The discoveries just continue and continue.
In a bag full of memorabilia I received last week, I found a picture of my birthfather with a woman on a beach. This would have been 1966, when I was in utero, and the woman was most definitely NOT my birthmother. I'd heard the story of how when he was confronted with the pregnancy, my birthfather said, "Well, there's nothing I can do about it, and I'm seeing someone else now anyway." Could this be that "someone else?"
On the back of the photo was a name and address. Of course, this was over 40 years ago, so I figured the chances were slim that I could locate this woman, but I googled her and the city she was living in at the time, and BINGO, I found her on a class reunion website! Her last name was different, but when I saw her picture, I knew I'd found her. Another search and I had her current address and phone number. Feeling fly, I dialed.
And there she was, the woman in the picture from so many years ago. Yes, she remembered my birthfather very well, and had he returned from Vietnam, she was SURE they would have married. No, she didn't know about the "girl he left behind" or the pregnancy.
Surprise, surprise.
And then she did something which I've been puzzling over ever since.
"Now, I was a good girl. I wasn't a slut. I was what you would have called a tease," she explained, as if it mattered to me whether or not she'd had sex with my birthfather. Then she went on to say, over and over throughout our conversation, how she was a Christian.
As an aside, I believe that if you feel compelled to tell me and then try to convince me that you're a Christian, you're sort of missing the point, but that's another blog altogether.
There was a part of me that at this point in the conversation desperately wanted to respond to the "I wasn't a slut" comment with, "Oh, you mean you weren't a slut like my birthmother, huh?" Of course, that would have been confrontational and not very helpful, but I do not tolerate holier-than-thou sorts very well and was fairly tempted.
From our talk, she was obviously very much enamoured with my birthfather, and was deeply hurt when he died. She went on to marry twice, and each of her husbands' names were in some way similar to my birthfather's names, which I found quite interesting as did she. She made sure to discount any part of the name deal being superstitious, as she apparently thought that wasn't Christian. Oh, boy.
Why does it matter so much what people think of us, even after four decades?
I did copy and send her the picture of her standing arm-in-arm with my birthfather, along with a couple of other pictures. I wonder if I'll hear from her. I wonder if the ache of losing her 1966 love will creep back into her heart. I wonder if she wishes she hadn't been so good?
Friday, March 20, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Lost letters
I am reminded once again how much kindness matters.
Today I was given a bag full of memorabilia of my birthfather, pictures, newspaper clippings (about his boomerang skills at NC State, for one!), the telegram telling his parents that he had been killed in action in Vietnam, his driver's license, his pipes, and scads of other things that I'm still going through. It is a treasure-trove of blessings for me, and I look forward to spending time with them this weekend.
Among the letters was one written in June of 1967, just after his passing. It was written by a Catholic priest who knew my birthfather and flew with him in his OH-23 helicopter. The letter was written to my birthfather's parents as a letter of condolence.
I'm sure that this priest wrote countless letters such as this, but this is the one I have possession of, and when I read it, I wept. 42 years since his death, this man's words speak to me.
Fortunately, this man is still living, in his early 80s, and I was able to find him online and have written to him. I hope I'll hear back.
In this age of electronic communication, let us never forget the value of the written word. Words on paper have a power that bits and bytes in cyberspace do not.
Today I was given a bag full of memorabilia of my birthfather, pictures, newspaper clippings (about his boomerang skills at NC State, for one!), the telegram telling his parents that he had been killed in action in Vietnam, his driver's license, his pipes, and scads of other things that I'm still going through. It is a treasure-trove of blessings for me, and I look forward to spending time with them this weekend.
Among the letters was one written in June of 1967, just after his passing. It was written by a Catholic priest who knew my birthfather and flew with him in his OH-23 helicopter. The letter was written to my birthfather's parents as a letter of condolence.
I'm sure that this priest wrote countless letters such as this, but this is the one I have possession of, and when I read it, I wept. 42 years since his death, this man's words speak to me.
Fortunately, this man is still living, in his early 80s, and I was able to find him online and have written to him. I hope I'll hear back.
In this age of electronic communication, let us never forget the value of the written word. Words on paper have a power that bits and bytes in cyberspace do not.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Rude awakenings
Last night/early this morning, I was yanked from sleep when I saw someone breaking into the house via the basement stairs. The image was so crystal clear, a man pushing his way through the basement door to do who-knows-what sort of destructive mischief. Yes, on the second floor, I had the distinct image of someone coming through the basement to break into the house. Yep, that's the image, that's what I was sure I saw.
