Unexpected Experiences

I told her.  “Put me at the top of your list, girl.  I wanna be the first one you call if you go into labor and need a ride to the hospital.”  I love babies, and I love her (my sweet friend).

Sure enough.  I got “the” phone call at 2:30ish a.m. a few nights later.  Her water broke.  ??  I hopped out of bed, pulled myself together (kind of) and picked her up.  She, herself, had only that very night packed her own hospital stay bag–just in case she went early.  And she did–two weeks early even.

So, I’ve given birth to four sweet babies prior and pursued and waited for our daughter from Haiti over a ten month period of time; and, I’m not unnerved by this situation.  Interestingly, she doesn’t seem to be either (too much, at least).  I have my own reasons why I believe she is taking this in stride.  My friend’s childhood into adulthood process, barring any strange or unexpected happenings during delivery, really was probably more difficult to handle than what she is about to face now.  And that’s a whole separate story; in fact, that’s her story to tell.  I”ll just tell mine.

We arrive at the emergency room close to 3:30 a.m.  I feel fatigue throughout my body.  She is focused and excited.  I’m wondering how she is feeling/if she is feeling pain due to contractions, as she shows no signs of such.

I think back to my first pregnancy.  The contractions woke me up.  My husband and I played cards until I was uncomfortable enough to know this was the real deal.  24 hoursish later–with a terribly painful and dreadful labor and two hours of pushing–our first boy was born via c-section.  Yes.  These thoughts go through my mind for this sweet young new mom friend of mine.  But, I keep them to myself.  🙂  She and her man have their own journey, and it is unfolding now for them.

We move from the emergency room to a kind of “testing?” room; the nurses there check her over–make sure that her water has truly broken (duh :)) and that she shows sign of labor.  As I sit alongside her–very Not pregnant, I recognize my role.  I am standing alongside her while her body and her baby do their thing.  This is my first time to stand alongside a pregnant woman about to deliver.

I think back to my birth parents.  How in the world did that all go down??  How in the world did she go into labor?  Where did she live?  Did she live with him?  Did she live with a friend or by herself?  Did her water break?  Or did she have contractions first like me?  Is the story of him being with her when I was born true?  Was he by her side as I am by my friend’s side right now?  I don’t know.  I don’t really have time to think about it much, and if I do think about it too much I will no longer be of much use to my dear friend who needs me.  Hmmm . . . .  What thoughts/feelings did my birthdad have to shut down and refuse to think about in order to be supportive to my birth mom and her baby as they did their thing?  Was he supportive?  How?

We move to the “Family Suite” where her baby will be born.  The place?  The same portion of the hospital where I visited (only a few years ago) my dear friends and their newly adopted little baby boy M.  My eyes and heart are flooded with images.

I wasn’t expecting to be ushered into that same place now.  I wasn’t expecting a phone call tonight.  I’m Not Expecting.  But we are now walking through hallways I once walked through with my dear friends (adoptive parents), a birth grandma, a sweet new baby in intensive care, extended family members and visitors, and a tucked away and hidden birth mom somewhere . . .  I wasn’t expecting to go there that night physically or emotionally.

I think back, in fact I can’t help from thinking back because the memories are flashing through my eyes, of my friend (little baby boy M’s adoptive mom) with red patches of stress on her neck.  Of her restrained (?) excitement over this precious new boy to add to their family as their first.  Of her feelings that she must dance (in front of others who are watching!) so carefully between loving on her boy and being thankful/respectful of his birth mom.  Of never having done this before–how to do it?  How to do it well?  Is there a manual for any of them?

Whoosh.  Focus.  I am here to help my pregnant and soon-to-deliver friend.

We get settled in the “Family Suite.”  She is in a much more comfortable bed according to her, and I am lying on the couch–hoping to catch a few zzzz’s before her man arrives and I exit the scene.  Interestingly, as the not Expecting one in the room, I can see signs of what is to come all around her bed–things she need not see.  All manner of contraptions exist under that comfy bed to assist in labor and delivery–things I did not know existed until just NOW even after delivering four babies.  That’s OK.  She is happy, her giggly self yet subdued, mostly unaware of her contractions, hungry, and tired.  I do not know what the next hours hold for her.  And again, I keep my mouth shut.  No need to share any stories of mine or anyone else’s labor and delivery experiences at this point; she is about to have her own.

Tests done.  Gown on.  Strap around the belly strapped.  Monitor on baby and on mama’s finger.  We are tired.  We both agree we would like to close our eyes and rest.  I try to and so does she.

I close my eyes, and now I have flashes of my birth dad (especially) and my birth mom in this very similar layout. My birth dad alongside my birth mom–perhaps tired, trying not to be selfish and talk about feeling tired, anticipating the birth of the baby, and nervous about how it will all happen.  I can’t really sleep yet.  My mind is whirring around what it must have been like to go through each step, knowing, at the end,  . . .

😦  the baby must stay.  The baby must stay.  The baby must stay here . . . .  We must move on . . .  The baby must . . .

