in my heart and in my gut, I knew that something terrible had happened to me, even though no one spoke of it. No one ever said: “I am sorry you couldn’t stay with your mother.”

If I had allowed myself to grieve that loss, it would have overwhelmed me. I believed that had I protested or expressed my feelings openly, then my adoptive parents might’ve rejected me and left too. That would have destroyed me.

In time, however, my denial mechanism became a hindrance. From the beginning, the setup was for me to fit what others needed, not for me to discover what fit me.

Therefore, I had developed no internal radar, and very little clarity on who I was or how I truly felt. When I was younger, I accepted jobs that I didn’t care for only because they were offered, and I ended up in too many relationships with men that were not right for me, simply because they had expressed an interest in me.

So there I was with a dead biological sister and great uncertainty about how to grieve.

I went to the funeral home, along with my birth family and pretended to be devastated. I cried. I hugged my family as they grieved my sister’s death. I tried to be one of them just like I had since my reunion.

I sat around a table at the funeral home with my birth mother, my brother, and Cristi’s husband, and helped with the obituary wording.

What the hell am I doing here? Why did they include me? I dont belongI hardly even knew her.

I kept those thoughts inside, ignored my feelings and tried, as always, to fit in. And part of me felt grateful to be included. I felt privileged to finally be in this family that I had been banished from decades earlier.

Three days later, after I had returned home from Cristi’s funeral, my then-husband met me at the door. “You better sit down. Your brother just called. Your father died.”

My adoptive father, whom I had been to Arizona to visit two weeks prior, had dropped dead from a stroke at the age of 79.

The feelings came fast and hard. I felt clear—no ambiguity this time, and it tore right through me. I dropped to the floor and sobbed.

The truth is though; I was not close to my adoptive father, either. He was a good person, well liked, but not a very good father. He was aloof, distant, unengaged, and often, he didn’t seem to care much about me, yet the pain I felt was real and genuine.

Ironically, one of the things I remember most about his funeral was when my adoptive mother told me not to cry.

I was about to board a plane back to Michigan and I was worried about leaving her alone, without my father. My tears would not stop. She patted me on the shoulder and said, “Oh now, don’t cry.”

I thought Jesus Christ, if Im not even allowed to cry now, when my father has died, will there ever be a time when it is okay for me to cry? But, good little adoptee that I was—I denied my feelings and I stopped crying.

That was a pivotal time in my life, and a very complicated one. Many things were changing, most of all me. I had two young daughters, my marriage was falling apart, and I was transitioning from an agency job to begin a private practice as a clinical social worker. It was a time I learned about choices.

A year later, I ended contact with my birth family. I was tired of pretending. I had already spent a lifetime doing that with my adoptive family, and that added stress had become too much to bear. The realization that I could never be privy to the memories that they shared was excruciating.

I had always felt sad after being with them for holidays and birthdays. After one visit in particular, my husband asked, “If you were not biologically related to these people, would you have anything to do with them?”

“Absolutely not,” I replied with certainty.

“Then don’t,” he said.

“That’s really an option?”  I asked.

“Of course it is.”

In my mind, choosing my family relationships was never an option. Being adopted had meant that others decide whom I call family.

I had an epiphany last year when I read someone’s post in an online adoptee support group that I participate in. It said: “I did not ask to be adopted, nor did I want to be adopted. The whole thing did not work out very well for me at all. I do not owe anybody anything.”

Wow.

It was as though my blinders had been removed. I realized that I no longer had to try to navigate my very complicated relationship with my adoptive mother. I have always felt like I owed her something because she had taken me in and raised me.

All of my life, I had desperately struggled to fit with her, despite her callousness and emotional abuse, and I beat the hell out of myself when I did not. I would’ve never chosen to have a casual friendship with a person like my adoptive mother— much less have chosen her as a parent. Given the choice, I would have remained with my birth family—my clan.

I once read a quote by the Reverend Keith C. Griffith, MBE that said: “Adoption is the only trauma in the world where the victim is expected by the whole of society to be grateful.”

Today, after years of grappling with that trauma, I carefully choose who is part of my family—they are a select and exclusive few. The requirements for membership are simple: you must truly love, appreciate and unconditionally accept me for exactly who I am— and not who you need me to be; authenticity and genuineness are required; and trust is a must.

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 our Secret Sons & Daughters collection. 