When I woke enough (after pacing upstairs considering my options, my heart racing, sweating profusely with fear) to realize that I had been dreaming and that no one was in the house except those who belonged AND realizing that it was physically impossible for me to see through two floors into the basement below, I was able to calm down and go back to sleep.
But this experience, one I've had before, made me stop and consider other images that I have held, some that are just as alarming and unsettling, things that aren't really so.
Sometimes what I think I see and what is really there are two separate things, and it can get me into trouble. For example, the perceived slight from someone who I thought was a friend which turns out to be an oversight or the result of a really rotten migraine. Or the person who seems to have it in for me on the highway, cutting me off at every opportunity, when the real culprit is an urgent need to get to the bedside of a sick parent. Or the snub I feel from someone who I care for but who doesn't seem to return the feeling, when the true story is a deeply held sense of fear or regret that has paralyzed the person from acknowledging true emotions.
Most of the time when I let myself get into such situations where I convince myself that I'm being somehow rejected or abused or neglected, I eventually discover that I am the one being oversensitive and, more importantly, too self-absorbed to see the situation for what it really is.
It's an ongoing issue with me, and I'm working on it, along with a slew of other foibles, but it's an important one. Because when I don't see things for what they truly are, I'm avoiding the truth. And that is never a good way to see the world.
When I woke enough (after pacing upstairs considering my options, my heart racing, sweating profusely with fear) to realize that I had been dreaming and that no one was in the house except those who belonged AND realizing that it was physically impossible for me to see through two floors into the basement below, I was able to calm down and go back to sleep.
But this experience, one I've had before, made me stop and consider other images that I have held, some that are just as alarming and unsettling, things that aren't really so.
Sometimes what I think I see and what is really there are two separate things, and it can get me into trouble. For example, the perceived slight from someone who I thought was a friend which turns out to be an oversight or the result of a really rotten migraine. Or the person who seems to have it in for me on the highway, cutting me off at every opportunity, when the real culprit is an urgent need to get to the bedside of a sick parent. Or the snub I feel from someone who I care for but who doesn't seem to return the feeling, when the true story is a deeply held sense of fear or regret that has paralyzed the person from acknowledging true emotions.
Most of the time when I let myself get into such situations where I convince myself that I'm being somehow rejected or abused or neglected, I eventually discover that I am the one being oversensitive and, more importantly, too self-absorbed to see the situation for what it really is.
It's an ongoing issue with me, and I'm working on it, along with a slew of other foibles, but it's an important one. Because when I don't see things for what they truly are, I'm avoiding the truth. And that is never a good way to see the world.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Transition time---again
It was just a few seconds ago that I walked with my son through the halls of what would become his middle school, and now tonight, he'll be going to what will become his high school to gather more information about what courses to take next year.
I remember when he graduated from fifth grade how thrilled I was to be leaving that school and moving forward (notice how I say "I" was thrilled, because as a parent, where your child goes, you go!). His elementary school was a bit, oh how can I say this diplomatically, "precious." You know the kind, where the mothers are in a fashion competition with one another, where the children are spoiled beyond measure (except for the more normal kids who, like the rest of the world, aren't spoon fed from an unending trough of resources), and where the favoritism of certain teachers toward the children of the most involved parents (aka, the non-working mothers) is palpable.
His middle school is made up of a much greater variety of people, which is quite wonderful. But it is a very large school, and in middle school, teachers no longer hold students' hands. Sixth Grade was a challenge, balancing effort with what was expected, but Seventh and Eighth Grades have been incredibly positive. What I was often warned of as being a "tough school" has been anything but. Engaging and interested teachers, committed administration, well-balanced curriculum. Challenging, you bet, but enriching for my son beyond my greatest expectations.
And now high school looms.
I am so very glad that it is not I who will be entering Ninth Grade in the fall. Oh, how I remember my own experience as a high school Freshman. Glasses, braces, crazy skin, absolutely no self-esteem or sense of who I was (no, that's not fair--I knew who I was, I just hadn't come to realize that other people's opinions of me weren't as important as my own).
So as I walk with my son into his soon-to-be new school tonight, I will think of all of the firsts we've experienced since he first entered my world. And I will think of all of the many firsts to come. And I hope that I will always appreciate each one for the gift that it is.
