Or: Navigating the unchartered waters of adoption, the relationships that ensue, and the lack of definition within newfound family as I create a family of my own.

One thing that has been made repeatedly apparent to me as an adoptee who has been reunited with birth families is the lack of guidance or precedent available. What exactly is the relationship you have with your birthmom? Or birthdad? Is there such a thing as being too close, too open? When are you being too aloof and distant? How do you integrate whole new sets of family into a life you’ve been living for years? How do you integrate whole new sets of family into the sets you already have? Guess what! No one can answer these questions for you. And most days, even you can’t. Unfortunately, in the past ten years since meeting my birthparents, I am often only made aware of where the boundaries are when I cross them, or don’t come near enough. Basically, when I’ve somehow upset someone, or someone has upset me, in trying to figure this tangle all out.

Girl Time
For the most part, I have been much closer with my birthmom. As a child, envisioning being reunited, I always pictured meeting her. I guess part of that was encouraged by the fact that I knew there was interest in her meeting me too, thus, no fear of rejection. And maybe part of it was playing into the fairly biased stereotype that single women who put their children up for adoption due so in part because of the father being a deadbeat who doesn’t want to be part of the picture. Whatever the reasons, I would daydream about meeting her often – what she would look like, how she would react to seeing me for the first time, would we hug, laugh, cry, etc etc. Once we met we kept in close contact, and she has been extremely generous in sharing her life and her story with me. (At times, I feel too much so, but that is a whole other post….) We’ve gotten together countless times over the years, making day trips to visit one another, traveling to a common point for a girls’ weekend, even going overseas together, sharing an amazing trip to a land new to us both. Our interests run in a very similar vein, which has made it easy to bond over common interests such as theatre, books, and a continual quest for peace within one’s self. I often introduce her to others as my godmother, because we both find that to be a fitting description of the role she plays in my life.

This past spring, though, there was a bit of a meltdown, which led to a questioning of her role in my life. A questioning on her part, I might add, not mine. And this is just one of the many (MANY) sticky areas that comes with adoption, which is unique and different for every single person. I felt that our relationship was pretty stable. We talked on the phone with some regularity, emailed, wrote, and visited whenever our lives would permit. I am, admittedly, one of those people who gets easily distracted by the life in front of them, sometimes neglecting the lives of those they love that are physically farther away, for no other reason than I don’t see them on a regular basis and fall out of habit of keeping in contact. Lame, I know. Well, this had happened some with Birthmom. And when I dropped the news on her – over the phone, I might add – that she was going to a grandma….. well, things got quiet. And awkward. And ended up with her emailing me the next day, confessing feelings of confusion as to where she fits in my life, and the life of this child. Is she part of my family? Is she her own family, that I sort of belong to? Do we just flit in and out of each other’s lives? It was a tough email to read and process. And once again, questions with no answers.

The best I could and have come up with since that time is that yes, I absolutely see her as family. But how that is defined is completely fluid and ever-changing. And is something that we both need to reevaluate with some regularity to ensure that both our needs are being met. How we (my husband and I) are going to introduce our child to her is yet to be determined. What will she want to be called? What role does she see herself playing in this little monkey’s life? I don’t know, and I don’t think she does either. But we have both come to terms with letting such decisions breathe, keeping it open and loose, and letting what feels right inform us as we go. (I know, so hippie-dippie. But really, with so much of this, it’s about feeling things out….) Only time will really tell if this is a workable solution. And if not, we’ll regroup, try to think of what comes next, and proceed with caution as we continue to redefine this relationship. This amazing, wonderful, confusing, emotional, hard, sweet relationship.

