Surviving Adoption Loss

At the hospital, Visiting Pistol

2011-11-19T21:59:00.001-05:00

When we moved to our new neighborhood in 2006, our neighbor introduced herself. She made sure we know her nickname is Pistol, because she used to work for security and carried a piece. Anytime someone new moves into the neighborhood she introduces herself the same way.

Funny thing is, we all just call her by her first name and she's the only one who mentions the "Pistol" nickname.

Pistol lives across the street from us. She is an animal nut. She doesn’t like the circle of life because it means a living creature will die. She had an arbor put over the many birdfeeders, and added lattice to keep the hawks from dining on the cardinals, mourning doves, or squirrelles.

Pistol has a big heart and is generous. She looks out for her neighbors and we all look out for her too. She’s retired and has many physical problems. Most of the problems stem from the cancer treatments she went through years ago. I can never keep up with her schedule of when she is going for a PET Scan, Blood work, visiting the cander doctor, the kidney doctor, the lung doctor, or family doctor. She’s a tough cookie though.

She’s never been married and when I go to visit her, she could talk your ear off. But she’s funny and interesting and I don’t mind. She recently had surgery and was in the hospital for over two weeks. With my work and school schedule I wasn’t able to visit her until this past Thursday. It was really good to see her! She looked good and was talkative. She moved slow, but was getting around.

Pistol was talking about the little she remembers from being in ICU, she talked about the procedures of the operation, she showed off her new artwork of the 30 staples holding her together. We joked about the many ways she could keep and reuse the staples as memorbilia. She could make a necklace, she could have rows of staples lining her earlobes, she could have saples in her nostriles or on her eyebrows – like the young kids piercings these days.

She was talking about a shot they gave her. Almost mid-sentence she stopped. “I don’t know if you had to go through any of this kind of stuff when you lost your baby," she said. She went on by saying, “You don’t have to talk about it if it upsets you. We didn’t even know you were pregnant. I guess you didn’t want anyone to know, in case you wouldn’t be able to carry full term. Was that your first pregnancy? Was it a little girl? Do you know why you can’t have a baby?”

Wow, needless to say, I wasn’t at all expecting any of that. I actually DID want to tell her about the pregnancy 2 years ago. I was trying to take her and one of her other friends out to lunch so I could tell them the good news. But Pistol was having physical problems at the time, and kept putting off going out for lunch. Well, then it was too late and the good news turned out to be not so good news anymore..

Nevertheless, here I am visiting my neighbor in the hospital and she brings up one of the most important subjects of my life. I assured her that I was not bothered at all, and actually was glad for a chance to talk about it. I theorized that I possibly lost her either because of the extreme amount of stress from my job at the time. I told that I considered it was a little girl. I didn’t remember everything that happened at the hospital. I know I had to have a RhoGAM shot, I don’t remember if there were other shots or not.

She was surprised when I said it was not my first pregnancy and asked what happened. I told her that I carried full term and had a healthy beautiful baby boy. When he was 3 days old, I left the hospital without him. I summed it up by telling her that hubby and I weren’t married yet, and I was made to feel that I had to give my baby up for adoption, that if I had kept him it would have ruined his life.

She said, “ That really pisses me off! Why would people do that? I know you and your husband, and you both would have been wonderful parents to that child.”

Then a nurse walked in and the conversation changed.

As visiting hours was coming to an end, I brought up the subject of my son again. I told Betty that he turned 17 last month. So in a year or so from now, if she sees a tall young blonde fellow at our house, it just might be him. She smiled at this thought. I hugged her goodnight and moved her stuffed animals around to keep her company through thenight.

It is crazy that it worked out this way. I have been trying to figure out a way to tell Pistol about our son, and just didn’t know how to bring it up. I was afraid that she would have a negative reaction that I sometimes get from older gererations. Often I’m told that I gave him up and had no right to even call him my son - or that I deserved it – or that he is where he belongs and I should forget about him.

But the clock is ticking and as his 18^th birthday approaches, I am trying to make sure everyone knows about him. The last thing I would want him to hear someone say to me is “Oh, I didn’t know you have a son.”

So I am glad Pistol knows now, and I was pleasantly surprised with her supportive reaction.

Here I thought I was visiting the hospital for her, and she’s the one who ended up helping me.

At the Hospital

Visiting

Pistol

A Mother is a terrible thing to Waste

2011-11-13T19:15:00.001-05:00

That is pretty much all I have to say in response to the month of November being dubbed as adoption month – AKA: Celebration of godless amounts of profit from separating families needlessly.

Every billboard you see, commercial you watch, radio advertisement you hear, or article in your newspaper that has to do with adoption, consider this estimation that about 50,000 non-family adoptions occur each year. Wow, 50,000 adoptions. That represents 50,000 human beings sold with a bill of sale (complete with amended birth certificates). It also results in 50,000 Mothers Wasted – cut off from her child and discarded like scrap pieces of fabric.

expendable

This post is for you Bethany Christian Services (and all unethical agencies like you).

You pretend to ‘serve’ women and girls in need, but you are really serving yourself and your agendas – gleefully ripping babes from families and wasting mothers in the process.

A certain percent of them may have other children – but she will never be THE MOTHER of THE CHILD you’ve sold under your replacement program.

My slogan for November –

Don't support the Wasting of Mothers, instead help Preserve Original Families!!!

A Mother

is a Terrible Thing

waste

picture from 

Glimpse of US History, Profit made from expendable young women

Come, Sleep With Me

2011-11-03T19:17:00.000-04:00

Normally I start getting ready for bed by 10:30. But not tonight, or many nights of the past weeks either. It’s another late night of keeping busy before I finally drag myself upstairs. I am so tired my head hurts.

I flick on the light and trudge my way to the bathroom sink. I avoid looking in the mirror as I open the medicine cabinet for my toothbrush and toothpaste.

I wash my face and catch a glimpse of my own reflection. I wonder what my son thinks when he looks in the mirror. What does he see? What are his thoughts, feeling, or questions? Does he ever ponder his brown eyes that are just like mine, or his lips like those of his original father’s? Do any emotions come to the surface for him, as they do for me?

I close the door behind me as I quietly enter the bedroom. I slip my feet between the sheets and mountain of blankets and burrow in for another long night.

I fall back on the pillow, the blonde tresses land softly around my shoulders. This is not a picture of peace or serenity as I feel the heavy weight of weariness.

Sleep doesn’t come with the stillness and silence of the night, my heart aches and my thought churn out more questions than I could ever keep up with. What will it be like to see him face to face? Will he even like me? Will I meet up to his expectations? Will I disappoint him? Will he allow me to give him a big long hug, or will he rather I not invade his space and keep a distance? Will we actually get to connect after his 18^th birthday, or will it be just more of the silent waiting game? Will we send e-mail back and forth as we try to get to know one another? How long will it really be until he is comfortable meeting face to face? When will he ask the “but why” question? What will I say? Will it sound like lame and pathetic excuses to him? Will I be able to temper my disdain for this unholy institution of adoption? Will I find a way to deal with all this guilt ahead of time so it doesn’t hinder our relationship? Is it really guilt? Or is it just a continuous reaching out there for acknowledgement of how painful it has been?

I am thoroughly exhausted emotionally. I lie there staring through the darkness at the ceiling; the tears start to well up. Closing my eyes doesn’t make them go away and the tears start slipping from the corner of my eyes. I have to turn my head to keep them from rolling into my ears.

The tears don’t let up, so I roll onto my side facing the doorway. Curling myself into a ball, I pull the covers up over my head. It is dark and all I hear is my own breathing and sighs.

It isn’t just the endless questions that keep me awake, it is the pain. I miss him. I miss him terribly.

Yes, I regret my decision. I regret that we were separated all these years for no good reason. But it’s about more than just regret. Since coming out of denial in 2006, I think I’ve come to a place where I am able to acknowledge plainly the different pieces of the adoption. I know that I made the best decision I could based on the information at that time. It was never because I didn’t want him. It was never because I didn’t love him. I know now that it was faulty information. It was a very very very wrong choice and a very unnecessary decision at that.

However, looking back and acknowledging it all does not change the fact that he is 17 years old and he is a complete stranger to me. This is my son, and he is a stranger. This is the pain and the heartache, that time and memories – both his and mine - have slipped through the hourglass of time. It can never be gotten back; it cannot be relived to knit our lives into repair.

It hurts. I have found no words to describe it any differently. So many nights I cry myself to sleep, holding it all so I don’t wake my husband sleeping beside me.

Does it match your idyllic picture of ‘beautiful’? as a ‘win-win’? Where is the love now in this so-called “loving choice”? It’s dashed to pieces on the jagged realities of grief and tremendous loss, an incredibly senseless loss that is applauded by society and benefits an industry whose thirsty greed cannot be satiated.

Come, sleep with me

so you can see firsthand

the aftermath of adoption

What a MESS!!!

2011-10-24T12:01:00.004-04:00

Change is inevitable.
We can't always accurately predict ahead of time what the outcomes of change will be, nor can we always foresee the far-reaching effects of its tendrils.

The change comes,
and later we find that - oh, no! I'm not liking this effect at all!

So it is with my blog(s). Having been silent for months, changes happened while I was away. With my most recent posts people were unable to add comments, so I had to adjust my settings.

Somewhere I clicked something, and I'm not entirely sure what it was, but I wish I could undo it.

All my old posts are now one huge long run-on paragraph. If you're a regular visitor, you'll know immediately that is NOT my style.

So, now I'm going to be cleaning up a huge unintended mess as I go through all the blog posts I've ever written, and try to make them presentable and put back in the paragraph breaks for the intended emphasis.

That's what happens when we make decisions without a full understanding of its implications. So it is with adoption...

Pregnant, afraid, and considering adoption she gets sucked into a world where the truth of the far-reaching effects of such a decision is skillfully hidden from her.

Later could be days, weeks, or maybe years down the road. She turns a corner to find out she has yet another big huge mess that ties directly back to the 'decision' to give up her baby for adoption. Unexpected effects could be dealing with the adoption closing, it could be finding out that the people who supported adoption as the best decision are nowhere to be found after the fact, it could be the inability to have another child, it could be the inward slicing of the knife as peers, friends, or co-workers have babies of their own, it could be silence after trying to reach out to adoptee who is now an adult, it could be flat out rejection after being found, it could be the difficulty of keeping ones head above water during the cycles of depression that threaten to suck her under each and every year...the possibilities go on, and on, and on.

By then, there is no way to un-do it. We're simply left trying to figure out how to cope, how to deal, how to repair all the damage (if that is even possible) and pull together yet another room full of shattered pieces of our heart or life back together just to survive.

Adoption does not "solve" a "problem" -
it only creates different ones, and more of them.

what a

H O R R O Rific

mess

!!!

Wishing You a Happy 17th Birthday

2011-10-13T16:35:00.003-04:00

Happy 17^th Birthday

His Birthdate: October 13, 1994

It was a Thursday, just as it is this year too.

It’s a gloomy day outside. No sunshine, just periods of rain. A reflection of my own soul.