I remember when he graduated from fifth grade how thrilled I was to be leaving that school and moving forward (notice how I say "I" was thrilled, because as a parent, where your child goes, you go!). His elementary school was a bit, oh how can I say this diplomatically, "precious." You know the kind, where the mothers are in a fashion competition with one another, where the children are spoiled beyond measure (except for the more normal kids who, like the rest of the world, aren't spoon fed from an unending trough of resources), and where the favoritism of certain teachers toward the children of the most involved parents (aka, the non-working mothers) is palpable.
His middle school is made up of a much greater variety of people, which is quite wonderful. But it is a very large school, and in middle school, teachers no longer hold students' hands. Sixth Grade was a challenge, balancing effort with what was expected, but Seventh and Eighth Grades have been incredibly positive. What I was often warned of as being a "tough school" has been anything but. Engaging and interested teachers, committed administration, well-balanced curriculum. Challenging, you bet, but enriching for my son beyond my greatest expectations.
And now high school looms.
I am so very glad that it is not I who will be entering Ninth Grade in the fall. Oh, how I remember my own experience as a high school Freshman. Glasses, braces, crazy skin, absolutely no self-esteem or sense of who I was (no, that's not fair--I knew who I was, I just hadn't come to realize that other people's opinions of me weren't as important as my own).
So as I walk with my son into his soon-to-be new school tonight, I will think of all of the firsts we've experienced since he first entered my world. And I will think of all of the many firsts to come. And I hope that I will always appreciate each one for the gift that it is.
Friday, March 6, 2009
No more tripping!
Oh, joy of joys, today is the day! I've been waiting for this for months now, and couldn't be happier with how things are moving along.
Today I'm getting a new floor in my kitchen. Our kitchen serves as our walk-through about 97% of the time, so it gets a lot of wear. When we bought our house five years ago, the previous owner had installed a blue and white checked floor to match the blue and white striped wallpaper. I have nothing against either, but in a kitchen, anything white on the floor seems a little silly. The day I dropped a scalding hot casserole dish--upside down, naturally--on the floor and burned a hole in it, I decided something needed to be done. I priced my options and as usual, went with the cheapest option, the one I could do at home, peel-&-stick vinyl tiles. I went for a color I knew wouldn't show dirt (you guessed it, "dirt" color), and prepped the existing vinyl to perfection. The tiles laid and the walls painted (Roman Orange, don't you know), the kitchen was finally more me. And for about two years, it was functional and fun. But one day I noticed a big bubble under one of the tiles, and that was the beginning of what turned into a hazardous floor situation. The corners of some of the tiles started lifting, then breaking, and walking across the floor with bare feet was sometimes dangerous and often painful as I would catch myself and trip on the uplifted tiles. I endured this for months and months, called Moon's Flooring and got an estimate, continued to endure it, and finally a couple of weeks ago said ENOUGH!
So now as I type, Moon's Flooring folks are busily installing my new FABulous laminate floor. It is great, and I can't wait to be able to vacuum and mop the thing without catching the mop or picking up the corners of the tiles with the vacuum.
And let me say, Moon's Flooring is the BEST in the area. They did our hardwood refinishing when we moved in, as well as my mother-in-law's floor a couple of years ago. They are professional, prompt, really personable, and great to work with. You know when you have people doing work in your home, and you feel like you can completely trust them? That's how I feel with Moon's.
Now the problem, with the new floor going in, is my countertops don't look so spiffy anymore. That's next on the list.
It's like getting your nose fixed and then noticing your brows need lifting...
Not that I would ever do that, mind you....:-)
Today I'm getting a new floor in my kitchen. Our kitchen serves as our walk-through about 97% of the time, so it gets a lot of wear. When we bought our house five years ago, the previous owner had installed a blue and white checked floor to match the blue and white striped wallpaper. I have nothing against either, but in a kitchen, anything white on the floor seems a little silly. The day I dropped a scalding hot casserole dish--upside down, naturally--on the floor and burned a hole in it, I decided something needed to be done. I priced my options and as usual, went with the cheapest option, the one I could do at home, peel-&-stick vinyl tiles. I went for a color I knew wouldn't show dirt (you guessed it, "dirt" color), and prepped the existing vinyl to perfection. The tiles laid and the walls painted (Roman Orange, don't you know), the kitchen was finally more me. And for about two years, it was functional and fun. But one day I noticed a big bubble under one of the tiles, and that was the beginning of what turned into a hazardous floor situation. The corners of some of the tiles started lifting, then breaking, and walking across the floor with bare feet was sometimes dangerous and often painful as I would catch myself and trip on the uplifted tiles. I endured this for months and months, called Moon's Flooring and got an estimate, continued to endure it, and finally a couple of weeks ago said ENOUGH!