“M . . . ” I mutter to my friend my lingering thoughts–about my birth parents, my parents, my friends who have three precious children through adoption . . . and my unexpected feelings surrounding this experience.  She understands.  🙂  She suggests I go if it is too much for me–making me too sad.  Sweet of her.  I’m fine.

I am not Expecting in the expecting room for the first time.  I watch the Expecting through different eyes.  Ghosts of my unknown labor and delivery and unknown feelings and voices of my birth parents keep me from resting; sharing my thoughts with my friend out loud, however, chases my ghosts away, and we both rest for a while.  🙂

Happy news–easy delivery, sweet baby, challenges ahead (as with any earth-bound soul),  . . .

 

 

To be Known

Recently, sitting down to work through a project (specifically a Bible study), I faced this assignment–and opened a whole can of worms:

“Fill in the diagrams below describing both the positive and negative influences from your grandparents and parents.  If you never knew your parents or grandparents, substitute the caregivers you have experienced.” (italics mine)

Trouble.  The directions kindly make room for someone who “never knew” their parents or grandparents, which would be a sad burden to carry throughout one’s life.  I started to think about kids who lost their parents to death, divorce . . . foster kids.  And how about adoptees?  We fit into this category of never knowing . . . I am an adopted person who “never knew” my parents or grandparents (my biological ones); and, the directions suggest I “substitute the caregivers” I experienced.

Ick.  “Substitute”  “Caregivers”  The words do not taste good in my mouth.  My biological parents are definitely in the category of parents who I “never knew.”  But, my parents who actually raised me are NOT in the category of “caregivers,” and I am not filling in this diagram with “substitute” parents.   I am filling in this diagram with my Family.

Ponderings.  Did I need/have “substitute parents?”  What was wrong with me that I couldn’t keep my first set?  And how do kids treat and view their “substitutes?”  A teacher cannot/chooses not to be in class one day, so the students all get a “substitute?”  All these words/thoughts mingle around in my head together . . . .

In a deep emotional place somewhere inside of me is the feeling that my birth parents left me because I was too much, too much to handle, too much trouble, too embarrassing, too . . . , and substitutes were then called.  If that pill is too hard to swallow, consider my daughter Naika instead of me.  We brought her home from Haiti (which is her first home) when she was 2 1/2; we brought her here because her birth mom (birth dad unknown) had to leave her/couldn’t provide basic nourishment for her.  It was “too much.”  So, my husband and I are substitutes.  Caregivers.  And not only are we substitutes, but we are obviously the “wrong” color, so everyone can tell she has a substitute.  Ugh.  Kind of raw, I know.  But also a fact.  The first ones couldn’t, so now we fill in.  Hmmm . . .

So back to the assigned work.  Here is the diagram . . .

“Maternal Grandparents

Grandfather                                                                          Grandmother

Positive Influence                                                                Positive Influence

 

Negative Influence                                                              Negative Influence

 

Paternal Grandparents

Grandfather                                                                         Grandmother

Positive Influence                                                               Positive Influence

 

Negative Influence                                                              Negative Influence

 

Mother                                                                                 Father

Positive Influence                                                                Positive Influence

 

Negative Influence                                                              Negative Influence”

I set out to fill in the diagram with the knowledge of my family and the limited knowledge I have gained of my biological family over the recent past 4 1/2 years.  As I do so, I recognize that perception skews reality.  However, I also recognize my perception is my reality.  So, I set out to “fill in the diagram” from my own memory, reality, and perception.

Here goes:

I have hard workers in my family (adoptive), people who remained in one field of work for their entire adult lives, remained in one home/town for their entire lives, a grandma who preferred order over chaos in her home–and one who preferred just the opposite it seems.  I have a grandpa who I’ve only heard stories about because he passed away when I was a baby, people who are good savers, who try to do “the right thing,” who are loyal, and people with a sense of humor–just to give a brief overview.

On my biological side, I find dancers, a grandma who “loved babies” I’ve been told, a grandpa who had a tender spot for “little girls,” military people, people who are emotionally frail (so I’ve been told), people who sever relationships, some very welcoming family members, and people who keep secrets.

My pervasive response to this exercise?  As I look back over my diagram, I see on my biological half several family members who never knew me, don’t know that I exist, maybe suspect that I exist, or refuse to know me.  And this is where I am stuck emotionally–in a place of not wanting to be known.

Over the past three years or so, I have been fighting the feeling of not wanting to be known.  A ha.  I have been jumping through hoops and crossing all sorts of boundaries to be known.  Strangers, family members, long lost friends, all sorts of people–I reach and I reach and I reach.  This is my reaction to being told by people I wanted to know and love (my birth family)–“We don’t wish to know you.”  😦

Now that I recognize this, I know what I am supposed to do; and, it’s not easy . . . .  I must sit with the realization/feeling that some people just don’t want to know me.  I am NOT comfortable with that.  Can I face not being known potentially for the rest of my life by people I biologically care about?  Given no choice right now, I have to (?) accept this.  And, can I recognize that the people who do want to know me are the ones worth spending time with and chasing . . . ?  What a switch.

