Thank you, Mom

     Last Thanksgiving morning I held my Mom's hand as she journeyed to Heaven. 

It still doesn't seem real. 

(Originally published on 6/7/09)

     Mom has always been there for me.   

I marvel at her strength, inspiration, and tenacity, even through many medical problems in her older age.

She worked long, faithful hours for over 20 years at the same company.  She put me through college as a single parent. 


She has been my biggest encourager, and helped me believe in myself...because she believed in me. 
 

 A couple of years ago in December, she fell and hit her head on a step, and was in ICU for a week.  Laying in the hospital bed, barely able to speak, she motioned for me to bend down close...and asked me to go to the store for her and buy my son a Lego wagon she had seen advertised. 
She wanted him to have it for Christmas.  He still loves that wagon he got from his Grandma. 

When Mom went through a stem-cell transplant in 1998, she always kept a smile, even through weeks in the hospital.  I look back and cherish that time I spent with her. 

At the exact moment the stem-cells (blood transfusion) began, a song came on the radio in her room entitled, "There Is Power In The Blood". 

We all took notice and thanked God ~ she was healed from that day forward. 

My Mom is an eternal optimist and loved by many.

She gets her energy from helping others. 
It has been frustrating for me to see her neglect herself and her rest, health, and emotional healing, to be an eternal "caretaker" of others. 
She is depressed right now because she can't go to the senior center and help the "old people". 

 

She has been in the hospital for several weeks and although we finally found a doctor who is running the necessary tests that should have been done immediately, my Mom is tired.

And I am grieving to see her like this.

I regret so much. 
The times (even just a few months ago) when she would knock on my front door unexpectedly, and I would have a twinge of feeling "put out" at an inconvenient time. 
Now I cry for her to be able to do that again.

We have had to forgive each other a lot because we are very different in personality.
My Mom's out-going personality smothered me as a shy, quiet, insecure little girl.
She talked about me incessantly, causing me to retreat farther into my shell.

 

Unfortunately, neither of us got the "memo" about the needs of adopted children.

 We struggled. But we never, ever stopped loving.
 

Thank you, Mom, for letting me find myself.   

Mom is having yet more tests run tomorrow. Please pray for her strength to get through this, for the doctors to find out what is wrong and be able to help her regain her strength. She is a cancer-survivor, and they have ruled out all re-occurance. They found severe ulcers (completely missed by doctors just a month ago), which are finally being treated.
She is very discouraged and tired after a long ordeal.
My grandmother did this in her "older" age and then regained her health and lived to be 92 years old.

 

    Lord, please bless my Mom. Fill her with peace and healing and strength.
Give her your comfort right now and protect her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

This was originally written in 2009. 

My Mom did recover and went on to marry at 80 years of age. 
She had two beautiful years with her husband.  They both passed away 9 months apart last year.
Our last conversation, when we both knew her time was short, taught me much.

We realized...
 None of our human foibles or misunderstandings mattered any more. 
Only the love we had always kept in our hearts. 
The important thing was that we were there. 
We never gave up on each other.

I reminded her, "He will surely make everything right".

The bitter tears after an unfair divorce and the loneliness and fatigue she endured as a single parent.  The painful disease that tried to take her life.  Even the hurts her heart still carried from childhood.  None of it mattered anymore;  she wanted to see her Savior face to face. 
The One who loved her and would never forsake.
The faithful One who had been her Father, Husband, Provider and Protector. And mine as well.
       
When the nurses came in to ask if she knew she was in the hospital, she would say,

"I'm with Sam"  

And my tears would flow. 
I realized we had given each other a beautiful gift. 
His presence had healed our hearts to the point that we could be truly present with each other. 

We spent our last days together doing what we loved.
In the hospital gift shop, we would peruse the lovely trinkets and comment on their meaning or significance.  They would remind us of a story and we would reminisce.

Our eyes were drawn to a beautiful plaque that now graces my living room wall.  

"Be Still...and Know that I am God"

  

When she felt well enough, I would bundle her up in a soft blanket
and we would stroll outside among the bright yellow autumn leaves.  They were so delicate.  
I realized how fragile life was during those times. 
And what a beautiful gift our presence is for each other. 
I never wanted to regret another thing. 
But enjoy and embrace every moment with my family and friends, from that point forward.

What I didn't realize was how deeply the pain of grief would affect me. 
With every loss we encounter, it triggers deeper losses that seem unbearable.  
We close off our hearts and put up walls we think are protective,
when really, they are suffocating us.
We spend our time distracted and numb, because it hurts too much to feel.
We feel broken. 

A grieving heart is at risk of becoming bitter. 
 
Every day surrounded by families who all look alike and support one other...
enjoying a "normal" life without the mess of reunion, radiology, and obituaries. 
Or overwhelming memories of such.

    This year has been hard for me. 
A year of isolation and sadness.  
        
I've felt orphaned.

My Pastor recently spoke of the story of Jacob and Esau.
When Esau's birthright was stolen by his brother, Jacob, he was hurt and angry.
Yet through the years, instead of allowing the pain to close his heart towards God, he trusted.
And God Himself took care of him.
Later, when he and Jacob were reunited, they ran toward each other and embraced.
They felt as if they were seeing God's very face. 
 
They blessed each other.

Lord, please help me trust You to be my Father, and take care of me.
Help me forgive everyone that has hurt me, and bless them.
Give others the grace to forgive me, as well.
Turn our hearts to You and fill us with peace, love and joy again.

Help me live life with no regrets.
Thank you, Mom, for teaching me this. 
I miss you so much.
I love you. 