A Man’s World
My relationship with my birthdad has been much more…. scarce. (As such, this section will be much shorter, and filled with many more unanswered questions.) He’s shown some interest, as have I, but we have both been hesitant over the years, tentative in our outreach. We’ve gotten together around holidays every year or so, and always enjoy our time together, but somehow that does not lead to more frequent contact. I know that he feels unsure of how to proceed, and I do too. And I’m ok with this casual relationship we’ve developed. For the most part. Most of the time. But in the times when I wish we had more, I’m uncertain of how to make that happen, of what that next step is. It’s so much harder with men. So much harder to read. Emotions don’t play into it nearly as much, and neither do outpourings of the heart, which leaves me a little lost and unsure. Not that I need outpourings, mind you, I really don’t. But without some sort of hint or indication that he wants more also, it’s hard to determine where we stand or if we wish to stand closer, and so we continue on, keeping each other at arm’s length.

He knows I’m pregnant, and has expressed heartfelt congratulations. And sometimes I think to myself “You’re going to be a granddad”, but I know that’s not really true. He’s not, cause I don’t think he sees himself as even a dad, or birthdad. Did he father a child? Yes. Does he care for said child very much? Yes. Has he ever reached out in a way that would indicate paternal instinct? No, not really. But then again, I don’t know him that well, so this whole post might be entirely unfair. It’ll be interesting to see how he interacts with the monkey. I am trying very hard to be better about keeping in touch with people, now that it’s not just me, but my family, and he is one of the people I am most hopeful about furthering our bond. As for what his role is? I could only guess at how he might answer that. I think he could only guess at an answer. And that’s ok. For the most part. Most of the time.

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*No, I cannot help myself when it comes to a bad pun. Consider yourself warned.

I wouldn’t say that my birth dad and I have a close relationship. Perhaps respectful and distant are better adjectives. We don’t talk for months, even more than a year at times. Every year on my birthday, I receive a bouquet of flowers. We’ve had some great interactions, I’ve met much of my paternal family, but we both seem to be comfortable with keeping each other at arm’s length.

I’ve recently had a new reason to reach out, to re-establish contact. That reason is the little monkey rapidly coming to full gestation in my tummy. How do you tell someone that is barely a parent that he’s going to be a grandparent? Apparently with an email and sonogram pictures…. He took it well, maintained contact, sounded happy even. Will this be a new start to this somewhat tenuous bond? I guess time will tell. And I know a little more effort could be put forth on my part. Maybe this time I’ll follow through.

Tomorrow is your birthday. And I was thinking maybe, just maybe, I would have the bestest gift in all the world to give you. Or maybe I was deluding myself into thinking it could even be a remote possibility. But I was having symptoms. Actual symptoms! So, of course, I broke down and tested, again. And I failed, again. And then, because I had stated not three weeks ago even that I was going to stop thinking about it, stop obsessing, just learn to accept and be calm, I hid my failure under used tissues in the trash can. I want to be calm and accepting, but I also wanted to surprise you, to give you (us) something you would never forget, to give you this fairy-tale ending (or beginning, really). Maybe next year….
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One thing I am still coming to terms with here is how much to share. I tend to be a fairly guarded person. Letting the wall down is hard, and here I am, spilling. In fairly generic yet transparent terms. You said you didn’t mind. You had no problem with me sharing, with people knowing. But the failure isn’t on your head or in your heart, it’s on me. And that’s hard.

It’s also hard to know that 90% of the readers are people we know. The anonymity of the interwebs is a beautiful thing, and it helps me get stuff off my chest and out of my brain. Writing here has been a nice outlet. But what happens when someone reads, and feigns sympathy to my face, but behind closed doors is judgmental? And ok, I’m not giving our friends very much credit (sorry everyone), but I also feel like not too many of our friends are in similar places or have a similar mindset about all of this. But maybe that’s just my insecurity coming out…

Sorry to be so dramatic. I’m going to go ahead and blame that on the clinical depression. Everything escalates to super drama in my mind, and then I get to type it out and share, for better or for worse. So, happy birthday. Sorry I’m lame.

I’m not 100% sure about this, but I don’t think I played Scrabble until a few years ago. We didn’t have the game as a kid, and I don’t recall being introduced to it with friends. But a few years ago, I was given the game as a gift, and was very excited. See, I like words. A lot. In a maybe unhealthy way. LOVE them, can not get enough. So I thought this would be the game for me.