We’ve had so much rain this year. I hear my son loves the snow and winter sports, so I keep wondering how much snow all that rain would have translated into.

Yesterday was a really hard day. As I drove into work I realized that it was on a Wednesday so many years ago that I drove my boyfriend’s car into work. He was away at college and we traded cars or a few weeks, since I wasn’t supposed to drive my car because it didn't have power steering.

A manager sent me home before noon. He said I sounded uncomfortable and it was making him nervous. I didn’t want to go home, what was I going to do at home by myself? Alas Barry won and I drove back to my apartment where my kitten Monster Paws greeted me.

Now what? There was not much to do but jog up and down the 12 flights of stairs in the apartment building - again! Not really interested in the stairs, I continued working on the blanket I was crocheting for him.

He was due on the 3^rd. Sometimes I wonder if it was a physiological reason that he hadn’t come yet. Maybe my mind didn’t want to “let go” of him, knowing the impending separation.

I don’t want to think about it anymore. Someday I suppose I should write out all the details, but for now I’ll just cut it really short by saying I went to the hospital that night and he was born the next morning.

I wish I could be retelling it like other new mommas – all beaming with joy and smiles. I can’t. My heart is heavy. I miss him so much, I don’t know if mere words can fully express it.

Of my adoptee friends, so very many of them say that their birthday isn’t really a happy time for them either. So I don't feel so bad that I'm not happy on his birthday.

I don’t know what you’re doing today, my son.

I do wish you happiness and cake with really yummy icing.

I wish you to be surrounded by love.

Most of all I wish, and I’m sorry if this is selfish, but I wish you could feel the love I have for you and know that I hope for a day that these birthday wishes weren’t merely whispered prayers on the breath of the cool October winds.

Happy

17th

Birthday

my son

The 17th Birthday

2011-10-09T19:34:00.011-04:00

Cheerios world has been on the back burner, with many posts that have been simmering. They’ve been stated, but not finished. I aim to refocus on my blog with regular posts each week or two.

This week my son will turn 17 (Oct 13th).
Quite frankly, this terrifies me.

2002 began my involvement with online adoption activity. I’ve developed relationships with original moms, adoptees, and some adoptive moms. I’ve been part of a handful of forums. One forum is exclusive for original moms, and there I’ve observed a frightening pattern with moms in closed or semi-closed adoption arrangements.

It seems to start with her child’s 17th birthday and the “final countdown” begins. Just one more year to go and he/she will be 18! Each month and every holiday that passes, her anticipation builds as she pictures the next year will be different. Her attitude seems lighter as she looks expectantly toward the 18th birthday.

Finally the 18th birthday is at hand! She’s spent the past year getting advice and trying to decide how to proceed on that special day. She carefully and cautiously executes the plan.

Let me emphasize that point.
She doesn’t just go charging in like a bull in a china shop. Not at all! From my observations over the past 10 years, she carefully considers her options. She views it from many angles, and does her best to find a method of reaching out without offending or pressuring. There is no magic formula, no book or guidelines to follow; each mother’s attempt is different.

The 18th birthday comes, and it goes.
We wait expectantly with her to hear a response or reply. Days pass, then weeks. The weeks turn into months. All the while she is hopeful.

The 19th birthday comes and goes – and she has had no response.
We try to encourage and support her as we watch her struggling to remain positive.

The 20th birthday approaches the horizon. It comes, and it goes.
Once again my heart is torn a thousand times to watch this woman on such a painful journey.

The 17th birthday is a time when she becomes hopeful that she finally may be able to connect with her lost child. For the next two years she struggles within to remain positive. When no response comes, it is so incredibly hard to witness her plight and her obvious pain.

One year from now, it may be my turn to be the one who is teetering on the edge while my hopes are dashed to pieces.

This week my son will turn 17,
and it terrifies me.

2011 Adoptee Rights Demonstration in San Antonio Texas

2011-06-21T15:56:00.005-04:00

Please take a moment to read posts on this blog - http://adopteerightscoalition.blogspot.com/ I hope that it will help you find one way (or more!) that you could show support to the Adoptee you Love! I've tested it, and their link for a donation (of any denomination) is fast, easy, and safe!

I'm afraid to attempt a list

of all the adoptees, I love,

for fear I'll miss some names -

But I'll say that it would include all the adoptees (and other Original Moms) I met & reunited with at the

Adoptee Rights Demonstration in Louisville, Kentucky 2010

And the Adoptees (and other Original Moms) that welcomed me with big, huge, gigantic wide open arms at and the

Adoptee Rights Demonstration in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 2009

The adoptees I Love would also include

FB Friends,

CafeMom friends,

as well as the Adoptee Forum Friends

you All have made an incredible and positive difference in my life!!!

If you've happened upon this blog from some other google search, and you don't have an "adoptee you love" in your life - we still welcome your support as we fight for Equal Access for All Adoptees in the US no red tape no extra fees no special requests to a judge Simply to walk in to a Vital Statistics Office, fill out the form as every other person in the state, pay the same fee, and walk out with one's Own Original Birth Certificate

"We've Moved"

2011-05-17T18:17:00.005-04:00

I’m sitting in the only car outside a local grocery store.

The vacant parking lot was a fore shadow of the ominous message on the darkened windows of the unlit store.

“We’ve Moved,” was painted in bold letters across the glass expanse.

Defying the obvious, I turn off the car engine, and walk up to the windows to peer inside.

Sure enough, they’ve moved.

I walk despondently back to my car. With my hand on the door handle, I slowly turn my head and look back at the closed store, and sigh.

They’ve moved to a BRAND NEW facility. It’s bigger! It’s better! It offers soo much more! These are signs of success and prosperity! It is good news, isn’t it? Then why do I feel so sad, so small, and so lonely?

I remember when this grocery store just opened. It was the first one from this chain brand to open on this side of the river. I remember when it was sparkling and brand new. I remember shopping here when I lived in my first apartment.

But the nostalgia is much deeper than that. I used to do my grocery shopping here when I was pregnant so long ago.

Since moving back to this part of “town” in 2006, I would often think of him as I walked down the aisles again. The squeaking wheel as I went along was a comforting sound. I could buy produce, cereals, and milk, all the while reminiscing the days when I would shop here for those same things with my son.

But another thing strikes me about all of this.
It is simply the words,

“We’ve Moved.”

That captures the plight of an original mother. The memories are stuck, like a gouged CD, at a certain place in the past, and life moves on, but we can’t keep up with it.

Sure, on the surface we seem to, but our mind, our heart, our very soul carries us back to the last time… the last time I held him, the last time I saw him, the last time I sat here eating ice cream before he was born, the last time he was with me...

A piece of my soul will be left wandering, like a hollow ghost, in the aisles of the closed grocery store. I can no longer walk those aisles and remember having been there with him so many years ago.

But that doesn't matter to them, because they've moved.

I think this is another allegory at the ugliness of adoption. Losing a child (losing an original parent) leaves a lonely darkness in the heart, like the emptiness and lonliness of a vacant store which was once full of life and vibrancy.

So, there I stood, feeling forlorn as I look back at the store.

The message painted on the window is only half of what is said. To me, it reads, “We’ve moved,

without you.”

We've

Moved

WITHOUT

you

Positive Adoption Language / Respectful Adoption Language

2011-02-20T20:26:00.005-05:00

Cheerio the student is going to do more digging, reading, and research.

Specific purpose for my next (short only 3 page) paper is going to be -"I will inform my reader about one of the tactics against expectant moms from adoption professionals’ use of positive words and phrases to undermine her self confidence."

As I am researching what people say about PAL/RAL (Positive Adoption Language/Respectful Adoption Language), I am stupified that this one thought shows up on so many websites... "When we use positive adoption language, we say that adoption is a way to build a family just as birth is. Both are important but one is not more important than the other. "

Wait, did I read that correctly? "Both are important, but one is not more important than the other." Yes, I DID read it correctly? Who comes up with these things?

Let's forget about emotions. Is that even logical???
How is it possible to have adoption without a birth?

Umm, I'm thinking it isn't.

So, if they start out their explanation of downplaying and disrespecting the importance of birth, do I really want to adhere to their idea(s) of what Respectful will be?

More posts are sure to come later on this PAL/RAL subject.
Still shaking my head as I signoff...

Positive?

Respectful?

adoption

language

???

Cheerio - the student

2011-02-06T18:56:00.004-05:00

Whilst continuing a full time job, Cheerio has become a student again.

I have been in class 4 weeks, and am taking two courses. Constantly, during lectures and reading, I find myself translating how ‘that relates to adoption.’

As life so often brings change, you may find this blog may change as well. My hope is that it will change for the better. That as I learn it will bring more clarity to the thoughts, feelings, experiences, struggles, and hopes of a mom going through life without her son. That it will increase awareness of the struggles thrust upon the ones who had no say in the matter – the adoptees.

This post is being prompted from reading one of my textbooks. In chapter one there is one sentence that just struck me, and I am compelled to write.

Please join me in Speech 101, using “Human Communication” – 4th edition (Pearson, Nelson, Titsworth, Harter).

“Human relations are vital to each of us. Human babies thrive when they are touched and when they hear sounds. . . Human relationships serve a variety of functions. They provide us with [1]affection (receiving and providing warmth and friendliness), [2] inclusion (experiencing feelings that we belong and providing others with messages that they belong), [3] pleasure (sharing happiness and fun), [4] escape (providing diversion), and [5] control (managing our lives and influencing others) (Rubin, Perse, & Barbato, 1988).”

[Above emphasis are my own.] Who really thinks about the “function” of our relationships? It’s not something we purposefully think about day to day. When I got to the second point of inclusion, I had to stop and underline it.

For those who are raised by someone other than their original parent(s), that ‘feeling’ of belonging cannot be manufactured from the outside. It is something that begins from within. Even if those around are providing messages of love and care, it cannot guarantee the individual receiving those messages will indeed ‘feel’ that they do indeed belong.

I’ve heard stories from adoptees who grew up always knowing they are adopted, and from those who find out later in life about their adoption. A common thread among them is that something didn’t “feel” right, that they didn’t “feel” like they belonged. That was true among those who were in loving positive adoptive families, as well as for those whose experience was the opposite. Please read into the next paragraph with me.

“We learn about the complexity of human relationships as we study communication. We learn first, that other people in relationships are vastly different from each other. We learn that they may be receptive or dismissive toward us. We learn that they may behave as if they are superior or inferior to us. We learn that they might be approachable or highly formal. [While all families can produce negatives here – step back and try to consider how much greater the impact is to an adoptee who may already have a strong internal feeling of not belonging. Combine this with aparents who are unapproachable or are dismissive of the adoptee’s original loss. Even if the aparents do not treat the adoptee differently from other biological children, there are often afamily relations who do treat the adoptee as inferior.] People clearly are not interchangeable with each other.”

Did you catch that last sentence?

“People clearly are not interchangeable with each other.”

That sentence is what prompted this post today.

Pause, if you would, please. Ponder every single word.

People Clearly Are Not Interchangeable With Each Other The statement that “people clearly are not interchangeable” would include all people regardless of race, gender, or age. This would include babies then, would it not?

