Being Adopted (Part 2)

When my oldest son was about 3 and my daughter was about 12-months-old, I got a box from my parents who lived in Florida. My mother had been a pack-rat for years and for some reason, in her 70s, had decided it was time to do some housecleaning. Reluctant to ever throw anything away, she’d simply box things up and ship them off to the appropriate child. (Generally that meant WE would be the ones to throw the stuff away!) In this particular box was some paperwork from the adoption agency which handled my adoption. It was nothing official, just a couple of brief letters concerning the process. Since becoming a mother, I’d found myself frequently wondering what it must have been like for my biological mother to give up her child. Unlike the process today, back in the 50s and 60s, the mother had no idea to whom her child would be given. In fact, infants did not go directly to the adoptive parents, but rather were placed in foster homes for a few months, to await the progression of the cumbersome legal procedure. Following the death of my adoptive parents in recent years, my older brother (also adopted) and I found notes which were provided by our foster parents about the time we spent in their care. It was interesting to hear ourselves described as infants, by names other than the ones we’ve always known, by people who were acting as our temporary parents. I digress. Armed with the address from these nearly 30-year-old letters, I wrote a letter to my biological mother and mailed it, along with a photo of myself and my two children, to the adoption agency, asking that they forward it. What made me think they’d still have her address all those years later? What made me think the adoption agency would still be operating out of the location listed on the 28-year-old letterhead? I received my letter back, unopened, with a note saying that the agency was not able to forward it as requested. They told me they could hold it and pass it along if my mother ever contacted them. Somehow, after all this time, that seemed unlikely. They told me that, for $100, they could initiate a search for my biological mother, and ask if she would be willing to exchange correspondence. I sent the $100. The social worker at the agency phoned me and gave me all sorts of information over the phone, just reading the notes from my file. After 28 years, I suddenly knew something about my background, my biological parents, my biological grandparents and the circumstances of my birth. I had a nationality. (German, Scottish and Irish) Unless you’ve been someone who has no roots, you can’t really appreciate what a huge thing it is to learn some concrete information about your origins. I had to be interviewed by a psychologist, to determine my motives for requesting the search and to ascertain if I could handle an unplesant outcome. “How will you feel if she refuses contact? What will you do if it is discovered that she is dead? How would you handle the existence of half-siblings?” I must have passed the test, because the process moved forward. It took about two years. During that time, the social worker periodically touched base with me, providing sketchy information about the status of the search. They could only approach her in completely anonymous ways. They were bound by privacy agreements and could not risk revealing anything to her relatives. They made phone calls (no caller ID back then) and sent letters in unmarked envelopes. She finally responded, only to say she wanted no contact. It was a heartbreaking decision and an experience she did not wish to revisit. The adoption agency’s social worker speculated that her new family probably was completely unaware of my existence. My biological mother had not married until eight years after my birth. There would have been no need for her to reveal the information at that time.

I’m okay with her decision. I also like to avoid painful situations whenever possible. I subscribe to the “Ignorance is Bliss” theory. I practice avoidance where unpleasant situations are concerned. When negative things start getting to me, I try to shut them out and focus on the positive. I’m happy to have the information I was able to get from the agency. I have SOME roots now and that gives me some security – some peace. My adoptive parents were Mom and Dad; that was never in question. There’s still a huge mystery lurking out there. My adoptive parents have both passed away. My biological mother would be in her mid-60s now. I won’t know when she passes. I have half-siblings who don’t know I exist. I have a biological father who never really wanted to give me up. (Dad’s were not considered part of the decision-process back then.)

I’ve started my own family now. I have three children who will someday give me grandchildren (no time soon, I hope!). My children and grandchildren will never have DEEP biological roots, but they know where they came from. I just smile when people comment on the resemblance between my sister and me (we look NOTHING alike!). I delight in zipping through those medical questionairres. I take comfort in the fact that I was adopted by great people who loved me and raised me to be the parent I am today – a Grizzly Momma. (Don’t mess with my kids!!)

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