Margo Darretta’s Blog

So, I made dinner. I felt normal except I couldn’t turn my brain off. I called everyone to eat. The girls chowed and went off to homework or television or girltalk. Whatever. My dad lingered at the table and wanted to talk. He chatted about a few things, and then asked “So, how are things going in the search for your birth mother?” And there it was. It was out there and that was it. No matter how much I wanted to cherish this moment as my own a while longer, I couldn’t. So out it came “Well, I met them today.” My dad just looked at me for a moment without a single trace of emotion on his face. A few heartbeats passed before he spoke again. Then his eyes went wide and he asked “What happened?” So I told him much of the story and as I spoke I watched his eyes well up with tears. My first thought was that he was feeling sad. But as I bore on through the story, I realized that the tears were also because it was an amazing story. He was as touched by the emotion of it all as I was. He kept nodding and saying “isn’t that amazing” and “isn’t that wonderful”. I actually felt horrible relating our story. Except for my mother’s funeral, this was the only time I had ever seen my father weep. At first, I knew he was weeping because he was truly touched by the story and circumstances. But quickly I realized he wept for other reasons. I said “Don’t cry Dad, you are still my dad and nothing will ever change that.” All he could say was “I knew there would be repercussions from this…. but I didn’t realize how big. As long as you didn’t know who they were, I felt like you were all mine.” That was actually very touching for me. He really wanted me. And he wanted me all to himself. I was his daughter and he didn’t want to share me with anyone. I felt loved.

So here I am. My father loves me. I always knew that. Except now, his love isn’t just paternal love. It’s a desperate love. We talked through the night and I was beginning to truly understand what he felt. I felt terribly guilty and I didn’t know what to do with that. There was no way I was going to give up the chance to have a relationship with my birthparents. And there was no way I was going to give up my dad. How in the heck was I going to strike a balance in this triangle? As I went to bed I was bone-weary. Heart weary. I wrote my parents a letter. I wanted them to know how much it meant to me to meet them and I feared that I might never see or speak to them again, so I wanted to make sure they knew what it meant to me. As I laid my head down and prayed for sleep, the one thought that ran through my head was “You have enough love for everyone”. I actually chanted that into sleep.

When I awoke in the morning and stared at the new picture of me with my parents on my night stand, I told Paul I wanted to call them. He told me “Don’t push it. Just try to be patient, you don’t want to scare them.” I thought to myself, Yikes I sure don’t want to scare anyone. At 10:00 AM, my phone rang and it was my mother. OH HAPPY DAY! All I could think was that I didn’t want to scare this poor woman and she was actually thinking of me. I’ll never forget her voice. She was a little nervous, but she said “I hope this isn’t too soon, but I just wanted to hear your voice one more time”. All I could think was “this woman loves me just like I love her.” A new relationship was born. I adored my mother. I absolutely, positively every moment of my life now, love my mother.

So now, what about my mother that raised me and died. Guess what. I absolutely, positively every moment of my life love her. I would give anything at all to have just a moment with her again. So what to make of this? What is the difference between these two women. Well, nothing and everything. One gave me life. The other gave me a life. When this dawned on me, I never felt so blessed in all my life. I have had two amazing women in my life. And I can’t help but feel that had they known each other, they would have been terrific friends. My birth mother gave my mother that raised me a tremendous gift. I have not always been a religious woman. But in passed years, I have been. God works in mysterious ways. I can’t help but feel that this whole ordeal has been orchestrated from above.

So what now? My father is deserate to know everything about my birth parents. I’m scared to call them because I’m not really sure where I stand. My sisters don’t know anything about me and I know it is going to cause my birth parents pain to tell them about me. I’m madly in love with them, and I don’t want to cause them any pain, but I can’t bear the thought of never again being part of their lives. My sister is happy for me, but now more than ever wants to find her birth parents, and there is not information to help her. I was a wreck. I wanted to be happy, and I felt like I would cause everyone I love pain if I persued my own happiness. Did I deserve to be happy? I sort felt like I didn’t.