Since this statement is unarguably true, then why does society as a whole accept the adoption industry’s marketed idea that parents and babies are easily interchangeable? I think it directly challenges the erroneous myth -- “it doesn’t matter who is raising the baby, as long as they are loved.”

Yes, it DOES matter, because "People [parents / babies] clearly are NOT interchangeable!”

People

are NOT

interchangeable

I feel trapped...

2010-10-20T13:05:00.003-04:00

The majority of people in my day to day life - they have absolutely NO IDEA whatsoever WHO I really am.

As I am working my way out of the bondage of secrecy, I still find myself trapped.

I take the risk of exposing not a mere fact of my history, no it is exposing an extremely intimate part of the core of my being. When I have an adoption-type conversation with another person, it's as if, well, I opened up, and I have stopped hiding but that still does not make me feel like I can talk about 'it'.

I still feel trapped.

Two more people in my life this week know about the real me, but that conversation is done and over in their mind.

But I'm still hurting on the inside ...

trapped

Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance

2010-10-15T15:15:00.003-04:00

When I visited CafeMom today, this was the animation of their logo.

I couldn't help but just stare at it. Stare at that little flame flickering silently. It hurt too much to even get angry. How many other women were triggered unexpectedly today when she signed into CafeMom and saw this painful reminder and felt it piercing her heart?

Pregnancy Loss... yup, that's what happened last summer. It sure was a dark and difficult year for me.
Infant Loss ... yup, that's what happened 17 years ago.
October 13, 1994 my beautiful and perfect son was born. I held him for the 3 days that I was in the hospital with minor complications. Then on that third day, I hobbled my way into the nursery to give him a gift. It was a baby blanket I crocheted for him.

By the expression on her face, I caught the agency worker off guard. She was in the nursery too. She was there to take my son away from me. She was all smiles and bubbly and happy. How sweet of her. To be so joyful as she witnesses firsthand a family being torn apart. How loving and kind hearted of her that she offered to capture this Kodak moment for me.

Yes, I have a picture of the last time I saw my son. It was the time I last held him. I was not given any privacy to even say good-bye. I guess that would not have mattered because I had been crying so hard I could not speak anyway. There were no audible words; however, my heart was screaming.

Lovely of this woman to be beaming as I begin collapsing on the inside.

I will never forget that day.

I will NEVER forget that day.

It was the day that the gate to hell was opened and evil attached itself to me as all it's pain and fury poured into my soul. I was sobbing. I was crushed. It felt as if my lungs were in a vice and it literally hurt to breathe. Every breath was painful and difficult. It felt like I was breathing in daggers and and shards of broken glass.

I should have run back into that nursery and snatched my son from her and held him tightly to my chest, where he belonged. I should have held onto him and never let him go. I should have said, "Let's go home" - not "goodbye."

But I didn't. I didn't because "this" was supposed to be better for him. It was 'better' because I would surely ruin his life and shackle him and keep him from reaching his full potential.

My (at the time) boyfriend helped me from the hospital to the car. When I asked why we were doing "this?" he played the role he was supposed to. He regergitated all the lies that we had been fed over the past few months. Basically he 'reminded' me that this was what was best for our son.

If you are pregnant and considering adoption my only word of advice is ... don't.

Listen to the screaming of your heart. Stop smothering it's cries with a pillow. The birth of your child WILL change you whether you parent or not. Embrace that change, don't turn in into a trauma.

Adoption is not "the answer." No, it is only piling on another problem and your life will become encased in thinly veiled layers of bondage. Unless you're violent toward children - your child deserves for you to take him/her home with you, so you can continue nurturing the bond that the two of you started 9 months earlier.

He/She already loves you. Please don't break his/her heart - Don't damage yours.

LOSS

Pregnancy

Loss

Infant

Loss

Happy 16th Birthday - 10/13/1994

2010-10-13T10:22:00.009-04:00

To my dear son, Today you're 16, and it makes me sad knowing all that I have missed in your life. All the celebrations and I haven't been with you for any of them. Here you are at a milemarker Sweet 16 -and you're, I don't actually know where. In spite of my own sadness, I do wish you a Happy Birthday, I wish for you lots of love from those dear to you. I hope you like the V2 Pocket Rocket guitar amp and the cd of Pictures I sent for your birthday. Today the song that's been on my mind is this song by Zara Phillips and DMC http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZbKNJUyGQ0 "...Tell me Do you remember? When you're on the streets, Do you look for me The way I look for you Oh, how I wish that I knew ...Evening comes, Can you hear me call for you In the hope that you will somehow hear me too ...Tell me Do you remember? When you're on the streets, Do you look for me The way I look for you Oh, how I wish that I Do you wish too ... remember, remember, remember remember, remember, remember Do you remember I wish I knew I wish I knew I wish I knew I wish I knew I wish I knew " I just want you to know that, Yes I remember Yes, look for you Yes, I do think of you, and Yes, I do call out to you too & wish you could hear the whisperings of my heart as I long for you I've never forgotten you I've always loved you

Happy Birthday

Healing Touch of Death

2010-09-12T19:38:00.008-04:00

Today is Sunday, September 12, 2010. It has been a rainy day today, just as it was one year ago.

One year ago was the day God did not grant my husband the miracle that he prayd for, and our Little Flower Bud was gone with an irrevocable finality. After several hours in the ER, he drove us home. Up the driveway we drove and before he shut off the engine, he turns to me. While holding my hand, he looks me in the eye and says, “I love you and I know how hard all of this has been for you and I don’t expect you to try again, if you don’t want to.” An enormous weight lifted off my shoulders just to know this from him. I am a very lucky woman, having such a wonderful husband who I know loves and cares for me. In the days, weeks, and months to follow my love for this man has deepened to a new level that I cannot find the words for. His showed a tenderness that I didn’t know could even exist. And while he usually oblivious to my emotional state, he would just know when I needed a hug. He would comfort me by just sitting with me in silence. He did not push me to ‘move on’ or ‘keep busy’ and he simply accepted my way of mourning. I have always treasured him, but this year I realize how rare and precious of a gem he truly is. This year I fell in love with him all over again. Over the past year Cheerio has gone though one of those seasons of life that changes a person. At no time did I question God, nor did it shake my faith in Him, in His love, or if He is Who and what He claims to be. It did; however, cause me to question why His followers, who claim to show “the love and compassion of Christ,” can be such cowards and disappear during a person’s darkest hours. It caused me to question friends and friendships. There are some people I’ve know for over 10 years who were among the "missing." I was disappointed and hurt to realize they’re apparently only surface friends and I grieved saying goodbye to the friendship that apparently died somewhere along the way. While questioning friendships, I let go of some of the ones from the past. I also formed new friendships and there were some friends who were only on the fringes before who became very dear and special to me. Sometimes it was a facebook message or chat “thinking of you’, or maybe it was a phone call to see how I was doing, and there were those who sent cards or flowers. Each of these events was like poking holes in the darkness that had covered my soul and allowed tiny rays of sunlight to shine in. Each person who was brave enough to show even the smallest amount of concern has been fused forever to a special place on my heart. One of the changes I’m not really happy about. I’ve noticed that I just am not interested in sugar coating things anymore. I just don’t want to waste my time with ‘drama. I have lost my patience with it. People need to grow up, stop being so self-centered, and take ownership and responsibility of their own actions. Among all the angst, emotional and relationship turmoil, anger, and hurt, something unseen has happened as well. Death has brought about some healing. It was a gradual thing, the healing didn’t happen right away. In the weeks after our loss, I exhausted myself with physical work outdoors – moving dirt, shoveling tons of stone, moving rocks, and terracing the landscape. My mind was numb, while my heart and days seemed empty. The tears flowed for days and weeks, and months, and a smile was a rare thing indeed. I worked the soil until the ground was frozen. I then retreated to our mountain, walking through the woods in silence. I would sit on a log or a rock, or in a tree. I was in no hurry to be anywhere or go anyplace or do anything. I had no ear buds or ipod as any clanging noise was unwelcome. It was an unusual winter with the last few snowstorms we had. With my aversion to the cold, I surprised myself with how frequently I was drawn into the woods and would take long slow walks in spite of the bitter cold and the falling snow. Those times were my respite. I did not push myself to think, evaluate, or analyze. I think the snow and cold quieted and slowed things down. Initially, I was worried that losing our Little Flower Bud would intensify my already searing pain regarding infants. But in the past few months I’ve noticed that the crippling reaction to infants has changed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not about to volunteer in the nursery or offer to hold someone’s newborn. But I don’t find myself crumbling inside when in the same room with an infant. A year ago I couldn’t say that. A year ago I was still edgy just to walk through the baby section of any store, but I’ve noticed that this too has changed. I have been able to walk through without the deafening sound of my heartbeat pounding loudly in my ears. My gut isn’t twisted into a jumble of knots when pregnancy is mentioned or discussed. These may seem trivial to someone else. But for me, those 14 years after I lost my son to adoption were long and difficult when anything infant related came up, but I can now breathe a sigh of relief that it’s over. But most importantly, when I think of my son, I feel free in this area. I no longer feel nervous or fret over the thought of him asking about siblings. I no longer have to worry about it being a burden on him as if he is ‘the reason’ we didn’t have other children. It won’t hurt me or him anymore. Death comes in a dark cloak to carry someone away. It leaves a trail of tears, sorrow, grief, and mourning. But from it’s passing, I have felt on the inside, a healing that was long overdue.

Healing Touch of Death

dreams and 'The Dream'

2010-08-28T22:31:00.006-04:00

The other morning I dreamt about my son. He will be 16 in October and I have not dreamed about him often – maybe 5 or 6 times all together. Most of the dreams I was not able to get near him, he was always at a distance, if I even saw him at all. There was the very first dream many years a go that I went to a weekend retreat which just happened to be at his aparents' house. I was frozen when I realized who the hosts were. But I did not see my son in that dream. Then there was the dream that once again, I was at his aparents' house. In that dream, I could see him outside in their yard, under a tree, but there was no way to get close to him or talk to him because his amom took me to other rooms away from him and out of sight. There was the dream I had maybe 3 or fewer years ago. I was at some sight seeing location, and I was up behind the building, looking down over a wall and could see the back of the building. When I peered over the wall, there was my son, down on ground level with the building. In this dream he looked up and saw me. I didn’t know if he recognized me or not, but I ducked behind the wall fearful of what he would think if he had. The dream after that I was at his aparents' house again. I was in the lower level – the staircase came down the center of the room. Just beyond the last step were two bedrooms. As I sat there, I looked at a clock and realized that it was after 3pm and schools have dismissed for the day. Sure enough my son and his brother came home from school and both of them ran down the stairs and straight into their bedrooms. As quickly as he was there he was out of sight again. In each of those dreams my hubby was with me. My hubby of 14 & 1/2 years now, is my son’s original father. After each of those dreams I woke up with my heart racing, and was wrapped in a deep sadness that clung to me. It was a sadness that I just could not shake off. But the dream I had recently was very different. For starters when I awoke from the dream, I felt good. I did not have a cloud of forboding and gloom. I was not fearful or afraid. In fact I hit the snooze button several times hoping I could go back to sleep and continue the dream. In this dream, my son was in our home. Not just a random house or random living room, but he was actually HERE in the living room of my current house. The sense from the dream was that it was his first time here and he was looking at stuff around the room. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable or feel as though he was being watched like a hawk, so I sat down with a sewing project – measuring material. I heard some noise behind me and turned to see what was going on. My hubby doesn’t go to the gym anymore – he has his own set of weights and bench he uses regularly these days. He keeps it all in our living room.