An Ohio Adoptee Finds Her Way Home to Herself

Saturday, April 12th, 2014

Nine months before I was born, my parents had a son who only lived for one day. They had had another son four years prior. My mother had a RH—negative blood factor. Back in the early 1960s, that usually meant that a woman couldn’t have any more “natural” children. My parents desperately wanted a second child, so they turned to adoption, and took me home when I was three-months-old.

From a young age, I knew I was adopted. My parents told me I was “special.” For a long while, I thought that was true.

I’m not sure when I began to feel differently—maybe it was when I saw my pregnant relatives, or when I had to listen to my other well-meaning ones say, “You weren’t in your mommy’s tummy like that baby is.” Maybe I felt differently when I wrote about my family tree in elementary school, or brought baby pictures to share with my classmates. Maybe it was all of the above.

I often wondered, Why was I given away? Yet, I never spoke of my adoption to anyone. I wanted to be like everyone else. I felt like I didn’t belong. Sometimes, that feeling was even reinforced. At a family reunion, one of my cousins told me that I didn’t belong in their family tree, and that they weren’t sure where they were going to “put me.” I felt like telling her to go to hell.

It didn’t help that my brother never liked me. Almost weekly he told me to go back to where I had come from. I don’t think he ever got over the death of his baby brother, and he blamed me. He was further challenged, and angry, after a severe case of measles left him mildly brain damaged.

My adoptive parents didn’t know how to effectively deal with the situation and sought counseling to help us both. As he grew older, my brother became an alcoholic and was in and out a jail several times. We reconciled shortly before he passed away in 1996.

After he died, I decided to search for my birth parents. I had had my own children by that time and was curious. My original birth certificate was inaccessible because I was born in Ohio in 1964. Nonetheless, I posted what little information I had on an adoption search website. A month after I posted, a woman contacted me by email and offered help. She charged $25 to search for records and mail them to me.

She found three possible birth mothers and I researched each one. After I ruled out the first two, I knew the third had to be connected to me. The woman who originally helped me indicated that this third woman had since had other children.

I didn’t live far from the county where I was born, so I traveled there and went to the Hall of Records where I was able to find birth certificates for two of her children. After that, I had enough information to go to the courthouse and search for information that might confirm my own identity.

The courthouse was full of temporary walls and half-constructed hallways. It felt like I was in a maze. I asked a female employee where to find marriage records. She asked if I was doing “genealogy research” and pointed me in the right direction. We joked about how long the construction might take, and I shared that my own office was going through the same process.

Using the information from the birth certificates that I’d just bought, I was delighted to find a marriage record for one of the (now grown) babies. I returned home, looked up the phone number, and chickened out when I tried to call.

My husband called instead, after I left for work, and contacted me several hours later to say he had talked to the woman, Melissa. Melissa said she didn’t think that I could be her sister, but agreed to talk to me if I called.

When we spoke, she said that my voice sounded just like her aunt. Sadly, the other baby whose certificate I had found, Melissa’s sister Melinda, had passed away when she was a child.

Before we hung up, Melissa promised to ask her mom for information and call back. The next 24 hours were agonizing. The next night she called and said: “YOU ARE MY SISTER!”

I asked Melissa to have my birth mother contact me when she was ready. I didn’t want to pressure her. Several days later, my birth mother, Janet, called. We talked, we cried, and then we agreed to meet.

I learned that she was a widow with six children at the time she met my birth father. Her first husband had died tragically in a car accident the year before. My birth father had been separated from his wife when they began their relationship, and he ended it when he learned of my birth mother’s pregnancy. He reconciled with his wife and moved to another state.

She had nowhere else to turn. Janet explained that her mother had said, “You have six kids, for heaven’s sake—you don’t need another one.” And that was that. She had given me an “M” name too: Michelle Ann.

Not long after this conversation, I was on my way to meet her and realized that I had passed her house many times before. My heart was pounding. I got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the front porch. Janet had been watching out the window and quickly opened the door. She took me into her arms, hugged me tightly and said, “You look just like the rest of us!” I was 39-years-old and felt like I had finally come home.

Her home was a century-old farmhouse that had been lovingly restored. I stepped inside to find the wallpaper in her front room was the same as I’d used in my foyer. I followed her into the kitchen and there at the table sat the courthouse employee, who had giving me directions a week before.

Did I break the law? What was she doing here? I thought. She looked up and said, “When I saw you at the courthouse, I thought you looked familiar.” Days later, she told Janet about “the woman who had come in to do family research.”

Life is funny— it turns out that that this woman is my birth brother’s wife.

That summer was a blur of familial meetings—I met brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews. I was my mother’s seventh child. She had three more children after me, and she had lost three husbands and two children. I was the only child she had placed for adoption.