I had a million questions for my birth parents, but it was very difficult to ask them. I didn’t know them at all and it felt wrong to be too personal. I wanted to know what my mother was feeling while she was pregnant with me. Did she hate me? Did she love me? Did she resent me because she had to leave her life and my father to give birth to me? None of those questions came out of my mouth. What did my father feel? All they could tell me was they were young and there was no way they could keep me. To this day, I really don’t know what my mother was feeling about me. Part of me doesn’t really want to know. My mother even asked me “is there anything that you want to know”? I know she was sincere and probably would have shared anything with me that I asked of her. But I was so happy to just be looking in their eyes and feeling their touch as we held hands, I didn’t really care that much. I’ve lived long enough at this point to know that what a girl feels at 16 isn’t the whole picture of a life-altering event. All these years I wanted to know a million things and suddenly, they just didn’t seem important anymore. I’m not even sure I really want to know. If she told me she hated being pregnant with me and couldn’t wait to get rid of me, I would be devistated. And if she told me she adored me and prayed she could keep me, I don’t even know if I would truly believe her because I was 16 once, too. I have a 16 year old daughter. I know what they think and feel. They live in the moment for the most part. At least most of us do. All of the questions disappeared and the “here and now” was all that really mattered to me. That is how I feel to this very day.

The next hurdle was my sisters. My parents showed me a picture of them and I almost fell over when I looked at them and saw exceptional resmblences… especially to my sister number 1. They didn’t know anything about me. How were they going to take this? It was even more complicated by the fact that my sister, number 2, could not have a family of her own. She adopted two children. And a few years later, when the pressure was off, she was able to conceive a child of her own. This was complicated. My sister would surely think of the whole “adopted child finds birth parents” on the opposite side of the coin. My mother was worried how my sisters would react to the news of me and my father was worried about what the kids might feel. I surrendered to the fact that I might never meet my sisters or know them at all. My parents said right out that they were willing to tell everyone and anyone that I was back in their lives. My father said “We’re old now. Nothing can hurt us at this point”. And I believed him. But I know the issue with my sisters was a touchy one. I told them not to even broach the subject if they thought it would in any way affect their relationship. I would not be able to live with the fact that I would cause disruption or unhappiness within their family in any way. We left it that they thought they would probably tell them, but it may take a while. I was fine with that. I really wanted to know them, but not at anybody’s expense. The mission was to find happiness and completion….. not to hurt anyone! There was hope I would know them and I was happy with that.

Finally, it came time for us to say goodbye. I was horrified at the thought of never seeing them again. I could tell my mother really didn’t want to part from me either. Maybe she had the same feeling. But the afternoon was fading into evening and part we must. We took a photo of me with my birth parents, which felt natural. Really not that uncomfortable. But I couldn’t help but think that this may very well be the only thing I may have to know them. This photo just became the most cherished thing I ever owned. But I was wrong.

I went home with my husband still in a stunned state and my mind was swimming with all kinds of thoughts. Now I had to face my family. To my children, well I could share whatever I felt was appropriate. Of course, especially Kate, wanted to know every detail. But I also had to face my father. I didn’t even tell him that I had this meeting. I didn’t want to lie about it to him…. I just didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to feel like I had betrayed him. When I came into the house, he of course asked me, with no malice intended “Where ya been?” I felt like a deer in headlights. “Paul and I went out for lunch” was all I could say. I told the truth, but not the whole truth and I was feeling horrible. And I was a little angry because I just had the most joyous occasion of my life and I didn’t want anyone to rain on my parade. And I was feeling guilty. What the heck was I going to do with those feelings? So I went into my room and I balled like a baby. I didn’t even really know why I was crying. I was happy. I was sad. I was confused. And I knew my life was never going to be the same again. I have a man living with me that is my father…. who loved me and nurtured me and helped me through thick and thin all of my life. And I had my natural parents that I absolutely adored and couldn’t wait to see again. What was so easy an hour before was now one of the most difficult things in my life. An hour of a good cry and I was ready again to go back to my original life. OK. Do what ya gotta do.

The next morning I was ready at 8:00 AM for a 1:00 PM meeting. I changed clothes three times, re-did my hair and fretted that I looked fat. My husband was very sweet. He kept saying “They’re going to like you no matter what you look like!” I guess I hadn’t really realized how important it was to me that they actually like me! Then I worried that they wouldn’t. I was a wreck.

One of our children had to go to a birthday party that day, so we decided that Paul would take her to the party and meet us at the restaurant. I needed him for moral support.