When I turned around what I saw was my son, Nathan (his name given at birth) doing curls with his father’s dumbbells. It was amusing to listen to him making those funny grunting sounds guys often do when they’re lifting weights. As I watched him, I observed other things in the room. Nathan would have walked by the smaller picture of himself to get to where the weights were. In my dream my eyes got big as I noticed he was a mere arm’s reach away from the larger 8x10 picture of him. In my dream I wondered about him seeing those pictures of himself displayed in our home. I also thought about him being old enough to drive and about him being here by himself. That was my dream. It is now 'The Dream' for the future as well – for him to be here in our home, comfortable, relaxed and casual. I have not guarantees what our reunion will be like someday, but I pray that in time it would be as this dream.

Dreams & The Dream

Heavy Eyelids and Sweet Tired Little Eyes

2010-08-26T01:29:00.002-04:00

Saturday after a hard day's work of gathering and loading up trucks of firewood, I finally agreed to let him see if he could catch two kittens from the feral cats on his property. I was hungry and I was tired. I agreed because I didn't think he'd be able to lure them into a carrier in a reasonable amount of time. I completely underestimated his skill, because in no time he had both kittens in a carrier and we were loading them into the cab of my truck. As I drove home, I was surprised that they were quiet - not a single meow. Allthewhile, I was thinking, "O great. Now what?" I've been to his place a bunch of times before. The last time or two that I've been there, I enjoyed watching the new batch(es) of kittens. There was an assortment of little furr balls, including two yellow kittens. He described one of the yellow ones as "very friendly." He pointed to the little Cutie I'd been watching, and mentioned it is also very friendly and they are probably litter mates. The little Cutie didn't bolt at first sight of me. I could get closer to it than the other cats; although, it would dash away at just the last moment. I'm sure this little Cutie's had my attention because the color pattern reminded me so very much of our Monster Paws. I felt mezmorized when it would look me in eye and hold that gaze. Since these were outdoor -(not really wild - but not tame either) cats, I didn't want to mix with our indoor Pussy Willow, at least not until the kittens are checked out by a vet. It was already quite apparent they had fleas! So, when I got home, I pulled my convertible out of the garage, and turned it into a temporary home for the kittens. They were both still quiet, but neither one came out of the carrier. They would allow me to reach in to pet them, nevertheless they would not come out so I left the carrier doors open and left them in the garage for the night. That was Saturday night. Sunday morning, they were both of of their carriers and hiding near a shelf. I should have left them alone so they wouldn't look for another hiding place. Alas, hindsight is always 20/20. Near the shelf they were fairly easy to see and get to. But their new hiding place became the lawn mower in the corner. By Sunday night, the little yellow cat came out.

"Very Friendly" ha! that doesn't begin to describe it! This kitten was purring and kneading his little feet like there'd be no tomorrow. He would rub my arms and wanted sooo badly to be petted. It seemed he could not get enough petting. In fact, he wasn't even interested in eating! It is now Wednesday and little Cutie still won't come out from under the lawn mower while I'm there. It is akward every time I pet Cutie. Morning and afternoons I go in and get on hands and knees. I lean my face to the floor and peer under the lawn mower & sure enough there is a kitten under there - Still. What a weird thing to reach under the lawn mower to pet a kitten. She's not afraid when she's in her own space, she rubs against my hand, walks all around my hand and rubs along my arm. She'll even lay across my arm or in my open hand. But she is just not intersted yet in coming out from under that lawn mower! This morning I noticed that one of the whiskers of the yellow kitten was short, like it was cut. Then as he sat in my lap, I noticed several of them look shortened. I wonder, is he soo uber full of love that he's shaved his own whiskers off by rubbing agains the lawn mower blades too hard? What a funny cute little cat. I've been calling him Tommy, because that is what my Grandmother named a stuffed yellow cat I got for her when she was sick. It may not be an creative name, but I'm pretty sure it's a boyo. The other one, I'm not sure yet. It's hard to tell with the lawn mower in the way. Tommy Tom Tom got all comfy cozy this morning when as I sat in the garage to read. He rubbed all over my arms, along my feet, crawl up in my lap. Very friendly - Very cute. After awhile I realized that he was still, and I hoped he didn't fall asleep. I would have hated waking him up, but it was definately time for me to get ready for work. So I shuffled a little and he leans his head waaaaaaay back and looked up at me. His eyes were barely open and it was the sweetest thing as he just stared at me through those sleepy eyes, sort of watching me as he was falling back to sleep. I was aware of the emotions that it evoked inside of me. I felt like this little kitten was just so precious and sweet and beautiful. Like I wanted to protect him and take care of him, and cuddle him and make him feel loved. And I wondered to myself, if that is what it would have been like had if I not lost our wee one last year? If she had joined us, is that how I would have felt looking down at her in the crook of my arm while she was falling asleep? What color would her eyes have been as she would have looked up at me through those tired and sleepy eyes while falling contently and peacefully to sleep.

sweet tired little eyes

Candy Wrappers and Miracles at the Sign Making Party

2010-08-17T17:49:00.005-04:00

There is this tradition with the ARD that I need to share about. It is the traiditional “Sign Making Party” [SMP] the night before the actual demonstration.

I like this tradition, a LOT. In fact, if anyone is considering joining for a Demonstration in the future, you must, must MUST participate in the SMP. Why? What’s goes on that someone absolutely MUST be there? Well, let’s start with the obvious, since that’s a part I often overlook. We make signs, yup, signs; as in the ones to be carried during our demonstration the next day.

We all pile into one room with poster board, paint, markers, glitter, sticks, staple gun, and duct tape. At some point pizza is brought in to refresh the starving and weary. We also review the route and listen to instructions for the demonstration.

I don’t know whose idea it was, but this year there was a mini talk on what to say or not say, suggestions for breaking the ice, etc. I found this to be very helpful, because I tend to clam up around strangers and since I’m a newbie, I’m worried that I might say the wrong thing(s). A point was made during this ‘workshop’ that I’ll come back around to in another post. So, Hats OFF to the person who made this suggestion! Loved it!

During the Sign Making Party is also an opportunity to help with other tasks for either the demonstration itself, or for the booth at the convention center.

Since I like being a behind the scenes invisible helper, I didn’t mind doing tedious things that don’t get attention or accolades. I just want to help, and if folding t-shirts helps free up another person to do something else – I’ll fold t-shirts. And, why stop at folding t-shirts when you can get thousands of paper cuts from folding miniature candy wrappers? Just kidding, I don’t think I got any paper cuts, but not kidding about the mini candy wrappers. Potential for paper cuts was definitely there!

I don’t think it’s obvious, but in the picture above, there were bags and bags of miniature candy bars (Hershey Chocolate, Mr Goodbar, and my personal favorite the Special Dark).

Our Graphics Genius measured the candy bars and designed awesome re-wrap covers. These incredible little re-wrap covers were in blue, red, green, and yellow.

She also threw herself into the project with printing various slogans such as; “Separate is not Equal,” “Restore our Rights,” “Why is my Birth Certificate Sealed?” and other catchy phrases.

As if designing and printing them was not enough, she had already re-wrapped 600 of these sweet little goodies BEFORE the sing making event! (I did not ask how many she ate in the process.)

It was a beautiful thing to behold that she saw the importance of keeping the colors together in their own separate zip lock bags (I’m sure it is what I would’ve done too). Shocking as it sounds, I was able to actually sit (sort of) in one place (most of the time) to help fold these. Using the glue dots was out of my league apparently. I tried one candy wrapper and ended up with several glue dots on my nails, fingers, and other hand.

While folding the Candy Wrappers, it gave me the opportunity to just observe and listen. It was the time I could look around the room and see unfolding before me the absolute best part of this event. Sure, other things are nice, making signs, eating pizza, educating each other, and taking pictures of Dan the Biker Glitter Man ...

but the most important thing,
I think,
that happens at the SMP is the bonding.

There is a great deal of irony in this, because bonding, trust, and building relationships is something that I’ve heard many adoptees express difficulty with throughout their lives.

Yet, here in one room a miracle is taking place as adoptees feel ‘safe’ to share their stories, their struggles, their victories, their pain – because they know that the person listening “gets it”. Here is that time and place where they don’t have to worry about being told how they should feel – that they should be grateful that they were separated from their original families, that they should be loyal to the parents that raised them, that they should get over their imaginary ideas of feeling abandoned, that they should …

No, this is a place and time that they can truly open up and talk honestly about what being adopted means to them. Some endured abusive homes growing up, some grew up feeling like they did not fit into their family, some grew up with all the love and care a kid could ever hope for, yet they still feel the same deep loss of their original family, as the others feel.

And as I sat there folding Candy Wrappers, I get to witness this miracle happening right before my very eyes.

There may be one or two people who are still foggy with pro-adoption rhetoric, but they are not the majority. Hopefully they’re wise enough to see what is going on around them, and that pro-adoption rhetoric surfaces pain, not healing. Hopefully they’re wise enough to learn from this event and would walk away with a different perspective, a different viewpoint and begin to question their own loyalty to a practice that produces such heinous results of lifelong pain that grips a person down to the unreachable depths and core of their being.

But there are only a few of ‘them’. It’s their loss, really to be on the outside of the circle.

On the inside there is laughter, hugs, some tears, a LOT of understanding, warmth, acceptance, openness, and I dare say … Love.

Candy Wrappers and Miracles at the Sign Making Party

THIS JUST IN ....

2010-08-11T16:44:00.010-04:00

This Just In … WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE; however, THE ORIGINALLY SCHEDULED BLOG PST pertaining to the LOUISVILLE ADOPTEE RIGHTS DEMONSTRATION is being interrupted

with

this important news flash …

Just arrived inbox of Cheerio’s e-mail …

-> You have received this message as a subscriber of this list. Questions about this advertisement, or questions about advertising with us, should be directed to: Offer-Whiz 60 29th Street #110 San Francisco, California 94110 ****** What a lovely group of baby pimps. This was Cheerio's reply to this marketing company- as this 'ad' shows so clearly what adoption agencies/professionals try so hard to deny. That Adooption is NOT about the needs of a child, but about the desires of adults. "AdoptionServices@offer-whiz-mailings.com" "She's ALL Yours" THAT right there is what is wrong with adoption, they treat human beings like products or something that can be owned! She is a human being, and she has already a momma, a momma that she loves, a momma whose voice she recognizes before she is born into this world of adoption wolves! How can you sleep at night treating little human beings like boxed baby dolls with upc codes on their bottoms, and a price tag on their arm? How Can YOU? How pathetic, shameful, and greedy making money off of baby selling! Thank you for this Ad, I'm going to be sure to blog about you this week.