Unfortunately, I had married into a family of Scrabble savants. Tim kicks ass at the game, and his mom can rack up a ridiculously high score. So much so that Tim has never beaten her at the game. And apparently, her father was even better. But I felt up to the challenge. Silly me.

I played countless games with Tim (won’t even think about playing his mom), and they always end the same – with him kicking my ass. Some games give him a run for his money, and for a short moment, I have a glimmer of hope. Some games I become totally frustrated and throw accusatory remarks his way. (I am such a sore loser when it comes to Scrabble…) Last week, I won my very first game. I actually beat him. It was a great feeling, albeit short-lived – we started another game the next day, in which he squarely trounced me… sigh.

Well, we recently discovered the ability to play Scrabble online. And, for whatever reason, I completely and totally kick ass at it. I don’t know what it is about this difference in format (because truly, I’m a bit of a luddite and like the traditional board and tiles), but for some reason, I am dominating this new way of playing. With each play, as I rack up some huge score to his single digit attempts, I get all warm and fuzzy feeling and can’t help but giggle to myself. Current game – me: 311, him: 199.

But I know it’s just a game, and to not get ahead of myself. I suspect that once he reads this, he’ll just ask if I want to play real Scrabble, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

To me, it’s always felt like my mum was the glue that kept our family together. She was solid and stable and kept everything running smoothly. She kept the calendar up-to-date on our fridge, knew which kid had to go where on a given night, planned meals, grocery shopped, cleaned, and worked full-time. (This isn’t to say that my dad didn’t do anything; he was equally involved, and our house would have fallen apart without him, but to me, Mum ruled.) She was always well-dressed, attentive to everyone around her, gentle, caring, loving yet stern when needed, she was my everything in a lot of ways.

My sophomore year of high school, though, that rock-solid stability started to falter. She started forgetting things, missing details, losing thoughts. She started napping a lot and crying more than I was comfortable with. Reoccurring nightmares made it such that she would walk our halls at night, afraid to try to sleep.

I remember the day they told me so distinctly. It was a dark February day, a Friday. I had come home from school and she was already there, on the couch, wrapped in blankets. She had been missing work a good deal by then. I sat down with her and we talked for a bit. She explained things to me as much as she could before the talking and thinking had exhausted her too much. My dad was at the kitchen table, and as I searched his eyes for an answer, I quickly came to understand that he didn’t have one. He was lost, drifting, trying not to explode, pleading with me through his eyes to not make a scene.

“She has to go,” he said, matter-of-factly. “She has to go away, she has to get help. This is one of the better programs, this Vet Hospital treats PTSD, and we’ll be able to visit. It’s only a few hours away.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know, two to three months. It’ll just be you and me for a while.”

I don’t know how, but this is one of the few times I held my shit together for them. (About an hour later, though, when Tim picked me up to go to a movie, I lost it, absolutely lost it. I cried throughout the whole movie – the first time I ever cried at a movie – and something in me broke that day; I now cry at almost any movie, as though my body has decided that this will be my release.)
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About five years later, after continued treatment and therapy, options to treat her PTSD were still being explored. She was much better, but still not entirely functional. It was hard, really hard, on the family. I can’t imagine how hard it was on her.

My dad has this thing about always being treated by the best. No matter what it took, if someone had a health issue, he felt the best doctors in the country should be sought out. So, my mum was being treated at Johns Hopkins for geriatric medicine. She wasn’t that old, but her symptoms were pointing to Alzheimer’s, and Hopkins was one of the best. She had multiple CAT scans, and my dad sent the films to be read not only by her doctors there, but also by brain specialists across the continent. It was acknowledged that her brain was altered, that her grey matter did in fact look similar to a brain of someone with advanced early-onset Alzheimer’s. But, thankfully, it was just her PTSD. This ‘disorder’ was so severe it had physically changed the make-up of her brain. It was scary, but also a relief.
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An article in the New York Times this week reports that the Pentagon has decided that PTSD does not qualify someone for the Purple Heart. Because “it is not a physical wound”. This makes me sick. It makes me want to jump up and down and scream. My mother’s brain has been physically altered. She was in war over 40 years ago and is still suffering the consequences, but wouldn’t be eligible because her scars are on the inside. Now, I understand some of the Pentagon’s reasoning – I’m sure a lot of people do try to fake PTSD to avoid further service, and I understand it is hard to diagnose. But maybe, instead of disregarding it yet again, they should look into further studying this disease, so that there are better standards by which to diagnose and treat PTSD.