I arrived at the restaurant more than half an hour early. I couldn’t stand waiting at home anymore. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny with crystal clear blue skies. I sat on a bench outside the café waiting for something I had waited 48 year for! It was a wrought iron bench and the back of it was a sort of a sculpture. The artist had depicted all the characters from the writings of Mark Twain. Tom Sawyer, Becky, Huck Finn, Aunt Polly and Indian Joe surrounded me as I sat there feeling comfort from the warm sun on my face. A woman walked by and smiled at me. She said “You look like you are sitting there with your family.” I smiled back and thought “In a few minutes, I very well may be.”

I had the advantage that my parents had told me what kind of car they were driving. Thataway Café is on the bottom corner of Greenwich Avenue. The avenue is a one way street. So as they would drive up from the exit of route 95, they would have to turn either right or left to park. From where I sat, I could see every car that entered Greenwich via that route. I had my eyes peeled!

A few minutes before 1:00, my cell phone chirped. My mother called to let me know they were running a little late because of all the holiday traffic. I told her no worries, I was sitting on a bench outside the restaurant. A second later, my husband came around the corner. Whew! My moral support was here! We sat together on the “family” bench with a tote of photographs of my children and myself at my feet, eyes on every car that came up to the bottom of the avenue.

And there it was. A blue Jeep Laredo was coming up the street! It turned right at the bottom of the avenue and just before it was out of sight I saw the woman in the passenger seat point towards me and could see she was saying “There she is!”. And then it was out of sight. The first glimpse of my mother! I was shaking!

We didn’t know where they would go to park now. So I stood looking up the avenue and Paul stood looking down. A few interminable minutes lapsed as I desperately scanned the sidewalks of Greenwich Avenue. I heard Paul say “Oh my God, Margo, look!” I turned around to see my mother running across Greenwich Avenue towards me. I ran down and she ran up and a second later this beautiful, delicate, lovely woman was in my arms. She embraced me like I’ve never been held before and I wept as she whispered “You’re beautiful”. I carefully embedded this moment into my memory so I could revisit it every day for the rest of my life.

I heard my husband say something like “Marg, you have her eyes!” and my father say “I told you she would look like [my sister]”. And the next moment I was in the arms of my tall, handsome father, crying the most joyful tears I’ve ever wept. Here it was. I met my parents. On Greenwich Avenue. And I didn’t care who bore witness to this most glorious, perfect, personal moment. All I could think was “Thank you Sweet Jesus”.

As we sat at our table in the corner in Thataway Café I was acutely aware that we were having the most personal moment of our lives in a public setting. It had to be this way because my adoptive father lives with me now in his old age. Having this transpire in front of him would have been too painful for him. And my sisters didn’t know anything about me, so their house wasn’t a good choice either since they are there a lot. So restaurant it was.

Hours passed as we sat there and told each other about our lives, but no one seemed to be bothered by it. Perhaps our waitress could sense this was an extremely personal moment. My father ordered French Onion Soup with a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich (one of my favorite combinations!!), my mother a veggie wrap, my husband some kind of fish, and me with no appetite, a Cesar salad. No one could really eat, except my husband, of course!

My father told me that he had cancer nine years earlier. He had to have a lot of surgery and of course, with any cancer, the possibility existed that he might not survive. With tears in his eyes, he told me that he prayed that he would not pass away without knowing what happened to me. It was an extremely personal, touching moment I shall never forget.

My mother sat with me, holding my incredibly sweaty hand all the while and we could not stop looking at each other. I actually apologized for staring at them so much. This was remarkable, looking at these two people who both bore resemblances to myself. They were amazing. They were lovely, sensitive, beautiful people and I prayed this moment would never end. I fell instantly in love with both my parents and it all felt right. It felt natural.

My parents are sailors. They have a sailboat that they keep in a bay at the foot of their property. I asked them if they had ever sailed to Block Island in Rhode Island, because this is where my husband and I spend our anniversary every year. It is our special place. I told them we go there every year on May 26th to celebrate our marriage. My mother said “What did you just say?” So I repeated we go there on our anniversary, May 26th every year. My birth mother looked at my birth father and together they whispered “May 26th is our anniversary.” We all had goosebumps. What else can I say?

It would take her a few minutes at least to call my mother and tell her I had called her. And who even knew if she wanted to talk to me at all. I was clueless, but I could feel something in my heart that she would call me. So I made a quick phone call to my best friend, Maurya, and told her everything that had just happened. I was excited and rambling and crying. Then I called my best friend from childhood, Robin and told her all the same news. Paul wasn’t home yet, and I had to share this with someone or I might have a heart attack! Both my girlfriends were excited and crying right along with me! But the calls were quick so I could leave the line open in case my birth mother actually did call back.