Bitter Winds ~ A Day of Remembrance

 

 

My First Mother, Norma Carol, was born on 9/11 in 1947. 
Today would be her 69th birthday. 

 

She gave birth to me as a young, unwed mother in 1968 and was one of the first to join the ALMA Registry (Adoptee's Liberation Movement) looking for her "son". 

She was told by the hospital staff and attorney, after going through a difficult labor and c-section that she had given birth to a boy. 

 

 In truth, she actually had a daughter, who, indeed, did come back, 10 years too late to meet her (again) this side of eternity. 

 

I still haven't been able to obtain birth records from the hospital, even though I needed this important information for my own medical care during pregnancy. 

Even with a court-order and doctor's request I am still waiting. 

 

As I watch the 9/11 memorials on television, I cry for the victims of a horrible act of terror, and for my Mother. 

 

It has taken several years of slowly unthawing from the nothingness I felt inside after finding my Grandmother and hearing my Mother's story.

On my own birthday a few years ago I was driving alone, listening to the radio, when a beautiful lullaby I had never heard came over the waves. 

 

It was Bette Midler singing "Baby of Mine" and the tears flowed again ~

 this time they were tears of acceptance.

 

I could finally embrace the love I knew my Mother had for me all along,

and the strong connection we share. 

I miss her.

I post this link in her memory - "Bitter Winds"

~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zvO75R-QrqA ~

The Shadow Self

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
Psalm 34:18

Originally posted on October 22, 2007

I went to church yesterday and came home with 3 different "revelations" of God's love.  

They all pertain to adoption issues, because my entire life is affected by them.
I even danced with my own shadow.

The first happened during praise/worship ~ the regular worship leader was not there because her Mother had just passed away this week after a long battle with leukemia. She had lived for many, many years longer than the doctors predicted and she had a wonderful quality of life with her children/grandchildren for years through God's sustaining power.

Half-way through praise & worship I saw Aimee come in and immediately she walked up to the front row (it was dark in our church during song time) and approached the senior pastors. They saw her coming and put their arms out in big all-consuming hugs and kisses over her, just holding her and letting her cry. It was very touching, as I saw the love of this couple envelope this young praise leader and bring comfort and unconditional love over her while she was grieving. I began to cry....and then it hit me.

Adoptees lose their mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins (their very identity and place in their God-given family). 
They lose everything their lives revolved around and identified with ~ the only place, the only love they ever knew, felt, smelled, and was enveloped by, in complete warmth. 

But adoptees are probably NEVER, NOT ONCE, given a hug of comfort for this devastating loss we all carry inside our entire lives. We are not validated or accepted for who we truly are ~ we are only given acceptance as the ones we are engineered by adoption to be ~ our adopted selves. 
Our adoptive identities, lives, families. 

We go through life completely numb/shut-off to the PAIN of losing our very selves as connected to our mothers and family line, our first and most significant love, truth and self.

I so yearned to be able to run into the arms of real people as I stood there in church crying over the loss of my own Mother and all she represents. 
To receive the same immediate acknowledgement of my pain, validation, and comfort. 

Aimee wasn't afraid to run to the front of the church, the light, and receive unconditional love ~ she knew grieving was necessary and accepted because of losing her beloved Mother. It was expected and completely understood.

Adoptees emotionally sit at the back, in the dark, scared to feel, because they receive a sentence of life-long shame and unacknowledgement ~ if they DARE look deeper into their own feelings and tap, even lightly, into the pain.

  No one in society is comfortable with this pain ~ because ADOPTION is the big cure-all, the blessing, the win-win, the building of a family
~ FROM THE DESTRUCTION OF ANOTHER ~ THE DESTRUCTION OF IDENTITY ~ an amended birth certificate, parents who did not birth, names erased and re-invented ~ and pasts erased ~ at least legally. 
All at a huge price.

NOTHING can erase the spiritual reality, the emotional reality and connections within a human being to their lineage, their core, their pain.

Aimee, I cried for your loss today. And on the backrow, I cried for mine as well. I lost my Mother, too ~ twice ~ and I know how it feels. 
Bless you, my friend.

The Best Advice I Ever Got...

 

 

Came from my Mother(s)...

{Left to me as part of my First Mother's china collection}

***************************************************

 

 

{A gift from my Mom to my husband and I on our Anniversary}

Sacred Journeys

“There's a story behind everything..but behind all your stories is always your mother's story..because hers is where yours begins.”
~ Mitch Albom, For One More Day

(originally posted in 2013

In her book, "The Sound of Hope", Anne Bauer wrote...

"The day I found out I had two mothers I was cut in half. One half of myself resided here with my family, and the other half was lost, lost to a shadowy woman floating somewhere out there...You see, I'm adopted."

Growing up, I never let myself think about my natural mother, so when I began dreaming about her as an adult ~ that began a whole new journey. With the blessing of my family, I searched and found her in my early 20's.
It was her mother, my Grandmother Carolyn, who shared the devastating news that my mother had passed away while also searching for me. Her name was Norma Carol.

 I was born Baby Girl Lowe, during the 60's when young, unwed mothers endured great shame ~ "The Baby Scoop Era".  They were told that giving up their babies for adoption would somehow redeem them...and us as well. They were supposed to "forget" and "move on" but most never could, including my Mother.

 She wasn't allowed to see or hold me after giving birth and was led to believe she had given birth to a boy.

I spent most of my 20's numb; stuffing disenfranchised grief.   Especially when my Mom who raised me was diagnosed with the same type of cancer that took Norma's life. Suddenly I was terrified of losing both my Mothers to this horrid disease.

