First, if you are new here, I encourage you to click on the menu or questions across the top, below the floral photo. It’s a start. You may also click through the Archives to read through past posts and catch yourself up with my story…
….Yeah, I took a break from the blog. It’s been a journey to say the very least…Allow me to expand on this for a few posts…
Until late 2014, I would say my story was pretty charmed for an adoptee in reunion. My (adoptive) family supported my birth family reunion. My birth mother was loving and eager to build a relationship. My extended birth family was welcoming and open. Then, the bottom of my world fell out. My dad suffered lethal injuries in a workplace accident. We spent a week at Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, hoping for good news, monitoring Dad’s oxygen levels, watching his swelling go down enough to recognize his face again… We knew the brain swelling was the reason he hadn’t woken up to tease us or gripe about his exposed feet (he ALWAYS wore socks) or sing along (badly) with his favorite singer-songwriters. When the world-class neurologists told us their findings and his prognosis, we knew what his choice would be. We took him off life-support and said our final goodbyes only seven hours later. My daddy was gone. Everything had changed.
I tried to maintain my relationship with my birthmother for the next 18 months…We had been doing weekly Skype calls, in Spanish. But after Dad died, I could barely think in English, let alone Spanish. It took several months to decide that I needed to just email with her. At least then I could use (and correct) Google Translate instead of relying on my own frazzled and grief-stricken mind to do the interpreting.
And then at some point, I just couldn’t do it anymore. It was something she said…I’m sure she was trying to empathize and relate to me, encourage me that I would find joy again after Dad’s death, but that’s not what I wanted to hear from her. Every time I saw her name in my inbox, I’d start to panic. My Boyfriend (at the time, now Fiance) could always tell that I was more anxious when she would email. I was in a fragile place and aaaaall the emotions of losing Dad and not receiving what I needed from her put me over the edge. I had to ask her to not contact me until I contacted her. I had to just pause it.
I have said for the past four years, “If I told 16-year-old me that I quit talking to our birthmother, she would cry and say WHAT?!?!” I also know that my 16-year-old self wouldn’t believe me that Dad dies when we’re 30…Would I really have been nicer to him as a teen if I had known? Damn, I sure hope so.
But back to the adoption part…. After I stopped talking to my birthmother, I was nervous for awhile that she would try to contact me. When my birthday came around, I half wanted her to reach out and half wanted her to stay away. Was I disappointed when my birthday came and went and she didn’t reach out? Yes. Was I also relieved? Yes. Honestly, the timing is fuzzy at this point. I can’t remember when I finally decided that I needed help. I sought out a therapist in my state to help me deal with the grief of losing Dad. We realized through EMDR and inner child work and LOTS of tears (me, not the therapist!) that Dad’s death and the resulting grief brought up a lot of unprocessed grief of losing my birthmother as a newborn. What, you say? You were surrendered so young, how could you possibly have known that she was missing? Wasn’t your adoptive family enough? You weren’t even in your birthcountry long enough to learn the language? The answers are yes, no, and yeah, I know, but here’s the thing: We’re not the blank slates adoption agencies, in the 1980s in particular, claimed we were. None of us are really. More on this science in a future post, I’m sure.
Since I’ve ended our contact, I’ve thought a lot about my future and my birthmother’s place in it. Sometimes I miss her. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever talk to her again. Sometimes I think maybe her role in my life is done. She gave me some answers about my past, but the real questions, the ones that keep me seeing a therapist, remain. She can’t help me with those questions. That’s my work to do.