At one point, Kate came in my room asking to use the phone. “No way!”, I said, hovering over the phone like I was starving and it was my last meal! Then Sarah came in and announced she was hungry. “You’ll have to wait.”, I told her, with a voice shouting to me somewhere in the recessess of my rational mind that I wasn’t being a very good mother at the moment. But I was waiting for mine and had been all my life, so a few more minutes of hunger wasn’t going to hurt anyone. She didn’t disappoint.

An hour later almost to the minute, my phone rang. “Please let this be her”, I prayed. I could faintly hear a voice at the other end of the line asking for me. But she couldn’t hear me at all. I heard her say “I’ll hang up and try again to get a clear connection.” Oh my God! I just heard my mother’s voice for a brief second. What if she doesn’t call back??? But a few seconds later the phone rang again. This time the connection was clear. She asked for me. I said “This is Margo.” and she said “This is Blank.. I am your mother”. Open the floodgates! I cried like a baby. She cried, too. And then she said, “and I am sitting across from your father.” My head swam and I thought I might pass out. All I could say was “Oh my God!” I felt like I won the lottery. I found both my parents at the same time? It was unbelievable. My father got on the extension and we were all crying and nervously talking. They explained to me that they were high school sweethearts and madly in love, but only 16 and 17 when I was conceived. It just wasn’t possible for them to keep me, and my maternal grandmother had sent my mother away to Poughkeepsie to have me and give me up for adoption. That’s the way it was done in the 50s and 60s. You went away and were to be done with it. But that is a whole other book.

Shock and amazement didn’t end here. I then learned that I had two full sisters. The girls didn’t know about me. My mother explained that when they gave me up, they had to sign a legal document that stated they would never try to find me or have any contact with me whatsoever. They didn’t feel it was fair to tell my sisters that they had yet another sister, but no way of ever finding me or meeting me. My birth parents did not know anything about my adoptive parents, where we lived or where I might be now. All my mother knew was that my adoptive parents had named me Margo and she was greatful to know my name so that she could use it when she prayed for me. I found that very touching and actually quite comforting. I was relieved to know that she had actually spent time thinking about me over the years.

Toward the end of the conversation, I asked the inevitable question. “Do you want to meet me?” They sure did. We made plans to have lunch the following day at Thataway Café, in Greenwich, CT. They were familiar with it, and I lived a stone’s throw from there. We planned to meet and 1:00PM and said our goodbyes until tomorrow. Emotion of every kind was pulsing out of my body, mostly in the form of tears. Happy, joyful, scared, worried, nervous and bewildered tears. My husband walked in to the middle of that. He didn’t know what to make of the situation! When I told him the whole story, he cried, too. I didn’t sleep a wink that night.

Before I continue with the story I have to share a link with you. If you are adopted, you are not going to want to miss out on this one! http://www.adultadoptees.org/forum/index.php

Adult Adoptees Forum. Seriously, check it out!

Of course, the internet was the first place to start. I searched the web for anyone having the name Blank Blank. A few came up, but they seemed unlikely candidates. There was a huge possibility that her name was no longer Blank, but had married and changed her name. I did find an old photograph published on the web on a family web site with a last name in common. The photo depicted the family around the turn of the century. One of the women in the photo shared the same name as my birth mother.. And there was a small child, maybe only a year old named Blank Blank that could have been my twin. I thought perhaps she could have been my grandmother or great-grandmother. It was a long shot, but I couldn’t get over how much I looked like that child. So I researched that family extensively. But it sort of dropped off after that. No more information.

My next step was to go up to Poughkeepsie. Since Dr.Blank was a pediatrician, I had it in my head that my mother may have been a patient in his practice. So it would stand to reason that she had grown up in or around Poughkeepsie. So the next day my husband and I went to the public library and we scoured over high school yearbooks looking for a picture or any clue as to what happened to the family. Hours and hours of searching, and we didn’t find any. We drove that poor librarian crazy running up to the archives and bringing us book after book. We actually only found two brothers with the last name and no others. Their address was actually published in the yearbook, so we made note of them just in case there was a connection of any kind.

We looked over a map and made our way over to the address for the brothers. We stared at the house for a while trying to decide what to say and what to do. As we sat there, the next door neighbor came out into his yard, and my husband approached him. He was very nice and told us the family had long since moved from that house and he didn’t know what happened to them. But he gave us the name of a neighbor who had lived there for years and years and knew everyone. Maybe she could help.