Mom not only endured months of chemo and radiation, but also a bone marrow transplant...never losing faith and teaching me important lessons about perseverance and trust. We just celebrated her 82nd birthday, and 15 years as a survivor.

In my 30's, I connected with other adoptees and first Mom's and began to hear their stories.  And dreaming again of my First Mother.

One of those dreams is so special...

I found myself in Norma's living room staring out her window.  There to my surprise, was the familiar site of my childhood neighborhood.

When I turned around, she was there, and I realized my Mother had been with me all along.  She reached out, took me in her arms and held me...whispering beautiful words into my ear, preparing me for life.

Then she said..."You know, Samantha, I can't complete you..." and her voice trailed off.  At this, my heart sank when she pulled away, picked up her things and walked out the door. The little girl in me stood sobbing, helpless....trying so hard to "wish" her back.

Her embrace somehow remained a part of me. I felt stronger, bigger...even through the unbearable sadness of watching her go. It was then that I noticed...there, on the table, she had left her keys.  I knew I would see her again, even if in eternity.

It is interesting that, even though I'm now a Mother myself, I am still seen as a perpetual child in the eyes of adoption law.  Adoptees are the only US citizens denied access to their original record of birth. 

Like a fellow adoptee named Moses, hiding in the desert; this dream was, for me, truly a "burning bush" experience.

 When Moses asked God, "Who am I?", God said, "I AM the God of YOUR fathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob." He restored his identity and his lineage. 

Then God said, "Take off your shoes...(mine even had names ~ Fear and Shame)...for the ground YOU stand on IS Holy.  He finally believed.

Our journeys are sacred, and that makes our very lives, and those we journey with, sacred as well.

Moses found his destiny ....a purpose, only fulfilled as he journeyed back to the place of his birth.

My Uncle Ronnie says that my son reminds him a lot of Norma Carol. Life somehow has a way of coming full circle.

Bitter-Sweet Surprises

(Originally published in 2009)


Since my Mom's fall and move to assisted living, I have been busy cleaning out her house ~ the same house I grew up in.
It is surreal to go back all these years later and revisit childhood memories.

I have found some sweet surprises in the midst of the clutter. One thing I found really made me smile. It was a small wallet-size photo album filled with pictures of me growing up.
Thinking it was my Mom or Grandmother's (Nanny), I started leafing through the pictures and surprisingly found my Aunt Kay's old AARP card in it. I realized it was hers and then pulled out a folded-up, yellowed paper. It was so neat to unwrap this small surprise and find a poem written in her own handwriting.

Aunt Kay passed away in 1984, when I was in the tenth grade. It was a traumatic three years watching my Nanny (her twin sister) walk right beside her as she battled cancer. Aunt Kay was a beautician and I spent many a day in her "shop" on Florence doing my nails and hearing her little gray-headed clients tell stories of yesteryear. She gave me my first hair-cut.

 

I so looked forward to her annual New Year's Party. If I try real hard, I can still smell the delicious appetizers, and feel the tickle of sparkling Cold Duck. I remember the low drone of football roaring from the living room tv. Uncle Olan would somehow make sure my favorite number #10 was the winning football team in the annual "pot" and every year I believed them when they exclaimed how "lucky" I was. Isn't it amazing what memories stay with you from childhood? 
 It saddens me that my son will know hardly anyone from my adoptive family.
Only his Grandma is left, and some wonderful cousins who live out of state. 

After my reunion, I marvelled at the fact my first Mother was ALWAYS within a few miles of me my whole childhood.

She adored all kinds of animals and always wanted to live in the open where she could enjoy many around her.  Little did I know (this little animal lovin' adoptee ~ remind me to write about my one and only detention in H.S., due to illegal posting of PETA posters on all the bulletin boards), that all the while I was a preteen, busy exploring (among other things) my Aunt Hazel and Uncle Dean's new acreage and homestead in Collinsville, that my first Mother was living just a few miles north in Ramona.

I spent a lot of time at my best friend's house by the elementary school we attended, never knowing that her Dad, L.D., worked at the carrier company my first grandfather, Papa Sid helped establish just a few blocks away. How many times did my first family and I pass each other on the old Admiral "traffic circle" over the years? Or were in the same store. The old TG&Y my Nanny managed or Borden's Cafeteria?

The first time I laid eyes on my Grandmother Carolyn (the first birth relative I met, my first Mother's mom), we had immediately decided to meet at that first phone call, and the closest place we could think of was the Grandy's where I had worked all through high school.   Never realizing she lived less than a mile away and frequented the restaurant regularly.  She also used to get her hair done at Aunt Kay's house occasionally.   

Finding out things about my first Mother gave me goose bumps ~ like how we shared the same favorite color, love for animals and writing, and we both attended "beauty school" (although my lame 11th grade vo-tech attempt only lasted a couple of days, when I found myself an official "beauty school drop-out" realizing real quick it was going to be a lot harder than learning how to "just cut hair" lol).  My First Mother's grandfather (my Great-Grandfather Ernie Terrell) owned a barber shop on Cherry Street and was friends with Uncle Olan (from my adoptive family) who owned Anchor Barber shop on Harvard. 

The "synchronicity" in adoption is truly amazing. Almost mind-blowing when you let yourself think about it. Treasured pieces of information that help define who I am. Yet having to wait until adulthood to find one tidbit here, another there, rationed over the years of my reunion.
No matter how much I learn, I still yearn for more.

I so wish I could sit down with my first family yet again (even 20 years in) and pour over every detail and morsel of their lives and mine.

This process of reunion is so painful that most of the time adoptees and first families take it in tiny increments and then back away emotionally, trying to integrate and survive the loss they experience, even in reunion. Like the waves of the sea, waxing and waning.