****

While this baby pimping add 'interrupts' the theme of talking about the Adoptee Rights Demonstration, at the same time, it ties into it perfectly. We need to change the laws in order to treat the adoptee as a human being. They are not a commodity that neither the adopting parents nor the original parents own rights to. It is the adoptee's birth certificate... unless you believe this whole "she's all yours" mentality, then stick to your human trafficking point of view and oppose thier basic right to their original identity.

She's

a human being

not

For Profit!

Louisville here I come!

2010-08-09T23:50:00.015-04:00

In Cheerio’s world, things don’t follow a normal predictable pattern. In fact, it’s better to expect the unexpected. I’ve posted twice about the Adoptee Rights Demonstration which was on Sunday, you’d think the normal would be to proceed to events Sunday evening. But NOT in Cheerio’s world! We are going to instead push the clock hands wayyyy back to Friday. Friday afternoon, 7/9/2010 is when I arrived in Louisville.

Waiting outside airport for hotel shuttle

It was nice and warm sitting outside waiting for the hotel shuttle to arrive. I admired what another woman was wearing. I don’t know what to call it, it wasn’t a sweater, or hoodie. It wasn’t a jacket, sweatshirt, poncho, or scarf. It was sort of like a shrug. I so wish I had taken a bunch of pictures of it so I could make one for myself – whatever it was! It was BRIGHT orange, almost like my fingernails. It draped over her shoulders and flowed down almost to the ground. In the back in only covered her neck and trapeziums, but ended about her lower back. It was like a wide scarf, which was sewn along the edges for sleeves. It had a relaxed loose fit, and was made of a lightweight material. I’ve GOT to make one for myself! But then I’d probably be too self conscious to wear it in public. Hers was made of a knit, but I’d use a lighter material, maybe muslin or something else light weight. I actually was admiring hers while thinking it would be PERFECT to wear on the day of the Demonstration to keep the sun off my arms.

My Roomie was driving up from Miami and hadn’t arrived yet. So I checked in and dragged my stuff up to the room to unpack before she got there. I picked the bed closest to the door so I could slip out for my coffee first thing in the mornings.

I used one dresser drawer and hung a few things like my “don’t go anywhere without it – puff vest”, winter hoodie, sweatshirt, and my bright orange wind breaker. (Yeah, everyone packs a winter hoodie when the weather forcast is 99 every single day!) I was done unpacking and had eaten most of the gingersnaps when I got a text message from JimM that he’d arrived. I made my way downstairs to reconnect with friends, and hoped we’d head out for some supper soon. As we were talking grub, my Roomie arrived. I helped them unload their pickup truck and then the three of us went out for dinner. End Friday. Saturday morning I woke up early and slipped downstairs for my morning coffee. I expected to bump into others from the group (which is what happened every morning in Philly). But I guess I was up too early because no one was downstairs, not even outside for a smoke. So I decided I’d have my coffee and have a good swimming workout. WeeHaa. After my swim and my 2nd shower, I went back downstairs for breakfast and there were people from our group everywhere! It was GREAT! Breakfast with the B@stards is a very memorable experience. There’s not a bunch of catty bickering, just a lot of hugs, sharing, listening, and caring. After breakfast folks were planning their days. I asked if I could join the crew headed out for our pre-march walk, to test the path of our demonstration the following day. It was a nice leisurely walk and we even had time to stop and take pictures, like this one.

and this snowy one too...

...doesn't it look like snow sitting in the divits? Well! it did to me!

The Authority decided that since we were there, we may as well go inside and pick up the group’s badges and check out the booth. I knew that I was not in any of the time slots to man the booth during the convention, and I felt honored to be able tag along with this group of determined, fearless, and persistent folks who are fighting tirelessly for adoptee rights.

After that excursion, a bunch of us had lunch on forth street. The salmon on flatbread was excellent! I’m still not too sure about the fried pickle though. I got back to the hotel in time to change and get ready for the sign making party that night. Will post on that later!

Louisville,

Here

We Come

!!!

Message on a Stick

2010-08-03T22:43:00.025-04:00

The Signs Were Definately Awesome! Group signs Denied Adoptee A Little boy’s sign--- I did not feel comfortable posting the pic of a boy, even without his name. There was a little boy who was about 5 and he wanted to draw his own Demonstration Poster. It was a white 8 ½ x 11 sheet of paper taped to a stick. He started drawing stars for the American Flag, and people, and the border on both side had tears. Why tears? His Dad found out less than 5 years ago that he is adopted. So this little boy sees first hand that “adoption makes people sad.” Pedigrees Skeletons, Secrets & Lies Adoptive Parents support Moms Birth Cert Hostage/Discrimination Original Identity Basic Human Right Searching Identity So, now that you’ve looked at a good sample of the posters, do you know what this Demonstration was about? What do things like “Original Identity,” “denied,” and “sealed” mean? What do Birth Certificates have to do with all of this “lies,” “secrets,” and “secrecy”? Let’s start with the Poster that Summarizes the Plight of the Adoptee. Born – a child is born. There is a birth certificate listing the (original) mother of this child & sometimes the (original) father is also listed. Adopted - the child is given up for adoption. The mother either voluntarily surrenders her rights to parent the child, or the rights are terminated by the courts. Sealed- The adoption process can take from months to years to complete or to be “finalized.” At the time the adoption is finalized, the Original Birth Certificate (OBC) is sealed by the state and a new Amended Birth Certificate is issued for the adoptee. This Amended Birth Certificates now lists the Adoptive Parents as the Mother and Father of the child. Denied – when the adoptee becomes an adult, they find their requests to obtain their Original/Unamended Birth Certificates is “denied.” It is important to note that there are currently there are only two states that do not seal the original birth certificate and never have sealed them. Kansas is one of those states. Why?

So, what is the goal of this demonstration? It is bring awareness to the discrimination to the 6 million Americans who cannot get their Birth Certificates like all other US citizens. The Goal is to change the laws so that an adoptee, when he/she becomes an adult, can got o their vital statistics department and fill out the exact same forms as a non-adopted person would to request a copy of their Birth Certificate, pay the same price as a non-adoptedperson, and obtain their Birth Certificate without all the delays, red tape, extra fees, hassles, etc. Equal Acces is what is being asked for – not special treatment or special privileges,

simply equal.

Equal

Access

ARDemonstrations 2009 & 2010

2010-08-02T23:01:00.007-04:00

It is Monday evening, August 2nd, 2010 and I’ve been home from my trip to Louisville for a few days now. I want to share about that trip before I get dragged too deeply back into the ‘real world’ with work and daily responsibilities. I never did get around to posting about the march in Philadelphia last year. So I with this first post about the event, I’ll try to compare the two events.

Adoptee Rights Day, July 21st 2009 – it was a rainy and drizzly morning as we gathered at People’s Plaza, Independence Park before our march down the streets of Philadelphia. There were people among our numbers which were not at the sign making party the night before, because Philly was local enough for them to drive in just for this demonstration.

There were several people filming and cameras everywhere. This was a huge step out into the plain exposing open for me. I’m an open book online, but in real life I was an in the closet original mom. It was a very overwhelming at times. I was very timid, nervous, and even afraid. All the “what if’s” bombarded my brain -- ”What if my picture ends up in a newspaper and people I work with see it? What if my name is printed? What if my son’s family sees an article about the demonstration – will they use it against me to try to cut off contact?”

I think the most vivid memory I will always have about that morning is when Scott Hancock asked me a few questions while his friend filmed our conversation. Scott asked me why I was there, then asked if I am adopted, to which I replied, “No, I’m a natural mom.” We had a brief conversation about the terminology and use of ‘birth mother’, then he continued his interview. Then came the part that is forever in my mind, he asked “Would you look into the camera, state your name, and tell us why you’re here.”

I froze on the inside. I didn’t want to state my name, I was still hiding (from myself), so I took the cowardly avenue and said, “I go by Cheerio and I believe that adoptees have a right to know their original identity and it is not right to try to keep secrets from them. Once they become adults they should have the same rights as every other American citizen.” While my focus was clear, by not stating my name I was definitely chickening out.

Just before we began the march, there was a point where M distributed folders with information sheets so we could hand them out as we talk to people on the streets. I immediately thought “Talk to People???!!! Is she crazy? I can’t TALK to people!!!” I very timidly slinked up to a different organizer and told her I didn’t want to talk to people and she graciously excused me and gave my folder of papers to someone else.

I was like a frightened sheep as we began the march, and I made sure to be in the middle of the crowd, so no one would notice me. I didn’t want to stand too close to the Itty Bitty Big Mouth as she led the chants along our way. “You’ve Got Yours! We want ours!”

The demonstration was on a Tuesday and there were people everywhere! We marched a few blocks, and those few blocks were life changing to me. As we marched along, there were a few occasions that people in the crowd walking the same way would ask questions. There was one young man in particular I remember talking with as we walked along. That brief chat with a complete stranger gave me courage to converse with other pedestrians as we were marching back and forth in front of the convention center.

I learned two very important things that day.

The first thing I learned was that society in general has no idea about this discrimination. This leads to the other important thing I learned, they are on the Adoptee’s side! They also feel it is wrong and believe too that adult adooptees have a right to their own original birth certificates.

So, that’s my short summary from the Philadelphia - Adoptee Rights Day 2009.

Fast forward to ARD 2010. I didn’t think I’d be able to go to the ARD this year, but was delighted when my husband said he did not mind if I went solo. Talk about a change in just one year. I don’t know if I could have done it on my own last year, and this year I was going solo for a whole week!

So, that little bit of courage from talking to a stranger on the street last year lasted longer than just the next few hours t hat day. It has grown in the course of the year, and now I have grown and am stronger.

Last year when I told people, “I go by Cheerio,” it was because I was still afraid to giving out my ‘real name.’ This year people still called me Cheerio – but it was not because I was afraid, ashamed or hiding. Some people in real life call me Cheerio too. I even made a Cheerio Button that had a picture of my monkey avatar.

The day of the Demonstration had some noticeable differences from last year. The first noticeable difference was the weather - it was not rainy, and the weather forecast was for 99 degrees, again. There was no relief from the heat in site. But the heat did not wear me down!

The other difference was the volume of foot traffic was notably less, much less. Now, I’m not from Louisville, therefore can’t gauge what normal pedestrian traffic is like on a weekday vs a weekend. But there were not a lot of other pedestrians to mingle with. As we marched back and forth in front of the convention center, there were not a lot of people streaming in or out of the building.

I talked with only two folks, one was a young man on a cell phone who said he agreed and supported us. I asked if he wanted to join our protest? I handed him my sign and took his picture. I’m not sure if he actually talked with anyone else in our group or not, but it makes for a good picture.