So now as I type, Moon's Flooring folks are busily installing my new FABulous laminate floor. It is great, and I can't wait to be able to vacuum and mop the thing without catching the mop or picking up the corners of the tiles with the vacuum.
And let me say, Moon's Flooring is the BEST in the area. They did our hardwood refinishing when we moved in, as well as my mother-in-law's floor a couple of years ago. They are professional, prompt, really personable, and great to work with. You know when you have people doing work in your home, and you feel like you can completely trust them? That's how I feel with Moon's.
Now the problem, with the new floor going in, is my countertops don't look so spiffy anymore. That's next on the list.
It's like getting your nose fixed and then noticing your brows need lifting...
Not that I would ever do that, mind you....:-)
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Search and find
Boy, it's been a long time since I last posted. I had forgotten my password to log on to blogspot, and had one of those moments of panic trying to remember it. I was lucky and got it on the second try. I have this great fear that one day I'll forget all of my passwords and not exist in cyberspace anymore.
Actually, that's a nice thought. Just think of the time I would save...
This has been a transformative year, a year of self-discovery as well as discovery of long-lost identities and secrets. As an adoptee, I set out this past summer to find my biological family, and from April until December of 2008, I obsessed and worked on finding out information about who I was before I became the person I've always known as Sara.
As adoptees in a closed adoption, we only know who we are in terms of our adoptive history. It is as if we didn't exist until some well-meaning couple took us into their homes. I actually was a living, breathing human being for 4-1/2 months before I had the legal identity I grew up with. My amended birth certificate is a fraud, a fake that was manufactured to foster the pretense that the people I called Mom and Dad were, in fact, my mother and father from birth forward. Of course they were my parents, no question, but I also had a prior set of parents whose identity was unknown to me until this past year.
At the ripe-old age of 41, I realized it was time to do some searching, and began in earnest. Oh, the hours I spent on ancestry.com and the Vietnam War Memorial website, the hours I spent in libraries and looking at microfilm (I think my vision is forever altered by those fun afternoons).
I am one of the lucky ones, because I learned all about my family of origin, both sides, and have met my biological mother and my biological father's brother and his family. My birthfather was a helicopter pilot in Vietnam who lost his life before I turned a year old, so I'll never meet him, but meeting his mother (my first and only grandmother!) and his brother has been the most incredible experience, and I am truly blessed to know them. I am especially blessed to know my family health history, which is one aspect of closed adoptions that people don't consider when they're looking at that tiny healthy baby who has just been born to most likely young, healthy parents.
My biological mother is living, and I've met her once and spoken with her several times on the phone. She is great, and I look forward to getting to know her more in the future. There is a lot of pain and grief to work out when you are a birthmother, and she is still working through all sorts of emotions. It's easier for me. I have no memory of being relinquished, while she remembers all too clearly the wrenching heartache of surrendering her baby. She is a strong woman, and we continue to find things about each other that are so very similar.
Which leads me to my adoptive mother, my mom. I worried about how she would feel when I found my biological family, and didn't mention anything about my searching until I'd completed it and met both sides of my birthfamily. I didn't want her to worry about me, and this was a journey I needed to take by myself without having to consider anyone else's reactions but my own (my own were quite enough to deal with, thank you very much). When I told Mom about meeting my birthfamily, instead of reacting in a threatened way, she was joyous. She immediately phoned her sister, who christened my news "Our Christmas Miracle." I'm sure she has gone through many emotions of her own, but this discovery has reinforced how incredible and resilient my mom is and how much her influence has shaped the person I have become. Being a parent is a complex thing, and you can be a biological parent or a functioning parent, you can be both, you can be one or the other at different times and under different circumstances. The big thing I've learned over and over during this process is how much you can love many different people. It's perfectly acceptable to have several children and love them all, so it makes sense that I could have two mothers, one a biological one, one an adoptive, functional one, and love them both. I am grateful to my birthmother for carrying me and making the sacrifices she had to make to bear and then relinquish me, and I am grateful to my adoptive mother for the sacrifices and the leap of faith she made to take me in and love me as a mother should. I can't imagine being a mother to a child not of my flesh, but she did it and continues to do it. And I love her and always will. She is still the person I call when I need advice or a sympathetic ear, and I don't imagine that will ever change.