After finding out my first Mother passed away so young, another memory came back to me ~ attending a funeral in 6th grade of the mother of one of my girl scout friends. The most disturbing part of this vague memory is hearing the constant, judgmental criticism coming from some of the other Mothers about my friend and several other girls who apparently "had the nerve to 'play' at her own mother's funeral."  This little girl was coping the only way she knew how.

For some reason that really made an impact on me and bothered me a lot. But I didn't know why.

As an adult looking back on this, and now knowing that my own first Mother's funeral was literally taking place around this same time, right around the corner, it really hurts. 

These women had no idea what this young girl had gone through losing her mother so young and really shouldn't have gone on and on about her behavior, no matter what she was doing.

Maybe the reason this memory has bothered me so much, is that it finally hit me that, in a sense, adoptees are actually EXPECTED to "play" at our own Mother's funerals. Society gives us little freedom or validation to appropriately grieve losing that profound connection and how it permanently alters our very identity, emotions, childhood, and life-long experiences. Instead, we find ourselves in hiding, behind plastered-on-smiles at "Gotcha Day" PARTIES, complete with streamers, balloons, and cake.

 

All these memories came back to me after I carefully unfolded this tiny, yellowing paper tucked away in the photo book. It seems like God uses little reminders to guide me gently through bitter-sweet memories ~ even though I sometimes feel like a stranger in a foreign land.

Here are the beautiful words I read and continue to bring comfort: (Thank you, Aunt Kay)

"God is no stranger in a far away place.

He's as close as the wind that blows on my face.

It's true I can't see the wind as it blows,

But I feel it around me and my heart surely knows.

That God's mighty hand can be felt every minute

For there's nothing on earth that God isn't in it."

(Helen Steiner Rice)

Memorial Day ~ Adoptee Style

                                                                               

I've always heard that birthdays can be tough for adoptees, and yes, I can attest that for some reason I have always hidden a quiet sadness around the holiday, especially since my birthday falls on Mother's Day weekend. 
 
But Memorial Day?  How could Memorial Day be conflicting for an adoptee?  I'll tell you.  For years I dreaded visiting the cemetery with my Mom and Nanny every Memorial Day because I decorated graves of grandparents that I never met...and that I knew I shared no blood relation with.  It reinforced the hurt within me of not knowing my own biological connections and not being able to honor and know them, and hence, myself.  I couldn't really embrace my family because of this.  I felt like the third-wheel, but obligated.  And sad. 
 
After reunion, I went through all the rollercoaster emotions of grief...for several years...but it was complicated and disenfranchised.  Like trying to untangle a ball of yarn without knowing where the beginning or end of the string is...just a numb mess, without the words or self-understanding to even explain. 
 
Finally, after hearing the stories of other adoptees, their feelings expressed...I was able to tap into those unspoken, deep-seated emotions and begin the process of healing...
 
Anyway, after reunion, I would reluctantly still go with my Mom every year to the cemetery, but inside, I was resentful because I now KNEW where my birth family was buried, but because of loyalty issues, I didn't feel free to feel or express my sadness that I wasn't able to spend time with them or even visit the cemetery of the relatives of my birth.  I was fulfilling the role adoption created for me...but I was being incongruent.  As I look back I realize it was part of the necessary grieving process....
 
I thank God that after decades of reunion and walking through the grief (with the help of other adoptees, first moms, and friends...not denying the feelings, but letting them wash over me)...I can now feel the good and the bad...and embrace my entire family.  Visiting the cemetery is filled with love now.
 
Yesterday I spent the morning with my birth family at the funeral of my beloved Uncle Jim.  He was laid to rest in the same cemetery that my maternal and paternal grandparents are buried.  Ones I was so thankful to know in reunion for several years before their death.  I have beautiful, sweet memories.  In fact, I have now known my birth family for longer than I was separated from them.  Our family sat together and cried together as we heard a touching homily about eternal life and forgiveness.  I was finally a full-fledged member.  But the cost has been high.  Lines and wrinkles and puffy eyes from years of processing and crying and laughing through this journey of self-realization and reunion with my roots.  It meant so much to sit by my Uncle David and my little brothers and Dad and cousins.  To exchange hugs and smiles and kisses.  And Love. 
 
After the funeral I walked a few feet over to the grave of my maternal grandmother, Carolyn, and took pictures of her grave and my paternal grandparents, Sid & Mary.  Pictures I will cherish.  It was so peaceful...yet I found myself alone, again.  Exhausted.
 
Later in the afternoon we took my Mom to Rest Haven to decorate the same beloved family graves I have visited since childhood.  And I cried.  Because I now know myself and my connections, and have allowed myself to feel and process the pain of separation...I can now feel and embrace the love of ALL my family, by both birth and adoption.  I took pictures of my beloved Nanny's grave, my Aunt Kay and Uncle Olan, and my Aunt Hazel and Uncle Dean...who I have precious memories of growing up. 

It was wonderful to see the proud flying colors of our American flag waving over the headstones of my Uncle Olan & Grandpa Sid.  Both "branches" of my family serving in the military and keeping us free.  I'll never forget their stories and so thankful I was able to hear them tell me in their own words.  Papa Sid flew an airplane in WWII that crashed landed...amazing.  It also reminded me of this article I read a few years ago about unknown soldiers, and missing families in adoption. 
 
My perfect moment was walking hand in hand with my son through the beautifully decorated cemetery and sharing stories of these beloved relatives...explaining eternal life and love...about the Shepard family adopting me and the Lord being our Shepard and ALWAYS taking care of us...and how Grandma Norma Carol (my first Mother) is in heaven waiting on us...and how we'll all be together someday.
 
