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I can not remember the face of the woman who carried me inside her body for nine months and then relinquished me to adoption in 1970 in Pittsburgh almost 36 years ago. I know her name, but don’t know the sound of her voice, or the person she was.
Since I have found my birth family, I’ve often felt blessed that I have a few items that were something tangible of hers — a letter, a charm, photographs and an article of clothing – these material items reconnect me to the few minutes that I was in her care. I have no conscious recollection of the first four days of my life except for the detailed medical records I obtained after learning of her death.
The focal point of the medical records is a few sentences that describe my birth mothers emotions prior to, during, and after holding me for a matter of minutes. I imagine I was wrapped in a blanket as she cradled me in her arms. I imagine my expression reflects the blunt trauma of being separated from my birth mother just days before. I have no idea of whether she spoke to me as she held me in her arms. I have always felt close to her and whether it was because of her holding me or the message she possibly spoke to me I do believe that she loved me.
I would like to tell you that I made an easy peace, as a child, with my birth mother and my early losses. But I did not. I was discharged from the hospital with my birth mother. She carried me out of the hospital to the parking lot and handed me over to the intermediary who handled the adoption. The intermediary then took me to my adoptive family. I was given a new name, a new national identity and a new life. As a teenager when I tried to make sense of who my birth mother was and the events that had led her to give me up, I was often overwhelmed by feelings of confusion and helplessness. I was unable to challenge the sense of safety and normalcy I experienced in my home by dwelling too much on the birth mother I had left behind.
I always thought that day would come when I would be able to see, feel, touch my birth mother, and learn of the circumstances that led to our separation. It would only arrive after I mustered the courage to make the long journey through search that I could reach reunion.
It is 1993, two weeks after learning of my birth mothers death 15 months prior, I sat in the living room of a close friend waiting to meet my biological sister and her boyfriend for the first time. This turns out to be my closest living lifelong connection to my birth mother and I actually tried to convince myself that I had come full circle. Now, in 2005 as my husband and I struggle to conceive and maintain a healthy pregnancy I can’t help but think about adoption and the possibility we may adopt our first and only child.
In making a phone call to the adoption agency that was founded by the intermediary that handled the adoption for my adoptive family it felt as if I had crossed the threshold of coming full circle. I also thought about how my parents felt 30+ years ago when they first inquired about adoption.