Next stop, the neighbor. She wasn’t home, so I left her a note with my phone number and would she be kind enough to call me.

Not willing to give up hope, we decided to visit the hospitals and see if we could get any information there. I knew my records were sealed, but I was willing to take a chance that someone might actually give them to me. Our first stop was St. Francis. We found a very nice woman in records there who explained that all birth records were sent over to the town hall in the 70s when they went computer. She gave us directions and off we went. All I could learn there, was that I was born at Vassar Brothers Hospital, and not St. Francis. They confirmed my records were sealed and there was no way they could open them for me. It’s a federal offense.

One last shot for the day… we went back to the neighbor’s house. This time she was home. She remembered the Blank family well, but she confirmed that there were just the two boys. No sister named Blank. . That was that. I went home feeling quite defeated and not really knowing what to do next.

That night, Paul and I talked it over and we decided that we would hire a private detective to aid in the search. It would cost a fortune, but my husband was perfectly willing to spend the money to help me. So I began the process of looking for the right people to help me with the search. And at the same time, I kept up the computer search myself.

I went on all kinds of sites that help you find people. Some of them you have to pay for and some you don’t. One evening, about a week later, I came across a site called Ancestory.com. It was a pay site, but they had a 9.99 special offer for a one week trial. Ten bucks was nothing compared to what I was going to have to pay a detective agency, so I gave it a shot. I typed in my mother’s name and I got a hit. The family tree was listed in fairly good detail. It showed that Blank Blank had married a man named Blank Blank and they had two daughters.The birth year posted  would have made her about 16-17 years old in 1959. Well, the year was about right! Let’s take this a little further.

So I searched the web for the possible married name  and I got an article from a college website describing a trip they had made to Biloxi Mississippi in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. A group of volunteers had gone down to help the victims in Biloxi rebuild their homes and their lives in the wake of that horrible destruction. One of the volunteers was Blank Blank, along with her sister Blank Blank. The site showed many pictures of the volunteers all helping these poor people who had lost their homes, and some cases, members of their family. It was very touching. And I thought “I really hope this is my mother. And if you aren’t, well here’s to you Blank Blank of Blank, NY, for selflessly helping those people.”

I thought about how I was going to approach this. I really didn’t know for sure if this was my mother. And what about her family? Did her husband or her children know she had given up a child for adoption? If not, a phone call from me could be devestating. I had no desire whatsoever to ruin anyone’s life or hurt anyone in any way. But what about the sister? I know if I had gone through what my mother had, my sister would definitely have known about it.

It took me about 3 days to work up enough courage, but on Saturday, September 1, 2007 I finally got up enough nerve to call the sister. If I was wrong, she would just simply tell me so. And if I was right, well, I was right! A glass of wine and a deep breath later, I was dialing Blank’s number in Upstate, NY. When she answered I almost hung up, but I thought, its now or never kid! So I gave her my name and told her I was looking for a missing family member and I thought she might be able to help me. She said, “Well, sure. I’ll try.” Another deep breath and I said “I was given up for adoption in 1959 and my mother’s name was Blank Blank. I wondered if you could shed any light on that for me.” And there was a heartbeat of dead silence and I knew I was right!! My aunt recovered quickly, I must say! She responded, “Well, um, no I can’t. But if you want to give me your telephone number, I will make a few phone calls within the family and if I learn anything that could help you, I’ll call you back.” And that was that. It was done. And I was sure I was right. My heart was pounding and I was thanking God. The first thought that came to my mind was “Oh man, the cool lady from Blank, NY who went to help the citizens of Biloxi is my mother!”

At some point in my children’s lives I explained to them that I was adopted. I don’t remember the details, but it was probably a response to them noticing I didn’t look anything like my sister or my father. That was always a big thing for me, looking like someone. As fate would have it, my children look much more like their father than they do me.

Over the years, I made a lot of attempts to find my birth mother. I was on just about every registry on the web. I scoured over these sites reading every entry looking for some clue that I could be reading a note by my mother. “Birth mother looking for birth daughter. xxxx, 1959. Poughkeepsie, NY” That’s all I wanted to see. Instead, I read things like “I was left on the fifth floor of a Brooklyn apartment building. If you are out there, I still want to meet you.”   Desperate individuals all in my boat looking for some link to their birth families. Driven by an innate need to connect with their families of origin. To know where they came from and learn their stories. To know “why”.