About Family. 

it is what it is

© Photographer: Galdzer | Agency: Dreamstime.com

Change: To lay aside, abandon, or leave for another; switch. (American Heritage Dictionary)

Maybe THAT'S it. This definition of change explains why the last few weeks have been so hard for me. Everything is changing. Or so it seems. Being adopted (sounds eerily similar to the definition above) is tricky, and living 43 years of it, I'm convinced it weaves more complex layers of emotion than most people experience in a life-time. Exhausting.

Mom got married last night. She's 80 and met an extremely nice man in her assisted living center a few weeks ago. They had a whirlwind romance which culminated in what rivaled a "royal wedding" (media and all). I'm still in the middle of the whirlwind...but so happy for her! She was a beautiful Bride.

So thankful I was able to enjoy it with her, even through the fatigue of planning a wedding during the same time my son was transitioning schools.

Considering his sensory issues, my son was amazing last night. He tried his hardest to hold it together. All after his first week of kindergarten in a new (huge) school. He only stuck out his tongue once and stomped on one foot the whole evening. Thank goodness it was a friend who understands. (It was Mom's teasing that taught him to stick out his tongue in the first place ~ thanks, Mom).

Before the wedding I had to talk my son down from horrible anxiety. And when I say anxiety, I mean it. He can't deal with strong feelings sometimes and behaviors ensue ~ like head banging, darting away, yelling, saying he "hurts inside" and wanting to "get out of here." We were at the brink of leaving with him, so conflicted about what to do...put my son through something obviously hard for him (to please my Mom), or try to talk him through it and see it is a growing experience...thank you, Lord, for helping us.

The photographer from the paper (yes, the media was there in full force because the assisted living center was so nice to host the ceremony) actually helped a lot. She got on his level and talked gently to him (she has an eight-year old, she said), till he felt comfortable enough to take pictures with us and his Grandma...and then walk right down the aisle like he knew what he was doing. Whew!

I explain all that to say this...I'm so done. I can't wear myself out anymore with all this stress. I'm tired. My head was spinning by the time I got home last night, too exhausted to sleep (again). I put on a smiling face, but at home I struggle. I know most people do. Life. Right?

Adoption never ends. It colors everything for an adoptee. I'm just thankful I've grown over the years through my search & reunion, the pain, and joys, to finally accept...it is what it is...and enjoy and embrace the present. (When not under so much stress, at least).

Last night, for example, as Mom and I were walking back to her room to get some things after the wedding, she commented about how many people complimented her on her family...

"You always looked so much like Nanny (my adoptive Grandmother) that no one even questioned and we never had to think about the fact that you weren't really ours...I mean in THAT way...You know what I mean...you ARE ours, BUT..."

It struck me that I've heard this same scenario at every major milestone in our family's history...since I was a little girl. And speaking of "little girl"...do adoptee's ever really grow up...or are we forever children? It sure seems that way, especially when we can't even access our own birth certificate as adults. Loyalty issues from day one.

I so enjoyed seeing many long-time friends, and Mom's new husband's family. I also couldn't help but notice how mothers & fathers, with their children and grandchildren all share family similarities through the generations.

I'm enjoying an amazingly special day with my Mom, while trying to ignore pain that I'm not with the family of my birth. You can never get it all back.

It's taken years of riding this roller-coaster of search & reunion to integrate my identity, know who I am, and embrace my family for what it is...the good, bad, and ugly. Much better than trying to live how adopted people are expected to live..."it is what it isn't." Pretending.

Someone mentioned to me, "You have a new Dad". What? I had to stop and think about what they said. A new Dad? It never occurred to me that my Mom's new husband is legally my step-father now. That his family is my family too. That's how adoptee's roll, actually. We experience ambivalence everywhere we go, because we never had what most people have and need...that strong bond as a baby with our mothers, the families of our birth, those we came from and look like and act like. We have to adjust and adjust we do. But inside we sometimes feel lost.

Probably the most awkward moment in the wedding was when the preacher asked "Who gives this woman away?" Huh??? I guess he had spoken with my husband earlier about that part of the ceremony, but it was quite a surprise to me. Interesting concept.

So, I guess I met my "new family" for the first time last night. Talk about ambivalence...this wedding was planned so fast none of us have had time to think or feel. My Mom's husband's grandson and his wife was there with their four-month-old daughter all dressed up in her wedding best...so darling. Even after a long evening she had a big, peaceful smile on her face, perfectly content resting in her Mother's arms.

Yet another reminder of adoption, prematurity, and life-longings of the early mother/child relationship. How can an innocent wedding evolve into an emotionally-charged land-mine?

On the outside, no one would have known I was tired & numb, and emotionally navigating adoption even as a grown woman, wife, and mother.

Laughter abounded, and I so hope my Mom and her new husband have many more years of amazing joy. I know years from now we will look back with great joy at what a beautiful evening we had together as a family. Because we did.

So thankful she is still here.




And I miss her so much...




*Participating in "Grown in My Heart's" Mother's Day Carnival. You can participate and visit all the blogs by clicking here.

With my birthday falling on or near Mother's Day every year, it is truly an emotional time for me. My First Mother passed away while searching for me. Just a few years after finding her, my adoptive Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer (the same disease that took my First Mother). She underwent a bone-marrow transplant and several years of health issues, but is now doing well. We just got off the phone making plans to attend our traditional Ladies Brunch and Tea tomorrow morning.

I'm so thankful for my friends in the adoption world who share their lives and friendships.
Happy Mother's Day!