Relinquishing a child for adoption doesn’t just hurt the child. I learned that a birth mother carries that pain with her for the rest of her life. I had been born exactly one year after my cousin, and every year on my birthday, Janet painfully remembered that I was celebrating my birthday with another family.

When I first met her, she gave me all the information needed to find my birth father. I contacted him a year later by phone. Five years after that initial contact, I received a phone call from a woman named Candi. She said that her father had told her about me, but her mother would not allow him to remain in contact. Candi and I corresponded often and she eventually helped me meet him, albeit it was only once. He looked at me and said, “Not too shabby.”

He passed away two years ago. Candi and I have kept in touch ever since. Another sister never wanted anything to do with me.

Before I began this journey, I was angry for many years. I was angry at my birth parents for giving me away. I was angry with my adoptive parents for adopting me; and I was angry with people who grew up in “normal” families.

Once I found my birth family, I moved past the anger, and am now a much happier person. I have wonderful relationships with my birth mother and siblings, albeit I think adopted children never quite fully fit into either family. I didn’t grow up with them, so we don’t share the same memories, and they can’t identify with the life that I had, since I grew up in the suburbs and they grew up on a farm.

My adoptive parents met my birth mother, too, and welcomed her into our family. In 2003, four years after my reunion, my father passed away. My mother passed in 2009.

From where I stand today, only one remaining thing angers me about my adoption—when I first searched for my birth family, I had to petition the courts to get my original birth record and I was denied.

I’m not the only one who has suffered. There are millions of us in the United States who have no access to this most basic of possessions —a birth certificate. I’m very thankful that Ohio has moved forward and will soon allow adoptees access to their pasts.

Image credit: Molly as a child with her family.

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 our Secret Sons & Daughters collection. 

California Adoptee Finds His First Mother

Friday, January 31st, 2014

In this Secret Son story, Jason Clawson recounts his early years with his adoptive parents, and how he met his birth/first mother.

In 1972 my first grade teacher threatened to call my mother if I continued to tell her and my classmates that I was adopted.  She thought that I couldn’t be adopted because I couldn’t explain what “adopted” meant.  When I insisted that my mom had told me I was adopted, my teacher called her during class playtime. After several minutes, my teacher hung up, walked over, gave me a hug, and apologized for not believing me.

I don’t remember the day I grasped the full meaning of adoption. I knew I was loved, and how I arrived to my family didn’t really matter to me. I was where I was supposed to be.

My parents lived in Downey, California and had tried unsuccessfully to have children for five years. They had discussed adoption but originally neither was in favor of it. Then one evening, a friend from my parents’ church called and said there was a newborn boy in San Diego available for adoption. “Are you interested?” he asked. Perhaps if my father had taken the call I would have ended up elsewhere, but fortunately my mother answered the phone that night, and immediately replied: “We’ll take him!”  A few days later, my parents met my birth mother, Sandy, and me.

Sandy lived in Phoenix, Arizona. At age 18, she unexpectedly found herself in a family-way.  Her parents couldn’t believe their daughter had shamed their family by getting pregnant. Her father threw a chair at her. Sandy’s parents sent her to San Diego to live with her older brother and his wife. The plan was that she’d deliver me, then give me up for adoption. She didn’t hear from her parents once during her time in San Diego. She had signed an agreement with an adoption agency and the agency had selected a family.

After I was born, however, Sandy rescinded the agreement and decided to do the one motherly act remaining to her—find the right family and give me to them herself. I’ve since learned, Sandy’s decision did not ingratiate her to the hospital staff or adoption agency.  They became quite hostile and tried to coerce her to sign the adoption agreement.

Nevertheless, about two weeks after my birth, my soon-to-be parents Jim and Jeannette, drove from Downey to San Diego only days after receiving their friend’s call.  They had no crib, no diapers, no clothes, no formula—nothing.  Now that I have children of my own, it’s difficult to imagine two people less prepared to receive a baby.

As Sandy spoke with my parents, they learned that my birth father, “Milt,” had denied fathering me and wanted nothing to do with me.  After a time, and apparently pre-assured by her attorney’s vetting of my parents, Sandy handed me to my mother and told her, “I believe you’re the couple that should have my baby.”  On that day, Jim and Jeannette became my parents. They drove back to Downey, me in my new mother’s arms.

With news spreading that a third passenger was on the return trip, my grandmothers sprang into action, buying bottles, diapers, blankets and clothes. Still, not everything was in place for my arrival. I spent the first weeks sleeping in a dresser drawer.