My own journey of discovery continues. Now that I know where I come from, where I was born, the circumstances of my birth, my health history, a lot of the mystery of me has melted away. And that is nice, but a little disconcerting. No longer can I fantasize about exotic origins. I come from hard-working, decent people with strong family connections, their share of eccentricities, and really dark eyes. Oh, yeah, name the disease, and I can find it in my family health history, which makes me especially thankful that I've taken reasonably good care of my health most of my life.
Now that I know where I came from, I have come to the conclusion that we are the product of biology, environment, and something else, a spark of identity that transcends any explanation. And that is a very good thing.
Actually, that's a nice thought. Just think of the time I would save...
This has been a transformative year, a year of self-discovery as well as discovery of long-lost identities and secrets. As an adoptee, I set out this past summer to find my biological family, and from April until December of 2008, I obsessed and worked on finding out information about who I was before I became the person I've always known as Sara.
As adoptees in a closed adoption, we only know who we are in terms of our adoptive history. It is as if we didn't exist until some well-meaning couple took us into their homes. I actually was a living, breathing human being for 4-1/2 months before I had the legal identity I grew up with. My amended birth certificate is a fraud, a fake that was manufactured to foster the pretense that the people I called Mom and Dad were, in fact, my mother and father from birth forward. Of course they were my parents, no question, but I also had a prior set of parents whose identity was unknown to me until this past year.
At the ripe-old age of 41, I realized it was time to do some searching, and began in earnest. Oh, the hours I spent on ancestry.com and the Vietnam War Memorial website, the hours I spent in libraries and looking at microfilm (I think my vision is forever altered by those fun afternoons).
I am one of the lucky ones, because I learned all about my family of origin, both sides, and have met my biological mother and my biological father's brother and his family. My birthfather was a helicopter pilot in Vietnam who lost his life before I turned a year old, so I'll never meet him, but meeting his mother (my first and only grandmother!) and his brother has been the most incredible experience, and I am truly blessed to know them. I am especially blessed to know my family health history, which is one aspect of closed adoptions that people don't consider when they're looking at that tiny healthy baby who has just been born to most likely young, healthy parents.
My biological mother is living, and I've met her once and spoken with her several times on the phone. She is great, and I look forward to getting to know her more in the future. There is a lot of pain and grief to work out when you are a birthmother, and she is still working through all sorts of emotions. It's easier for me. I have no memory of being relinquished, while she remembers all too clearly the wrenching heartache of surrendering her baby. She is a strong woman, and we continue to find things about each other that are so very similar.
Which leads me to my adoptive mother, my mom. I worried about how she would feel when I found my biological family, and didn't mention anything about my searching until I'd completed it and met both sides of my birthfamily. I didn't want her to worry about me, and this was a journey I needed to take by myself without having to consider anyone else's reactions but my own (my own were quite enough to deal with, thank you very much). When I told Mom about meeting my birthfamily, instead of reacting in a threatened way, she was joyous. She immediately phoned her sister, who christened my news "Our Christmas Miracle." I'm sure she has gone through many emotions of her own, but this discovery has reinforced how incredible and resilient my mom is and how much her influence has shaped the person I have become. Being a parent is a complex thing, and you can be a biological parent or a functioning parent, you can be both, you can be one or the other at different times and under different circumstances. The big thing I've learned over and over during this process is how much you can love many different people. It's perfectly acceptable to have several children and love them all, so it makes sense that I could have two mothers, one a biological one, one an adoptive, functional one, and love them both. I am grateful to my birthmother for carrying me and making the sacrifices she had to make to bear and then relinquish me, and I am grateful to my adoptive mother for the sacrifices and the leap of faith she made to take me in and love me as a mother should. I can't imagine being a mother to a child not of my flesh, but she did it and continues to do it. And I love her and always will. She is still the person I call when I need advice or a sympathetic ear, and I don't imagine that will ever change.
My own journey of discovery continues. Now that I know where I come from, where I was born, the circumstances of my birth, my health history, a lot of the mystery of me has melted away. And that is nice, but a little disconcerting. No longer can I fantasize about exotic origins. I come from hard-working, decent people with strong family connections, their share of eccentricities, and really dark eyes. Oh, yeah, name the disease, and I can find it in my family health history, which makes me especially thankful that I've taken reasonably good care of my health most of my life.
Now that I know where I came from, I have come to the conclusion that we are the product of biology, environment, and something else, a spark of identity that transcends any explanation. And that is a very good thing.
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