A heartbreaking assignment

By Mary Ann Jolley

Sit for any time in the foyer of the Hilton Hotel in Ethiopia's
capital, Addis Ababa, and you'll see a procession of Americans and
Europeans wandering from their rooms across the marble floor to the
restaurant or swimming pool with their precious new possessions -
babies or infants they've just adopted.

I'd never really thought a great deal about international adoption
until I was confronted with the scene as I checked into the hotel in
September last year.

I'd arrived to film a story for ABC TV's Foreign Correspondent program
about the drought-induced famine.

The longer I stayed, the more I started to think about the adopted
children - where they were from and how they must feel to suddenly
find themselves alone with someone whose skin colour doesn't match
theirs and whose language they don't speak.

They're dressed in alien attire - a brand new Red Sox baseball cap and
T-shirt with some cute and cheery foreign slogan plastered across the
front - and in an environment like none they've ever seen, when just
out on the street is the one they know so well, where their extended
family and fellow countrymen reside.

There was something incredibly disturbing about seeing international
adoption en masse. All these children about to leave their country to
begin a new life in a faraway place, disconnected from their heritage
and culture.

Out on the street where poverty and hardship prevail, my attitude
softened. While I was filming at the produce market in Addis Ababa a
little urchin appeared beside me.

She had short hair and was wearing a torn, faded dress with sash tales
hanging loosely from the waist at both sides, and shoes with no laces.

Her toes exposed where the leather had worn through. She would have
been about nine or 10, but she was already working; her job was to
sweep up the rubbish in the markets.

"Miss," she said, "Americana?"

"No." I nodded with a smile as I rushed off to catch up with the crew.

"Where are you from?" She was at my side again.

"Australia," I replied, thinking in my ignorance that her next
question would be, "Where's Australia?" But, no, she knew it was the
land of the kangaroos and wanted to know if I could take her back so
she could go to school.

"I would love to," I said, impressed by her request. "But
unfortunately I can't." I was hoping, I must admit, that would be
enough to send her and her friends back to work, but she persisted.

"Do you have any pens for me?"

"Sorry, I don't," I replied, quite surprised she was asking for pens
and not, as is usually the case, money.

"What about paper? Do you have any paper for me for school?"

I didn't have anything on me because I'd been told to leave my bag in
the car to avoid pickpockets. I felt terrible that I couldn't help
her.

Here was this child desperate to write and learn, but instead of being
at school she was dragging rotten fruit and vegetables from the mud
and slush between the stalls.

What obvious potential she had. Imagine what she could achieve if I
could take her back to school in Australia. Perhaps adoption is the
answer, I thought to myself.

But that was an emotional reaction. It would be almost a year before I
would have the chance to dwell seriously on the subject. In July I was
on a plane heading back.

Ethiopia is not a signatory to the Hague Convention, which requires
international adoptions be used only as a last resort after all
domestic adoption options have been exhausted.

There is overwhelming evidence to prove it is far better for a child
to remain with its family or, if that's not possible, with another
family in his or her own country than to be shipped off overseas. But
in Ethiopia today it seems it's not about what's best for the child,
but rather meeting the demand of foreigners wanting a child.

There are more than 70 private international adoption agencies
operating in Ethiopia. None of them are Australian. In Australia,
international adoptions are a Government affair and strict regulations
help to keep the process transparent. Almost half the agencies in
Ethiopia are unregistered, some doing whatever they can to find
children to satisfy the foreign market.

While there are more than 5 million legitimate orphans in Ethiopia, a
large proportion of these will never be considered for international
adoptions.

Foreigners prefer younger children - babies to five-year-olds. Older
children or those with health problems are more difficult to pitch. So
while many children languish in underfunded and overcrowded
orphanages, some international adoption agencies are out spruiking in
villages asking families to relinquish their children for adoption.

It's a phenomenon known as "harvesting" and it's shocking to see.

A DVD sent to families wanting to adopt by an American adoption
agency, Christian World Adoption, shows one of the agency's workers in
full flight surrounded by families and children in a remote community
in the south of the country, where the vast majority are evangelical
Christians.

"If you want your child to go to a Christian American family, you may
stay. If you don't want your child to go to America, you should take
your child away," she says.

The DVD goes on for some hours with the woman introducing each child
offered for adoption one at a time. They sit on a bench in between her
and their parents or guardians.

"Here are two brothers, but only one is available at the moment," she
says for one family. For the next she tells how "it's very hard for a
widow to care for her children in this culture".

"Oh no, you mustn't pick your nose," she says to a child. She then
points out a rash on another's face and reassures the viewer it isn't
permanent and that it can be healed with treatment. All children are
asked to sing the alphabet song made famous on Sesame Street. It reeks
of a new colonialism. It's hard to believe it's happening in the 21st
century.

Parents are often unaware of what they're doing when they offer their
children for adoption. They're led to believe they'll hear from their
children regularly and their children will be well educated and
eventually bring the family wealth.

But in reality, the parents and families never hear from their
children and receive little information about where their children
have gone. We filmed a room full of grieving mothers who gave their
children for adoption after agencies promised they'd be given regular
updates.

Some were even told the agency would help support their remaining
children. Their stories are gut-wrenching.

No one disputes there is a real need for international adoptions, but
for the sake of the children and adoptive parents there needs to be
some protection from unscrupulous agencies who purport to be driven by
humanitarian interests, but in reality are stuffing their pockets with
dirty cash.

Mother(s)

The last few weeks have been a blur of one thing after another, and I am beyond exhausted. Literally.