The other fellow I spoke with, I pulled in The Authority to help answer his question. Basically his question had to do with Father’s Rights. His example was a woman has a baby and does not list a father. Some time down the road the mother wants child support so she goes after the father for child support. This man’s question to us was “shouldn’t that father have a right to have his name on the birth certificate if he’s going to pay child support?” I agreed with him, that he should have that right.

The Authority explained that unfortunately the one who ‘wins’ the battle is often the one with the most money. She continued on by stating that Father’s Rights are systematically trampled with the adoption process. She encouraged him to find a Father’s Rights group to join.

When people talk about pro-life or pro-choice, I’m neither, I’m pro-family. We need to support families and help them. That includes daddies and Father’s Rights too.

The rest of the time I talked with other marcher’s (but that I believe is another blog post).

Last year I was tired for our entire stay in Philadelphia. Some time after returning home we find out why I was so tired.

This year I was my usual self, chock full of energy. Although it was hot hot hot out there, I was just pumped and bursting with energy. I felt like I could run around the entire convention center a few times. I WANTED to march out on the side of the building in the full sun. I challenged a few people to a race, but no one took me up on it.

Thank you Panera Bread for the free iced water!!!

About 2pm our leaders decided to call it a day. I was proud of them to make a decision that was based out of concern for everyone’s welfare. They could have said “we planned to march until 3pm, and we have just one hour to go!” But that wasn’t the case. People were hot, tired, weary, and worn out – and they cared about that.

This is without a doubt a group of very caring, thoughtful, and loving people. I am honored to be able to stand with any one of them, to walk hand in hand or side by side (especially when some folks were very very sweaty). It truly is a beautiful experience, and I wouldn’t trade it for any exotic vacation anywhere else in the world!

Sweet Smile. Bitter Void.

2010-07-08T17:44:00.008-04:00

Throughout the years together, I think my hubby and I have found a decent balance between doing things together as a couple while still giving each other space to do things independently as individuals. But one thing we’ve had a really hard time with is finding other couples to hang out with. Recently at my job we’ve brought on board a contractor who used to work for the company years ago as a programmer. We happen to go to the same church, but don’t talk at church much more than the occasional “Hi. How ‘ya doing?” a few times a year. We knew each other more so from having worked together in the past. About two months ago this fellow came into my office and was telling me that he and his wife would like to find a few other people to get to know. It was peculiar, in a way, to hear him describing the same sentiments that I feel frustrated by. The basic frustration is that, everyone is so busy and getting to know people is nearly impossible. No one has time these days to make friends outside their existing network. So, we’re forming this small group. There are 7 of us getting together once a week. We all bring something to contribute to a meal and we spend time talking. Next week we’ll have food from the grill and play games and ping pong at our house. It’s nothing complicated. Most weeks we’ll be meeting at Jay’s house, because they have two young boys whom they can send off to bed if we end up talking late. The first night we met at Jay’s house, I basically did what I always do – I ignored their children. I intentionally avoided eye contact and didn’t really even talk to them. Heck, I’m not sure if I even acknowledged them at all! Now, I’ve never been an infant hoarder. Even as a teen I just didn’t see anything in holding babies or any such nonsense. They cry, poop, and eat. Babies and very young children weren’t my thing. But there was a day that I loved kids once they were old enough to actually talk and communicate – about 7 and older. In fact at one point I moved to Georgia to be a primary school teacher. But that was before my own son was born. That was before part of my heart closed in on its own self. That was before I lived with the open, seeping, unhealed wound of losing a child, my child, my only child – my son, to adoption. Other than my own youngest nephew, I don’t do anything with children at all. In fact, I don’t even have friends who have young children. Some might consider it to be a coincidence; however, I imagine it’s a subconscious decision to keep children out to prevent my own pain of losing my own son from surfacing. Therefore, ignoring these two boys was just the ‘natural’ thing for me to do (to protect myself). The next few weeks, I became more aware of what I was doing. I noticed that I was actually putting energy into keeping the kids at a distance. I didn’t want to smile at them, even though part of me was thinking about how funny they were or how much fun they could be. But I flat out just did not want to open my heart. I did not want to let any children in, especially not a boy. I did not want to risk how that would make me feel. I’m sure there is a dash of guilt in it as well. Original moms live with guilt their entire lives. It shows up in unexpected and seemingly insignificant ways at times. So there was that subconscious part of me that wouldn’t allow him to be replaced. There was also the subconscious part of me that didn’t even want to try. Why should I embrace any other child in this world if I gave away my very own flesh and blood? That guilt was some of my self-inflicted punishment for 16 years. And I see it still has it’s hold on me. I just stuffed my feelings and tried to remain indifferent. It was very hard, and I could feel the emotional struggle inside. While I wanted to just pretend they didn’t exist, at the same time I knew that if I was going to build a friendship with Jay and his wife, inevitably I would have to accept their boys as part of the package. Last week I allowed myself to talk to their boys. I even joked with them a few times. My world didn’t cave in, so I let my guard down a little bit. Then tonight it happened. We were sitting around the table after supper and the youngest boy was sitting next to his mom writing. He wrote two little notes on a piece of paper. Then he carefully tore each note off of the paper and gave one to one of the guys in the group. Awww, how cute, I thought. Then he got off the bench and came over and handed me a note too. I smiled at him and thanked him for the little note. The longer I held it, the more I felt the loss of my own son. But I flattened out the note and left it lying on my knee as we continued talking. He ripped a sheet of drawing paper out of the drawing pad and went back to his place and sat back down. Well, as many of you know, a wee little bit of encouragement can go a long way -- a very long way sometimes . Apparently my smile was that little bit of encouragement to him. What I didn’t know was that he was sitting over there drawing. After a period of time he got up and came over to me again. This time he handed me a picture he drew. I talked with him about the picture for a few moments. Then he went back over to draw another picture for the other guy he had written a note for earlier. I have no idea what the drawing is, really. He doesn't speak very clearly and I could only make out one or two words. But there was a lion and horse, and lots of people and they were all smiling. It actually had a lot of detail on it. It was a thought-out picture of an event, not just the basic picture of a house or of a cat or of stick figures with big feet. So there I sat. My heart was already stinging from the note. And now I’m holding in my hand one of those “refrigerator treasures”. I just could not help but think – I’ve never had any of these from my own son. And I know I never will. Those moments and years are gone and those priceless treasures he made were given to someone else. I’ll never see them. Even if I did, it would not bring a smile, but more tears and sadness to realize the dept of what I’ve lost. Of what is gone and can never be restored. Several times tonight my eyes welled up with tears, but I had to hold it all in. No one would understand why a picture would make someone cry. And frankly I didn’t want to talk about it either. Sweet. He is a cute little boy with a sweet little smile. He even picked a flower for me as we walked to our car. It was cute, but at the same time it was marred by the bitter void in my own life.

Sweet Smile

Bitter Void

His picture

2010-06-29T23:44:00.004-04:00

Since we moved to our little house on the mountain, we've had an annual cookout on the 4th of July starting in 2007. So for the past few weeks I've been getting things ready. I have my lists of things to do, must do, have hubby do, to buy, to clean, to throw away, and to make. I've shocked myself that I actually made and mailed out invitations this year. They turned out very nice, if I must say so myself (yes, Cheerio, they look very patriotic!). Tonight I'm tidying up the room where I'll have the drink station and food table setup -- the Family Room, as I call it. The plan is to work on this room next, now that THE WALL project is complete. This room is just a concrete slab (because we had to rip out the flea infested carpet when we moved in). We originally planed to put in new carpet, but then found out how dirty coal and wood is. So now our plan is to put in a hardwood floor to match the kitchen flooring. This is also the room we installed a coal stove - the 2nd love of my life!!! Hubby's Dad and my Dad put in the slate hearth. Then I helped mix the mortar for them to build the brick wall behind the stove & stovepipe. So that area has a lot of memories I'll cherish. In this room we reinforced the sagging roof. Put up drywall on one wall near the wide panoramic windows. This created a wide windowsill which I originally envisioned our kitty will love to sit and watch the birds. Just so you know, Cheerio STINKS at interior decorating!!! (It took me over a year here to put up a clock!) I am also very lame with putting up pictures. But after we found our two lost nephews last year, I have pics of them up. So I felt like I'd better put out pics of Hubby's neice and nephew. Well, I have a group family pic of my mom and sister & her family. So, I found a pic of Hubby's mom and dad to put out. I am going put all these pics (even though the frames don't match this year) on display on the wide windowsill. So, right now, this very moment, I am saving a school pic of my son to my jump drive, so I can print it. Then I will put it in a decorative metal frame I like. Then I will put his pic on the windowsill with the rest of our family.

Rich and Poor,both in the same heart

2010-06-25T13:16:00.008-04:00

No 'agenda' behind this thread.... it's just that, well, I miss him. Today while at work, I was thinking about him and glanced at my bookmark. It is a card my husband gave me last year on our 13th wedding anniversary.

"Rich is not how much you have, It's who you have beside you."

Rich - "who you have beside you." I AM RICH with the treasure of the man who is beside me. Rich Indeed! But it begs to ask, if Rich is who you have beside you, then what is it when someone who should be beside you, but isn't there? My guess? That would be Poor. My life is Rich with my wonderful husband beside me, yet at the same time, without my son, life is poor - it is definately underpriviledged and deprived what it could be (for all of us - him, his father, for me). . . . sigh . . . I just miss him. I want to look into his eyes. I want to hear his voice (for the first time). I want to give him a big warm hug. I hope for warm hug in return. I want to watch him walk across a room, to just see him in motion. my heart aches the tears well up in my eyes and threaten to spill over just thinking about him ohhh... how I miss him ...

Rich

Poor

the closet doors I've opened wide

2010-06-06T14:10:00.010-04:00

I am an open book on-line. But in real life, that isn't exactly so, especially regarding adoption. The experssion I've used is that I'm still an in the closet original mom. Many of you know that at one time I was pro-adoption, even to the (now nauseating) point of helping bethany (non!)christian services rape other expectant moms of their babies. So, if you don't like me, that's ok - it's not like I deserve any kindness. The journey of me stumbling out of the adoption fog is only 3 years old, and there are a few things I'm still trying to figure out. One of those things is, how to break the silence of secrecy regarding my teenage son, whom I lost to adoption nearly 16 years ago. I desperately hope for a reunion with him. I know now that adoption has wounded him (in ways that he may not be aware of or acknowledge right now in life) and I don't want to hurt him any further in our reunion someday. I frequent an adoptee forum, where the whole purpose of the forum is for adoptees to find support. I read over and over about how it affects the adopted person that their original mother tries to keep them a secret even after reunion...her husband doesn't know, or her children don't know, or even her family does not know. I read how hurtful to them that is each and every time, to be unacknowledged over and over again. How can an original mom meet her child and 10+ years later STILL not introduce her lost child back into her family? Yet it happens way too often. What I don't want is, I don't want that to happen to my son. I don't want to perpetually twist the knife that has already pierced his soul by denying him again. And yet, and YET every time someone asks me if I have any children, and I reply with, 'No.' I am doing the exact same thing to him, I am denying him - even though he is not there to audibly hear it with his own ears. And every time I deny him, it hurts me inside, because I know that is what I am doing -- even if it is not my intention. So, exactly how does someone all of a sudden pull back the drapes and open the window to allow the fresh breeze of truth to flow? How do I all of a sudden invite people into this 'hidden room' of my heart where they would discover that Cheerio has a teenage son? Long story short? I'm going to tell them one person at a time, one opportunity at a time. Today I was by myself among a group of people I didn't know. One person asked the inevitable ... "do you have any children?" I started to reply with my standard answer, "I have a cat," pause "and a son who does not live with us." And so, today is a new beginning for me, for us. While the rain is pouring down outside, and the clouds darken the skies, inside of me the sun is shinning, because today I did not deny him!