Three baby showers later, and my parents were well stocked and learning about their new son. My mother’s pregnancy cut that time short though. My sister Courtney joined the family ten months after my birth.  Since Courtney and I were similar in size, and both had blonde hair and blue eyes, many thought we were twins. I like to think that my arrival opened the way for Courtney, and for my sister Brooke, and brother Brett.  Had Courtney’s journey into the family started two weeks earlier, I would be living somewhere else with a different life and a different name. Thank you for waiting, Court.

Sometimes I look at my ten-year-old son and know exactly what he’s thinking because in many ways he’s like me.  My parents weren’t afforded that and now that I’m a parent myself I wonder if they had an easier time connecting with my sisters and brother. Similarities or not though, I always knew that I was loved.

I had a normal childhood. I made friends, got along with my sisters and brother, and tended to be protective of them. Occasionally, I pointed out to my sisters that they shared Mom’s genes and were destined to turn out just like her.  It’s remarkable what an insult that can be to sisters.

Not knowing anything about my own genes and heritage allowed me to be the descendent of whatever my imagination could conjure. Before I met Sandy, I thought it would be nice if she knew that I’d turned out okay and that she’d made the right decision. Not surprisingly, I never had any interest in knowing Milt.

As I grew into adulthood, I was reminded that I was adopted each time someone remarked how much I looked like my father. Indeed, most people thought I looked more like my parents than my siblings. I’ve often thought that it’s amazing that an entire family can find ways to resemble the adopted child. Even my personality was often compared to my personable Grandpa Delwin, a US Congressman.

I married in my mid 30’s and my wife and I had a son 14-months later.  It was when, to my complete surprise, our marriage abruptly ended that I began to think about Sandy. When you go through a divorce that you didn’t see coming, there are a few ways you can react. I’d witnessed several unproductive reactions through the divorces of close friends. I decided I needed a positive outlet and distraction, so I began researching my adoptive family’s genealogy.  It turned out that much of it had been completed. The only way I was going to distract myself with a genealogy project was if worked on my biological family’s tree. I was ready for the journey. First step: find Sandy.

My parents were supportive. My mother gave me the name of the hospital where I was born. I knew the name I’d been given at birth, my birth date, and I knew Sandy’s maiden name.  I hired Colleen, who specializes in California adoption searches. I sent her the information. Ten days later, Colleen had located Sandy.  Sandy was married and living in Bellingham, Washington.

On March 16, 2006, I sent Sandy a letter via FedEx, which required signature confirmation.

“Dear Sandra,

 I hope you’re sitting.  Perhaps for some time you’ve wondered if you’d ever hear from me.  On September 2, 1967, I was born in a San Diego hospital and named Steven Grant Meyer. I have reason to believe that you are my birth mother.  I hope that you are, because I have so much that I’d like to share with you.

 Most importantly, know that I love you and that you made the right decision in giving me to my mother and father.  They have showered me with love and if my mom’s story is correct, that you felt that they were the couple that was meant to receive your son, know that you were absolutely right.  If this is the only communication we have, let this letter comfort you in that knowledge.

 Because part of me comes from you, I’m certain that this letter is bringing back a flood of memories.  My parents never hid from me the circumstances of your situation and I have never, ever questioned your choice.  To the contrary, I have been forever thankful…”

The letter ended with my contact information. Perhaps most adopted children are forced to face the many different ways sending a letter to a biological parent may play out. I wanted to be careful not to upset whatever life Sandy had. I knew she was married, but didn’t know if her husband knew of me. I had no fear of rejection because I viewed finding Sandy as a possible bonus to my life and perhaps comfort to hers. I’ve found that adopted girls seem to have a greater desire to understand the “whys” of having been placed for adoption than do boys.

A day later, the online FedEx confirmation read “Delivered.” Two weeks went by with no reply. I figured the letter might have gone to the wrong Sandy, or it made it to the correct Sandy and she either didn’t want contact, or she didn’t know how to reply. It turned out to be none of those reasons.

Sandy had been on vacation when the delivery person left the envelope on her porch. Sandy and her husband, David, had gone through the mail and left it on the table thinking it was from a salesperson. I’d addressed it to “Sandra,” not knowing that she went by “Sandy.”  She finally read it. She told me that she gasped when she read the letter, and David asked if she was okay. Rather than answer him, she re-read the letter and then silently handed it to David. The next day, Sandy sent me an e-mail reply: “Dear Jason, yes I am your birth mother…”

Photo provided by Jason Clawson.

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.

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