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Preface: My story isn’t about the politics of abortion vs adoption. It’s about what happened to me. It is my own. It should not be extrapolated to another person’s decision. It’s a fairy tale story of love, at least that is how I choose to hear it.
I am adopted.
My adoptive mother (who will be referred to as Mother for the rest of the story, since she changed my diapers, fed me, rocked me to sleep) could not have children from her body so she and her first husband decided to adopt. They went to an agency, jumped through unimaginable hoops, and after a while received a call that they would be receiving a baby in March of 1972. Mother had time to plan for this child, anticipate it, and also fret deeply over the fact that something may fall through. In the end of March, however, she had my brother in her arms. He was perfect in every way with blonde hair, blue eyes and very little fussing. The following October, mother and her baby boy, parents, and husband were out in the yard in their Florida neighborhood enjoying an afternoon. The phone rang. It was a doctor who she had talked to during their adoption search for my brother. He didn’t know she had successfully adopted and still had her contact information.
“Would you be interested in a private adoption of a little girl that was born here a few days ago?” he asked.
She went out and asked the family their opinion and within seconds came back and said, “Yes.” That night they came to the hospital to see me. I was 3 days old. I was tiny, barely 5 lbs, fitting only in preemie clothes. I had a head full of black hair. My grandmother tells me she just kept repeating that I looked like a china doll. Since this was a private adoption and not through an agency there was a lot of fear involved. Would the teenage mother or her parents change their minds? At the time and as is still the case in many places, adoptions are not fully binding for up to six months. Mother feared she had seen the grandparents at the attorney’s office and that they would know who she was. They brought me home not knowing if they could keep me.
I proved to be quite the handful compared to my easy going brother. I had colic, formula and diaper allergies and other hardships. On top of the fact, mother had a very active 7 month old boy. My grandmother stepped in and took turns each night rocking and holding me, the one who wailed for hours. As a result I bonded equally with my mother and grandmother. My needs were met by both of them.
The reason I don’t mention the man who adopted me because I don’t know him. I do know who he is, of course, and have communicated with him a few times through the years but within a short time after my brother and I were adopted, my parents divorced. I have no memory of him ever being there.
My brother and I always knew we were adopted. To me it was a magical story filled with plot twists, love, and eventual happy resolution. For my brother it meant that someone had given him away, abandoned him.
There was a piece of artwork hanging in one of our spare bedrooms of “The Girl With the Pearl Earring”. I would look at her and wonder if my biological mother looked like that, or looked like me, or wondered where I was. Even when I was very young I knew she wondered how and where I was but she put aside her own aches and pains for what she felt was the best decision for me. How could this not make me happy? Of course I had many questions. Who was my father? Why was she so young? Were they both young? How did her parents treat her afterwards? Did she know she was pregnant and was too scared to ask for help or receive prenatal care? Could it be a situation of rape or molestation — had I come from something ugly?
These were the little girl thoughts I would have. Ultimately, I have found great peace with it and began viewing it as my very special story of origin. My childhood was not idyllic. My Mother was and is not perfect. My biological family could not guarantee me a childhood of perfection, rainbows, or unicorns. What did happen was that everyone acted out love for my interest. How could that be anything but beautiful?
Through the years I am often asked if I have searched for my biological fmaily. I simply reply, no. When I consider a serious search, I have two emotions that arise:
What if my fairy tale ideas are crushed to nothing? What if she has moved so far on with her life with a new family who has no inkling about me that I ruin things for her? How could I ruin the beautiful gift she gave me of a life with a family partly of her choosing and the best intentions and wishes for a good future?
I signed up for national registries so if someone was looking for me, they could find me. Much of this was catalyzed by being pregnant with my first child. I began wondering what she would look like and what sort of genetics were at play. Every medical form I filled out asked about medical history. I don’t have any. It doesn’t bother me because it makes me feel freer, as if I can let go of worries like cancer and heart disease simply because it runs in my family. I have blank slate and I can create the best health for me by striving to be healthy. This intention is here with me, every day. Every day I choose to love my story of origin.