Mother's Day Madness

2010-06-04T11:52:00.005-04:00

It is June now, almost a month since Mother's Day has come and gone. I was afraid to write how I was feeling, for fear that it would jinx me. The first m-day after my son was born, my (now) MIL gave me a small bouquet of spring flowers she cut from her garden when we were at their house for a gathering. She wanted to acknowledge me as a mother too. (this was before she had any other grandchildren) I don't remember what I did or what I said. I think it made me cry - as I did not consider myself to be a mother. Whatever my reaction was, it caused her to never do it again. Which is a shame, because it is what every original mom needs, to be acknowledged as a mother. Inside I appreciated the gesture and have never forgotten it over the years. M-day has always been hard personally, not as hard as his birthday, but pretty close to it. There are advertisements for m-day weeks in advance. It's on the radio, tv, billboards, and all over the newspapers! It's inescapable. On m-day I'd wake up. When I washed my face I would look in the mirror and hate the woman staring back at me. M-day was a mockery of how much of a failure I'd become. The adoption industry wants people to believe that we 'get over it' or 'move on'. But we don't. Adoption leaves a deep wound inside that nothing can heal or mend. I often find myself riddled with guilt from the past and fear the future -if I will ever find my child again? If I find him, will he allow us to be a part of his adult life? Will he hate me (as much as I hate myself)? Oh, and you can't go anywhere on m-day, not out to eat or to any stores, because everyone is so eager to wish you Happy Mother's Day! or If you're a mother, we'll give you a carnation. Sheesh! I participate in an on-line support group for original moms only. And prior to m-day this year I posted a thread asking how others deal with m-day? On my reply about how I deal with m-day, it's been avoidance all the way! I don't torture myself by going to church and pretending everything's just fine, when I know very well it isn't. Why go and just sit there holding back the tears and wishing it was over soon! I don't even send my own mom m-day cards anymore - because I won't make myself go to a hallmark store and read card after card about how wonderful and loving moms are. Just can't do it. So I pretend it doesn't exist, at least for me it doesn't. Past two years my Hubby has finally seen how painful it is for me and he at least gets me a card letting me know that he loves me. He is definitely the greatest guy on earth, and I'm lucky, so incredibly lucky he's stood beside me through it all. Another member of the Cheerios Group replied with a statement that immediately struck me. She ended her reply with, "...I do feel bad if I am "unacknowledged" by my daughter's amom on that day. I make a point to send her a card & letter so she will know I am thinking of and appreciating her." The word "unacknowledged" has a new meaning to me this year than it did former years. This new perspective came from the tragic loss of our baby last fall. One of the things that hurt me the most is when people did not acknowledge the loss. My company for example - 3 day bereavement didn't "count" for my unborn baby. My boss who sends flowers to co-workers when their is a loss in their family (even if it's not immediate family, such as an in-law), did not send flowers or a card or even tell the team of my loss. The 'friends' I called after losing her, and they never once bothered to check back on me - not a phone call, not a card, not even an e-mail or message on fb. So I am very in-tune with the unacknowledged feeling. It is very fresh to me now. What I've had to do with those people - was basically dismiss them. I had to realize that they are not true friends that I believed them to be. Therefore, I've had to bump their status in my life. For now their thoughts mean nothing to me. Their excuses are lame and as worthless as watered down milk. I don't count on them at all. So, when she responded, the Acknowledged vs Unacknowledged immediately surfaced inside of me. It was like an immediate transformation that I felt inside as I replied with the following: "unacknowledged

yeah, Mamba- - maybe that's the crux of what eats at me. I AM unacknowledged - Yes, I am a mother, but not to the majority in my life who don't know I have a teenage son 'out there somewhere'. And to the rest who know about him (mostly family) , they don't think about it. BECAUSE they don't think of me as a mother.

Thanks Mamba-. I think you helped me a LOT. This is where I can change my future...

I need to stop accepting the projections people put on me. I KNOW who and what I am. My Husband knows who and what I am. We both know what it has done to me (&us) so who cares what they think or how they do OR DON"T view me.

I don't think I realized this until now. Thanks for helping me see the forest AND the trees!" And this is how I approached m-day this year. I don't need anyone else to acknowledge my motherhood. It all starts with me. I know the truth of it all. And even if others don't consider me to be a mother, that can't steal motherhood away from me. An expression I've heard before is that adoption cannot make someone an unmother. Whether his family likes it or not, my son has two mothers, and I am one of them. Whether his family likes it or not, my son has two fathers, and my husband is one of them. I don't care if people don't know, or don't understand, or misunderstand. THEIR OPINION doesn't count to me anymore! I know who and what I am, and they (whoever they are) can't change that! Shortly after writing this, I shared it with my hubby. His reply was honest and humorous as he said, "I don't understand what you just said, but it sounds like it's a good thing." And a good thing it has turned out to be. M-day 2010 was the very first m-day I did not shrivel in on myself and wish to die and merely survive the day. I overcame it!

Mother's Day it's Their Madness NOT MINE!

Dear Movie Man ...

2010-04-28T21:07:00.006-04:00

Dear Movie Man … Do you remember me?
In case not, let me sum all of this up (I’m not good with summaries, but I’ll try).

Cheerio gets an e-mail from you, indicating your plan to film stories of original mothers as a documentary.

At some point you indicate you read or have read my blog. I think my blog has been rather transparent this year (I’ve lost an unborn child 16 years after losing my only other child – a son - to adoption). It’s pretty easy to see that I do not share the same viewpoint with most of society’s thinking that adoption is “wonderful”, nor do I view it as a “win/win situation.”

If anyone misses either of those points on my blog this year, they must’ve been speed reading and the words were a blurr.

In my e-mail reply I asked you what the goal of your documentary is, I think that is a fair question. Since you’ve been to my blog, you would not be surprised that a response from me clearly stated that I could not participate if the goal was to promote adoption.

To keep this as a summary we’ll just skip right to the part that we exchanged phone numbers and actually talked on the phone one evening. Bottom line, you wanted to know if I would or would not be willing to do an video recorded interviewed? You asked what my concerns were. We talked about those concerns, which helped me resolve them and they were not a roadblock, just concerns. We talked for about an hour.

I thought it was a reasonably balanced conversation where we both asked and answered questions. It seemed as if we both shared. I agreed to do an interview with you. One of the last things you said to me was something along the lines of hearing my story of the birth. Then we hung up the phone.

Movie Man, I am not a Hollywood actress. I am not a character from Broadway. I am not merely a voice reading lines on a radio program.

I am a broken hearted original mother who has not seen her son in almost 16 years. Our separation through adoption was completely unnecessary and I have lived with the regret and the betrayal e v e r y s i n g l e d a y of my life. Ever day, Movie Man.

This is not a script I can put down when I’m done reading. I have to find the courage and strength to go on one more day with a bottomless hole in my life. Adoption has broken me. Adoption has broken hundreds and thousands of original mothers.

Our daily lives are lived walking on a tightrope.

Each day we find ourselves balancing all the stuff an average woman does … family, finances, health, education, jobs, taking care of our homes.

Those are in the buckets on the ends of the pole we carry as we walk our tightrope of the soul.

Why a tightrope of the soul? Because losing a child to adoption affects us to the very soul level, it is so deep that even our best of friends cannot meet us there. It is a tightrope because life is full of triggers. Triggers that can completely upset our sense of balance and we find ourselves teetering – without a safety net below.

There are the expected triggers that come with the cycles of the seasons … our lost child’s birthday (which is inexplicably painful for most), the days or weeks leading up and/or following that birthday, family holidays such as Thanksgiving, Christmas, the Fourth of July, and the maddening punishment of Mother’s Day. These seasons we become aware of and try to brace ourselves for the longer we walk this adoption journey.

But then there are the unexpected triggers, that come out of nowhere and blindside us; hence, “unexpected.” It can be a major trigger such as M-TV’s 16 and Pregnant, or commercials promoting adoption, or a news article on yet another celebrity who has purchased a new child to parade around like their new charm on a bracelet. Or it could be as simple as seeing a child of the same gender and age of the one we are missing, that triggers the memories, the wondering, and the undying longing. Sometimes it’s the few words from a song

“What would I give to live where you are?
What would I pay to stay here beside you?
What would I do to see you smiling at me?
Now there's a dream
Now there's a goal
Now there's a need I'll never control
I won't get free
Till I can be
Part of your world

What would I give if I could live outta these waters?
What would I pay to spend a day holding your hand?
I'd give my life
I'd sell my soul
'Cause I can feel I'll never be whole

But I can see I'll never be Part of your world”

A trigger could happen when driving by a street, house, or building we were in carrying our child. A trigger could be seeing another woman with an infant, or it could be something more innocent, like someone asking how many children we have, or even a kid’s movie.

Since you’ve only talked to a few original moms in the past year, let me give you a little hint. Talking about the birth of a child we could not keep – is a major trigger. We don’t want to think about, let alone talk about it. But I was willing, I braced myself and began to think about some of those hard things – the major triggers – to participate in this documentary.

I’ll be honest with you – It was difficult, very very very very VERY difficult to hear the part if your story that you and the other person in your life, have no interest whatsoever in ever searching for your original mother/family. For me to hear a man (which someday my son will mature and grow into man) say he has no interest in his original mother – it was instantly like a knife through my heart.

And yes, it contributed to the unexpected triggers and the teetering on the tightrope. Yes, the tightrope is my burden to bear, it is my journey. It was a risk I was willing to take as I sorted through the memories and tried to ponder and decide on the important parts of my story to “share”.

The part that makes this whole thing a train wreck; however, is not me teetering or even the crash I experienced for the next two weeks because of it. It was not because you were honest in sharing your thoughts and feelings, nor was it my being traumatized again by remembering and reliving my son’s birth, the separation, and the pain of empty arms.

Falling from my tightrope was painful for days after the initial trigger. It dropped me to the place where I cried uncontrollably for long periods of time. The kind of crying where you can't breathe, your eyes are puffy and hurt for hours later, and there aren't enough tissues to keep up with all the stuff dripping and running down my face. Back to a place of being curled up with my knees pulled to my chest with no appetite, no motivation, no feeling of happiness - just pain, immoilizing pain.

Falling from the tightrope is the videotape of the mind playing and relaying what happened. Wishing it weren't true, hoping any minute to wake up from the nightmare. The feelings are intense as my gut is twisted in knots and my mind is against me. All the crying and extreme intensity is draining and is physically exhausting.