My security blanket? . . . Remembering that God was present through “every single day” of my heritage.  “He was there . . . .  He knows every detail.  He knows exactly how you’ve been affected, and His expertise is reconstruction.”  He does not and cannot make mistakes.

 

 

 

 

 

Psalm 69:4

It says, “I have been forced to restore what I did not steal.”

I came across this verse in church on Sunday, and it speaks to my search.  I did not steal my history from myself.  It was stolen, sealed, locked away, only to be seen by social workers–even 24ish year old social workers’ eyes were privy.

I came to a place (triggered/inspired by adopting our own little girl from Haiti) where I wanted to restore what had been stolen–knowledge of my complete identity.

I know who I am in my family–my adoptive family.  I don’t have to research and dig to define myself within that family.  And, my ancestry is only a few questions away in that family.  I can just ask my aunts and uncles questions about whatever I want.  We talk.  I love them.

But my birth family is a completely different matter . . . if I want to restore what has been taken/hidden from me, I must fight tooth and nail as most of them still choose to deny me.   I am thankful for the internet, and for the sweet sweet birthfamily members who have opened their hearts to me and consider me family.  We can talk, and we do a little.  I love them.

I guess I’m a little angry . . .

I’m still reading that book . . . And I know it’s got the right stuff in it–the good stuff.  I’m stuck for just an hour or two.
Direct quote from Questions Adoptees are Asking:  “If we were created by God from the very fiber of our birth parents’ physical and emotional beings, don’t you think our need to think about them would be innate?  If we had primal conversations with our mother in the womb, wouldn’t you say it is natural for us to think about her as we are growing up and growing old?  And if our birth father’s DNA helped determine the color of our hair and yes, wouldn’t you say that he is just as much a part of us as our mother and it is normal to want a relationship with him?”

Then a little later, she writes, “So what must we do for ourselves?  What healthy choice must we make to move closer toward who we were created to be by a loving God?”

Here is where I discover some anger inside of me.  What must I do for myself??  Are you kidding me?  Me, the baby, . . . my adoptive parents have given me money for the search, my husband gave me cash for my birthday towards the search, I have driven to search–all over Illinois and St. Louis suburbs (even around Orlando in search of a YMCA where my 1/2 sister and her son might be!) which equals time and money away from my own husband and five children/business/two dogs. . . . .  I have sat in an office in tears with a social worker who has SPOKEN to both my birthmother and my birthfather but could not/would not release any identifying information to me.  I have sat in tears across the table from a social worker who had my FILE in her hands and could not release any identifying information to me.  I have two search angels who walked me through the search/journey step-by-step and once I had the smallest bit of identifying information started to search/find for me . . . volunteering all along the way.  I have spent HOURS digging for my family on the computer, ENERGY and COURAGE to make phone calls/inbox messages/emails/send friendly presents/jump through many many hoops to find and know them.

So what am I mad about?  I know this is a rebellious spot that I am in . . . .  I was doing better . . . just need a space to breathe this breath:  I am angry that I now have to fight to make healthy choices.  Me.  The baby me.  I made many healthy choices as a teenager/young adult/young married woman/prior to finding my birthparents and being told to stay away.  Post-search, however, I now struggle.  There is pain to anesthetize that I don’t think was there before–at least not so acutely.  I was pretty busy being “really good.”  So, I must make healthy choices while I am in pain?   I am angry at how much responsibility falls on my shoulder to heal from a choice that was made for me, not by me.  And their choice to place me for adoption was followed 37 years and about 4 months later with another choice to place me STILL . . . outside of their family.  :((

I know this rejection to be a source of my pain because in contrast, I have precious birthfamily members who– once found, embraced me.  They do not cause me pain that I then need to anesthetize.  I trust them, and I am amazed at how each time we talk, I feel their love and assurance that they accept that I am also one of them/part of them.  I have a dual identity.  And I LOVE both sides of my identity deeply.

It is the rejection that drives me to anesthetize, not the acceptance.
It is the rejection that leaves me feeling victimized, not the acceptance.

Finally, in her “action” portion of this chapter, she suggests that I write a letter to and from my birthmom and birthdad . . . “even though they’ll never be sent.”  I sensed anger at that . . . feeling as if she is telling me “you better not send them.”  And in fact, I probably shouldn’t.  But sometimes I’m not sure why.  They are just people.  Why should I be afraid to communicate with them/send them a letter–write them letters that I never send . . . .?  I just don’t understand.

Here is the “good: adoptee–wrapping up for the rebellious one above:

I KNOW better.  I have tender thoughts and accepting thoughts towards my birthfamily.  And as soon as they would want to know me (if they ever do), I will jump to care for/about them.  🙂  And, I love my adoptive family dearly . . . . would never not want to be theirs/be with them/know them.  And I am thankful for the family I have now with my husband–would never want us all to break apart.  These things I know.

In the meantime(s) which I think are fewer and farther between, I get angry/sad/chaotic/and feel unattached.