I only knew a few facts surrounding my birth. I was born in one of two hospitals in Poughkeepsie, NY. And my father’s dear friend, another pediatrician, had helped my parents arrange my adoption. I often wanted to ask him anything he could tell me about my birth parents, but it was complicated because he was my father’s friend. I really didn’t want my dad to know I was hoping to meet my birth mother. I didn’t want to hurt him.  But after so many years of turning up empty on the web, I finally wrote him a letter asking him to share with me whatever he knew. He did write back to me, but with only minimal information. He knew the name of the attorney, but also that he was now dead. And he knew the obstetrician, who had long since retired and moved to Florida, and could possibly be dead. I researched them both the best that I could, but that didn’t shed any more light on my birth. He did suggest I exercise the Freedom of Information Act. That didn’t get me too far. My records were sealed, and only a judge could decide if they could be opened.

So life went on, checking the web on a regular basis hoping for something, but beginning to realize I may pass from this world without ever knowing who I was or where I came from. I prayed that I would, but my faith in God told me that He has his reasons for everything and I would have to accept what He knew would be in my best interest.

In late August of this year my whole life would change. It was a particularly stormy afternoon with thunderstorms and heavy rain and we were all stuck in the house. I sat at the dining room table doing a jigsaw puzzle with my oldest daughter, Sarah and my step-daughter, Athena. We were having fun and I was enjoying spending time with the kids. My father had to go to the bank to retrieve a document from his safety deposit box to get a copy of his own birth certificate so that he could obtain a passport to do some traveling. When he came home, he sat down at the table with the girls and me and told me where he had been. And then it came. He said “I know you were asking Dr. Blank (I’m not going to reveal names for their privacy)  if he knew any of the circumstances surrounding your birth. When I was looking through my safety deposit box, I found your original adoption papers. I thought you might like to know your mother’s name was … Blank Blank.” Just like that. And right then and there, right in front of my kids, I burst into tears. Tears of shock and amazement at first. Then came tears of joy and relief. And even a few tears of betrayal and lost time. It occurred to me that he had known this information all along and had not shared it with me. I wasn’t angry, really, like I had been years earlier. Maybe hurt is a better description.    I had to excuse myself from the kids and try to collect myself. My mother had a name. It all became personified. What should I do now?

Eventually, I did get over being so pissed at my dad, but that was when I really began to actively search for my birth parents. My father had married a woman fifteen years his junior. She was extremely jealous of my relationship with my father. I don’t really understand that, but she was. She completely alienated me from my father, and I did not visit his house for six years because of her. I talked to my dad, but only limitedly and I only saw him once or twice a year at my home in all those years. I wanted him to be happy and that was all that really mattered to me. He had a lot of depression since my mother died to the point that he had to has electro-shock therapy. That was pretty big deal, especially in those days. He was ashamed of it to the point that he would leave the state to receive the treatment and never wanted any of his colleagues to ever know he suffered from depression. I felt it was pretty understandable. I mean, my poor father lost his wife that he adored after more than 25 years of marriage and had two young children he was left to raise on his own while he had a busy medical practice. My sister was only 13 at the time and he was left to figure out what to do with a teenage girl, not to mention that I was barely out of high school myself. He had a rough go of it. I think he married to combat the loneliness, but I’m pretty sure that if he had it to do over again, he would have contemplated it a lot longer. He was sad. He drank way too much. He was a broken man. But he was a man that couldn’t remain broken for long. He was not brought up that way. He was a survivor. He is still a survivor. They divorced after about 13 years of marriage, which may have saved his life! He is now eighty-seven years old, has lived through several strokes, a major heart attack and triple bypass surgery. He is amazing and I adore him. I could not be more proud of any individual I have ever encountered in my life. He is my father and he and my mother made me everything that I am.

But the more alienated I became from my adoptive family, just made me want to find my birth family all the more.

So why did I feel such an urgency to find my birth mother? Simple. It is a basic. simple yearning that burns in the heart of every adopted person. You can’t help it. You can’t fight it. It is a connection that can’t be quelled. I loved the parents that raised me. But I also loved those elusive parents that gave birth to me. I wanted to know their story. I wanted to know who they were, if only for a minute. I didn’t want anything from them, just to know them. I wanted to kiss my birth mother on the cheek. I can’t tell you why, I just wanted to. I HAD to. That moment was still years away.