How many people need to suffer this for the military to start to take it a little more seriously?! Are the reports of vets who turn violent, vets who are unable to be reintroduced into society, who shut down and can no longer deal not enough? Instead of throwing our resources at wars with no end, maybe we should be thinking a little more about what happens when thousands of men and women come home with long-term PTSD. What happens to the spouses and children of those vets who then live with this suffering, who start experiencing their own suffering, who breakdown along-side their loved one? Screw you, Pentagon.

My folks were not big into music or pop culture as a whole when I was a child.  From the stories they tell, it seemed they were ‘hip’ at some point of their adult lives, but that point came long before I did.  One thing I do remember distinctly was my dad’s favorite album and band.  I can’t pinpoint at what age I could recognize it for what it was, but it exists in my mind with some of my earliest memories.  

My dad had a den in a small room under the stairs.  The entryway was always dark and going down there was an act that took a huge force of will, swallowing down nerves created through an overly-active imagination.  But thinking back, maybe my fright was not a creature all of my own making.  You see, my dad’s favorite album is “The Wall”, and it has been there for him in dark, desperate times in a way that few humans have.  Each fall, late November until almost January, my dad would spend his days in a rage, his nights sleepless, as he relived, over and over, what I am guessing are the two worst months of his life – the two worst months he spent in Vietnam during his tour in ‘68.   Throughout those months each year, he would crank the stereo with The Wall in, trying to drown out the demons, often screaming along to the lyrics.  So maybe my fear of going down to that room was well-founded after all…  The helicopters and sparse guitar of Another Brick in the Wall in particular scared the wits out of me.  

As I grew older, though, I began to hear the music for what it was – wonderful, breathtaking, astonishing.  (The list could go on and on, but I’ll spare you.)  Pink Floyd was the music of car trips in my youth, yet it was also the music of aggression, the music of my father.  While it no longer makes me want to ‘drop and cover’, it still plays a large part in my life, and is a band that will always stick with me.  And one day, Dad, I hope you get to share this music with my kids.  But if you aren’t still here, aren’t able to, know that I will sit with them and we will listen, and I’ll tell them about what a great man my father was.

Ok, here’s the basics.  The absolutely bare-bones basics.

I’m adopted.  I’ve known this my whole life, like I’ve known I have blue eyes.  There was no big “talk”, no sit-down with my parents where they gently break the news to me, no shocking discovery of documents in the bottom of a drawer.  It’s just been a fact of my existence, part of who I am.  

My parents, my mum and dad – the ones who raised me and changed my diapers and have supported me since I was two months old – are wonderful people with a messy, messy past.  To give you an idea, they met while serving in Vietnam in 1968.  This past has made a number of appearances throughout my life, mostly in the form of chronic PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder).   

I have been battling depression since I was 12 or so.  It runs rampant in my family (see PTSD, directly above), and I later found out that it’s also genetic.  

I have met and know my biological families.  I am close with my bio-mom, her husband, and my younger half brother, and share Christmas cards with many others.  These extensions of family are huge, and while I am not in touch with them as much as I should or would like to be, I am extremely grateful for how open and accepting they have been.

I married my high school sweetheart at 22.  (I recognize that it’s sickenly sweet, but once you get to know us, you’d realize it’s not.)  Extremely young, I know, much younger than I ever thought I would be, but it felt right, and still does.  We’re young and overly responsible.  His grandmother had a saying of him – he could fall in a bucket of shit and come out smelling like roses – and this sort of good fortune has seemed to rub off on me too over the years.