My Mom (who still lived alone and worked) fell in her drive-way and suffered a compression fracture in her lower back. She had not talked to her physician about having alot of G.I. problems and when she was hospitalized and then sent to a rehab center these problems escalated quickly. The pain medication caused her to be extremely confused and she refused to eat (for the past 3 weeks) because of nausea/vomiting. I got more and more frustrated watching my Mom go downhill instead of recuperating, and talking to the rehab facility doctor and getting nowhere.

I finally talked to a nurse there who agreed to call an ambulance to transport my Mom to another hospital and we spent 10 hours in E.R. a couple of nights ago, to find out that her potassium level was at 2.1 and severely dehydrated. I was just sure that the literally dozens of obviously sick people right outside our little cubicle curtain had swine flu, or something else we certainly wouldn't want either. It was so tiring.

Each time I think I'm getting help for my Mom, it seems like there is another hurdle to advocate over. Once they admitted her and got her electrolytes restored, they came into her room (the next day!) and asked what rehabilitation facility she wanted to be transferred to. I had to jump up and down to get the doctor to call in a G.I. Specialist and a Spine Specialist. Well, the G.I. guy did a simple exray and found that my Mom was "full of it" (exact words) and a little Miralax he thought would do the trick. I tried to tell him that she had been having G.I. problems for several months and didn't he think he should do a scope or something to see what is going on. But he said he would do it later if this didn't resolve the issue. Later is not good, when Mom has been having problems for months, and this compression fracture has just compounded the issues.

I was so tired today I literally couldn't pull my body out of bed, yet she gets "embarrassed" to have help from the nurses for her personal care. When I am there, she won't ask for help from them or tell them she is having symptoms. So I take on all the emotional responsibility and it has been tough. As a side-note here, I can't even count the number of times I've heard this scenerio in the past three weeks. Mom won't touch her food and a nurse questions her as to why. Instead of telling them upfront that she was nauseauous, she says "You think I might be pregnant?" When they laugh and dismiss her, she quickly inserts, "I have a little grandson who would just LOVE a sibling." Talk about frustration, listening to this flippant, Freudian dialogue over and over, and feeling like Mom is still jealous in her old age, of women having babies.

This, also, is another whole post, but for some reason it is really hard to assist my Mom with her personal care and bodily functions, if you know what I mean. I've always wondered if it had something to do with me being adopted, and the fact that we don't share that biological connection. Yet, I have always been extremely loyal and felt emotionally responsible for her happiness. I am so trying to avoid making my son feel emotionally responsible for me.

Now for the only part of today that gave me a tiny bit of laughter ~ After I picked my son up from preschool I thought I'd "run" up to the hospital and let my Mom visit with him for awhile, because I know I will not have the energy to go again tonight. I was hurriedly trying to get him to the restroom before he had an "accident" (he is potty training) as I knew right after school he usually needed to go and I put a diaper on him for his naptime anyway. I didn't have an extra pair of pants for him, so I knew I was racing time. Well, on the way to the restroom in the hospital I happened to see a door labeled "Patient Advocate" and my stressed-out mind thought I'd open it just to see what I found. Inside was a small office with a Sister (Nun) sitting behind a desk and very willing to hear my story. I hurriedly tried to explain the situation and that I was so concerned that the hospital please not discharge my Mom until they know she is eating again and has more strength, yada, yada, yada. All the while my son is doing really well (considering) that it is way past his naptime. He decides to sit in a chair while the Sister takes notes and is very lovely and patient with him, giving him a notepad and pencil to help her, etc.
I'm glad I stopped in there, but it did stress me out more trying to talk about Mom and deal with my hyper-tired little one.

Anyway, we finally left the office and as soon as we hit the bathroom I realized it was too late and Andrew had pee peed in his pants ~ the only pair I had with me. Thankfully, I did have a diaper, so I hurriedly put it on him and we headed (in his stroller) up to the 3rd floor to give my Mom the Peach Tea she loves, hoping she would drink it. Wouldn't you know, I end up running into an old co-worker and also got several stares from elevator-mates, etc. with my little 4 year old in a stroller pantless, with only a diaper and shirt. Not just that, but him screaming that HE wants to push the buttons!!! I should have known it is impossible just to make a quick "run" anywhere! Nope.

Once we made it to Mom's room she wasn't even in there, but had been taken for an MRI to follow-up on her back (thank goodness, because I had to plead with the doctor to get a spine specialist involved as well). It has taken all my energy just to try to get medical care for my Mom, so much so, that I have no energy left just to be with her and care for her. Now I am trying to convince my husband that he needs to take a few days off work so I can somehow try to rest and also tour area rehab centers (glorified nursing homes : ( so I'll hopefully be a little more prepared when they walk back in her room (who knows when) and ask that flippant question. Oh my gosh.

I am still trying to get to the funny part of this story ~ sorry. When I realized my son had wet his pants (soaked) I realized that he had probably wet the nice Sister's chair as well, and in that little, not-well-ventilated office, good luck on trying to salvage that chair! Nothing like leaving alittle bit of yourself behind when you leave ~ right! lol

On the way home, Andrew looked over and saw the Children's part of the hospital which happens to be blue, and he loudly exclaimed, "wanna go to the blue hospital sometime and get a beer?" No joke ~ it sounded exactly like that. I laughingly replied ~ "Yes, that sounds like a great idea, honey!". He had remembered the little "BEAR" he got during one of his surgeries and I'm sure that is what he really wanted, but I kind of liked the "BEER" better! lol

Another whole part to this saga is the fact that I have always avoided this particular hospital because it is the one my First Mother passed away in, back in 1980, ten years before I "found" her. For several years I was almost scared to drive by it, because of the buried feelings that were trying to seep their way up through my numbed-out adoptee denial. I still can't let myself emotionally "go there" much, simply because it is too overwhelming. Just to know that here it is almost Mother's Day and my Birthday (same freaking day) and my Mom is in this same hospital now. Both my Mothers with all the complicated emotions still STUCK in me it seems (at least today).