In 1985, I was pregnant with my daughter, Sarah. I was very excited, as all parents are, but I was especially excited about having someone in my life that actually LOOKED like me. All of us that are adopted know what I’m talking about. I kept thinking about my baby and what sort of traits she would have and, of course, I really started to think more and more about my birth parents. As she was growing inside me and I was experiencing motherhood, I wondered what my birth mother must have been thinking while she was going through this with me.

Sarah was born with a severe birth defect called microcephaly. After her delivery, many doctors were in my room asking me a million questions about my medical and family history. I couldn’t answer them. I didn’t care what one of them had to say…. I just wanted to bond with my daughter and I did. It was both the happiest and saddest day of my life, and all I could think about was my mother who gave birth to me. She was helping me through one of the most difficult times of my life, and she didn’t even know it. I kept thinking that even though the circumstances were different, that she understood the pain I was going through right now.

A few days later, a very lovely man came to my room and said he knew this was a difficult time for me, but that only one in eight hundred thousand children were born with this disability and he wanted to know my family history. I knew nothing. So I called my father and I asked him if he could shed any light on this.

My father was devastated for me and knew this was an important piece of medical information . He said he would make a few phone calls and would call me back. Well, he called me back in 15 minutes, telling me there was nothing in my family history that could be linked to Sarah’s disability. Fifteen minutes! I knew right then and there that he knew much more about my birth parents than he was willing to admit. I knew it, and I was heartbroken, but I understood it. What could I say? You knew it all these years and didn’t tell me??? It was clear that it was something he and my mother always knew but had decided they would never share with me. But I was pissed. I don’t know how else to describe it. I was pissed. I loved him and I could accept it, but I was pissed.

One Response to “Finding my birth parents - part 3”

1. Lillie Says:
   April 7, 2008 at 11:36 pm editHi! What a gripping story. I’m curious to find out more…have you found her? Have you gotten any more information? Please, don’t stop writing!!I’m a fellow adoptee, been in reunion for a little over 11 years. It’s had its ups and downs - there is no instruction manual or guide book for navigating this crazy thing called reunion!! I lost my adoptive mom to cancer too, in 1996, and my adoptive dad 10 months prior to a heart attack. I feel so much mirrored in your words.Looking forward to reading more!

In 1975, my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. My father told us that she couldn’t possibly live more than six months. The possibility that we would lose her was just simply out of the question. But it soon became apparent that this was going to happen no matter what we said or felt. She fought very hard, but she lost her battle a week before my 17th birthday

There wasn’t even standing room at my mother’s funeral. Everyone loved my mother. I was truly blessed by having this woman in my life. I will remember that each and every day of my life.

Here I was away at college. My father fell into a deep depression over the loss of my mother. My sister was only 13 and was left to pretty much fend for herself. She fell to the way of rebellion and misconduct and my father couldn’t take it. He was helpless and she was helpless. There was only one thing to do. I came home. Not that I could really help. I was only 17. Just a child myself. I was home for a few months, and I don’t know how much I actually helped but I thought to myself “I’m going to drown here. There is far too much sadness here and I won’t survive it”. I stayed long enough to see that my sister could get on track, and then I left.

Little by little we all got back to the business of life, as we all must. But with my mother now gone, I started to wonder about my birth mother. I didn’t even want to, but all these thoughts of her kept coming no matter what. I wanted to feel motherly love again. I kept thinking about her and I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to betray my mother that raised me, but she was gone and there was nothing I could do about it. Each and every day that went by I wondered more and more about her. Finally, I decided to ask my father about her. He told me that he didn’t know anything about her. He only knew that she was young and couldn’t take care of me, hence my adoption. That was it.

Eventually, I came to accept this. That was it. There was nothing else I could do. I had looked into opening my adoption records and I was told flat out “They are sealed and there is nothing you can do to ever open them.” New York State has about the strictest laws on adoption that there are. They are iron-clad. And that was way back when in the late 70s or early 80s.

In the early 80s, the computer age came into being for the average person. I didn’t have a computer, but I knew a few that did. My first search on the computer was into adoption. There were a few sites that were dedicated to finding a birth parent or an adoptee. I delved into those, but that came up with nothing. I once again made contact with the state. Now, there was a registry that you could sign on to, but it could only help you if your parent was trying to make contact with you as well. Down hearted, I signed up anyway. It was a long shot, but I had to try. Unfortunately, she wasn’t looking for me.