I'd do anything for my Mom to be knocking on my front door right now "surprising" me with one of her visits, even IF it was an inconvenient time. Yet I also beat myself up for not knowing how to balance my priorities as I don't want to end up so emotionally and physically exhausted from trying to care beyond what I just can't physically succeed at and neglect my son, my own motherhood, my marriage, my mental and physical health, etc. It is so difficult. I took care of Mom through a bone-marrow transplant back in my 20's, as well as my grandmother. It is all very triggering right now. I thank God for several good years of restoration for my son to have a relationship with his Grandma and for her to be able to enjoy him. And I don't want that to ever end. I just pray for healing and strength for her and for a good rehab center who will help us to that end. Because I'm so tired.

Yet I'm also sitting here weeping and missing a woman who I never really met (at least as an adult). The woman who gave birth to me and who searched for me her entire life. And I her. My Mother. Who I have missed every day for 41 years.

I love them both so much.

Mother's Day Tinged with Sadness

Mother's Day tinged with sadness for birthmoms
By LEANNE ITALIE
Associated Press Writer
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At church each Mother's Day, Eileen McQuade used to watch forlornly as flowers were handed out to beaming women surrounded by their loving children. Though she was raising two daughters, her special day was filled with grief and shame.

In 1966, when she was an 18-year-old college freshman, she gave up her firstborn for adoption.

"I didn't feel like I should take the flower because I didn't feel I deserved it," said McQuade, who splits her time between Delray Beach, Fla., and South Windsor, Conn.

Like McQuade, many birthmothers can't shake their anguish and guilt when Mother's Day rolls around each May, so they've taken on the Saturday before the holiday as their own — Birth Mother's Day. The day was established by a group of Seattle birthmothers in 1990 and has grown over the years to include candle lightings, poetry readings and other events around the country.

"The old myth about adoption was that birthmothers would go and have their children and forget it ever happened and the adoptees wouldn't care where they came from," said the 62-year-old McQuade, who was reunited with her daughter 12 years ago. "We know that it doesn't really happen that way. We have a much better sense of it now. Birth Mother's Day is a healing for many."

In this photo taken on April 16, 2009, Eileen McQuade, president of the American Adoption Congress poses in her home in Delray Beach, Fla. (AP Photo/Wilfredo Lee)

With an estimated 6 million adoptees in the United States alone and a trend toward more open adoptions, birthmothers have never been more out of the closet, forming support groups and sharing resources as they struggle with sadness and a sense that society has left them in the shadows.

Many birthmothers relinquished newborns in the '50s, '60s and '70s, when closed adoptions that sealed records and left them with little control seemed the only choice. Now, birthmothers looking to reconnect with their children are finding that state laws aren't making it easy.

Forty-two states require a court order to open original birth certificates that often list the names of birthmothers. Eight states allow adult adoptees to have copies of original birth certificates.


In this photo taken on April 21, 2009, Holly Spann poses for a photo in Nashville, Tenn., with her file of papers that deal with her search to find the daughter she gave up for adoption in 1971. She began her search in 1980 and located her daughter in 1995. (AP Photo/Mark Humphrey)


When Holly Spann, 55, of Nashville, Tenn., went looking for the daughter she gave birth to in 1971, she had no clues to point her in the right direction.

"I didn't have a piece of paper, a court document, anything to prove I had had a baby except stretch marks and the memories," she said.

Spann got pregnant at 17. She left her small town in Tennessee to live with relatives in Alabama while waiting to give birth, grieving for years over the closed adoption. Celebrating Birth Mother's Day is her way of acknowledging the past.

"Back then, birthmothers were basically told you'll go on with your lives just like it never happened," she said. "The fact that you gave a child up for adoption was really never to be spoken about again."

She eventually found her child. They spoke once on the phone but have never met.

"For me that was the closure I needed," Spann said. "She was so close to her parents that I could tell she didn't want them to think she needed anybody else."

The journey of "coming out" as a birthmother is a painful one, she said, but the Internet has done wonders to ease the way for both adoptees and birthmothers looking to access documents or just meet others for support.


In this photo taken on April 24, 2009, Nicole Strickland, birth mother, standing rear, Angee Nix, adoptive mother, and her adopted son Charlie Nix pose for a photo at Cleveland Park in Spartanburg, SC. (AP Photo/ Patrick Collard

Nicole "Coley" Strickland of Boiling Springs, S.C., found fellow birthmother Lani Dowling in Atlanta, Ga., that way after blindly searching for support soon after giving birth to a boy in 2001 and placing him with a couple she met at the restaurant where she was a waitress. Two years later, Strickland and Dowling founded Birthmombuds.com, which has 900 registered users around the country.

The two send out care packages to new birthmothers, pair up buddies living close to each other and host regular chats for birthmoms online. They also coordinate Birth Mother's Day events every year.

While details for this year's events are still firming up, gatherings are planned in New York City, Los Angeles, Seattle, Nashville and areas of Oregon, North Carolina, New Hampshire and Ohio, among other states.

For birthmoms who don't live near one of the gatherings or don't feel comfortable in a group setting, Strickland, 32, suggests they make Mother's Day a little easier by writing something about — or for — their relinquished children, lighting a candle, planting a tree or donating a book to a library in their honor.

"It really does give us a time to bond with other birthmoms," said Strickland, who has regular visits with her now 7-year-old as part of an open adoption. "We feel a lot of the same things at the same time. We need to be there for each other."