So, the hard part was that you would yank the tightrope under my feet, and wile I've lying smashed to the ground, you simply disappear into the sunset.

Where did you go?
Why did you abruptly change your mind?
What happened that you didn’t have the common courtesy to send a final ‘never mind’ e-mail.

I am fully aware that you owe me nothing; however, it would be nice to know.

Tell me, were you disappointed?
Were you hoping to find a mother with a more sensationalized story? A mother who was drugged and tied down? A mother whose family lied to her that the baby died? Or were you disappointed that I did not meet your image of a mother who ‘moved on’ as society believes? Was it a disappointment that I admit it was a mistake – a horribly wrong mistake? Did it disappoint you that I had regret instead of peace?

Were you afraid?
Of my emotions? Of your own emotions? Did my talk of desperately longing for a reunion with my son maybe give you an unexpected push on your own emotional roller coaster?

Were you disgusted?
Maybe that I abandoned my son, yet have the gall to hope he’ll allow me to be part of his life as an adult?

You owe me nothing – True. But please tell me – What were you expecting to find?

Dear Movie Man

What were you

expecting

to find?

Sight of the Unsightly Redbud Tree

2010-04-18T12:28:00.010-04:00

The week of my original due date was very hard emotionally.

Just two days before she was due, I took yet another hike in the mountain. This time, though I was scouting for redbuds. It is a beautiful native tree here in PA, and early April was when they started to blossom. One of the characteristics of redbuds is that they have big heart shaped leaves.

That day and each time I walk through these woods, I am just amazed at how much work my husband has put into restoring the land. When we first bought this property, it was an unsightly sea of green overgrowth. It was not a good or healthy green at all.

In the sunny areas mile-a-minute (devils tail) had taken over and literally climbed up and grown overtop all the vegetation. It climbed the wildflowers, shrubs, bramble bushes, and was even growing in the trees. When walking, our footsteps were precariously balanced on vegetation, not touching solid ground.

The woods were in just as bad shape. The trees were choked and being strangled by white clematis, wild grapevines and worse -- the foreign invasive Oriental Bittersweet vine. You could not look through the woods and see trees or shrubs. Instead everything was entwined with some kind of vine and/or vines.

Here is a brief synopsis on the growth habit and damage caused from Oriental Bittersweet vine. True to a vine’s nature, the vines grow encircling the branches as they spiral their way up. Over time the vines themselves get thicker while the tree is also trying to grow. The vines constrict the branches and reduce nourishment to the leaves. This constriction deforms the branches and stunts growth. The greatest danger; however, is how quickly the vine races for the tops of the tree and there in the sunlight it becomes very dense with leaves and fills the treetop with it’s ever encircling vine. The bittersweet vine reduces the amount of sunlight to the leaves, thereby weakening the tree. As the bittersweet vine thrives, the weakened tree gets to the point where in several years it can no longer bear the weight of the vine with being weakened and top heavy, the tree breaks and collapses.

Oriental Bittersweet vine is not a native plant. It is foreign plant introduced here. It was not part of the original landscape thereby disturbing the natural balance. It is invasive because it crowds out and kills native vegetation, which in turn affects wildlife – flower, trees, birds, butterflies, and more.

So as I journey on my hike, there is an amazing feeling to be walking on a path, and be able to see through the woods, down to our house. This was not possible three years ago. I was strolling up a path my husband cleared just last spring. I was walking slowly, enjoying nature and breathing in the fresh air. I saw purple ahead of me and anticipated seeing a beautiful stately redbud in full bloom.

As I got closer, I was confused by what I saw. I was trying to make sense of it as I noticed the redbud branches and blossoms were low to the ground, which is not normal for this type of tree. It looked like an older dead tree must have fallen over on top of the redbud.

The confusion changed to puzzlement as I got closer. Is this broken tree I see a redbud? Those blossoms near the ground, are they evidence of survival?
Can this ugly brokenness I see at the top be the same tree as the purple buds branching from it?

I leave the path and walk down to investigate.

Sure enough, the brokenness and blossoms were from the same tree.

I walked around the base of the tree and noticed remainders of Oriental Bittersweet vines hanging from it. This must have been one of the trees my husband has freed from the strangling vine. When he found her, she was weighed down, crushed, and broken. If he had not intervened, surely this tree would have simply collapsed and died, killed by an invasive foreign vine (Oriental Bittersweet) that was never part of the original design.

As I’m standing there in amazement at this tree, it was as if God spoke to me. It was as if He was pointing out that right now in my life I’ve been feeling broken. Not only from the lost of our unborn little flower bud, but also and even more so from the adoption pain of the son I have not seen for over 15 years. And it was as if He was letting me know that even though I am broken in ways, that it does not have to utterly destroy me. Instead there can be some beauty from my life, despite the brokenness. As I was sharing with a friend this bit of encouragement from my hike, she says to me, “But how do you know you are broken? How do you know you’re not what God intended you to be?” No wise person would look at this tree and say it's meeting its full potential. This tree is obviously broken. It is bent over and will NEVER be in the straight upright position that a lovely redbud tree is designed to be.

No matter how many years pass, the gaping holes in its trunk will never grow closed. No amount of time will erase the scars of brokenness and years of damage done to this redbud tree. This is what adoption has done to me. Just as the Oriental Bittersweet vine was a foreign plant invading our hillside, so adoption is a foreign blight in our world. It was never God’s design to break women’s hearts, lives, and motherhood. It was never His design to bring about crushing brokenness to families.

Even though some claim it to be “ordained” by Him or they claim superior knowledge that adoption is “His Will,” they are misguided. Just as it is with the Oriental Bittersweet vine, it is so with adoption. The people who want to keep it alive are the ones who benefit from it. Crafters view Oriental Bittersweet as a wonderful thing of beauty because they can use the bright orange berries. But they totally ignore the damage the vine does.

So it is with adoption. The ones who view it as a wonderful and beautiful thing are not the ones living under the crushing weight, the strangling pain of losing a child, or losing an original parent.

Another irony I see in this story is that the bright orange berries are more highly revered than the natural heart shaped leaves of the redbud. Could it be mere coincidence that this vine was choking out the ‘heart’ of the forest?

I have been strangled, weakened, and choked from pain caused by adoption. I have collapsed at the weight of it upon my soul. My heart is broken and pieces of it have splintered beyond repair. I will never be what I was originally designed to be. I will never stand in the forest straight, tall, and strong.

When people look at my life, they will not see beauty BECAUSE OF adoption. No, adoption has caused the grotesquesness. But when peole look at my life, if they see beauty, it will be IN SPITE OF THE permanent damage caused by adoption loss.

Beauty Despite Brokenness

Are you gonna celebrate?

2010-04-02T11:04:00.006-04:00

Wednesday mornings we have a team meeting at 9am. Those who are in the office are expected to join in person, rather than just dial in on the conference line.

During the past few months there have been a few weeks I’ve skipped the personal appearance. Instead I dialed in while I sat in my office with the door closed. I felt like I was doing the rest of the team a favor. I figured that no one really wants to sit across the table from someone with puffy eyes, a red nose, and face all blotchy -- obviously from crying.

The drive into work in the mornings is still a time of struggle for me. When I first started back to work last October, I was crying every morning during the 20 minute drive. Now it’s down to crying most mornings, which I guess is an improvement?

Wednesday of this week, during the drive I teetered. I felt the overwhelming sadness the hurt. It was incredibly intense (again and yes, still). My chest and throat tightened and the tears welled up, but somehow I was able to keep them from spilling over. I sat in my car a few minutes to gain my composure before gathering my stuff to head into the building.

The big hand edged closer to the 9 and I reluctantly gathered my stuff to head off to our status meeting. I felt very uncomfortable when Cottonmouth sat directly across from me (background on him is found in this prior post). I know that I need to address the unresolved issues there, but I am just not ready yet. I am not as violently angry at him as I felt a few months ago. So I know the time will soon come, but until then I will try to manage.

The meeting was the usual stuff, nothing out of the norm. At the end of the meetings they usually mention any company anniversaries or team members with a birthday. Thursday, April 1st is my birthday, and I knew it would be mentioned. Which I’m ok with, I like to celebrate birthdays. It’s a great opportunity to stop and take the time to let someone know what they mean to me personally.

So, of course my birthday was mentioned and there was a little chatter around the table. I mean, there could not have been a more fitting day for me to enter this world. I love to make people laugh and pulling pranks is a gift handed down thru the generations. Yes, I’m an April Fools baby, and it fits me to a T.

But this year is different. This year it’s hard.
This year early April was supposed to be our Little Flower bud’s birthday too.

This year I should have had a baby shower, not a birthday party. I should be doing the finishing touches on a nursery, and making sure my ‘hospital bag’ was packed. My birthday this year was supposed to be about the best gift in the world due to arrive any day.

I wanted so much to look into those eyes, to embrace her little body close to mine. I wanted to see the peacefulness on her face as she slept. I wanted the tiny little fist to wrap her tiny little fingers around my thumb.

But she is gone as are the hopes, wishes, and dreams I had for her, for us.
All the happiness I had thinking about my hubby finally getting to be a Dad. What I have instead is a cold stone to memorialize what will never be. It has no birth date engraved. It only symbolizes the death. How can someone die before they were even born?

So, as the comments of my own birthday were made around the table, my mind immediately went to her, and all the thoughts I already grappled with on my way into work. When a co-worker asked if I was “going to celebrate” I could barely hold it in anymore and I hid my face as I meekly answered “yes.” I was saying ‘yes’ just so the subject could pass quickly. But another person commented “Of course she’ll celebrate!” While another person said, “it beats the alternative.”

“…the alternative” is what I am already facing and I couldn’t hold it in anymore and I started to cry. The room quickly grew quiet and the meeting was dismissed. I was embarrassed as I gathered my stuff and quickly slipped away to my office without making eye contact with anyone. I closed the door and cried for the next two hours.

With her due date being only one week away, I don’t want to celebrate. I don’t want to clink glasses together and make a toast. I don’t want to laugh carelessly and pretend that life is grand and beautiful and wonderful and perfect.

Not right now.
Not today.
Maybe that time will come again. But for now I just want to get the tears out. I have another hole in my heart It needs to heal and mend some.

I am sure that I will always be sad to an extent. But at least I will have closure, unlike the ongoing and growing torment I feel about my son. With her I won’t have to look in the mirror and wonder (as I already do about him) where is she? -Or what she looks like? -Or if she is truly happy? -Or if she hates me for abandoning her? -Or if I’ll ever see her again? -Or if she’ll forgive me? -Or if she is being loved and cared for as I hoped? -Or if her parents are aware and are helping her deal with her adoption issues? -Or if she’ll include me/us in her life as an adult?

So, for now I need to grieve, to mourn, and to be sad before I can move on.

Are you gonna celebrate?
No. I’m gonna cry.

Think adoption much?

2010-03-23T18:31:00.001-04:00

So, last night I left work and headed to the local library. I found the book I wanted, and proceeded to the checkout. The young fellow who was helping me was pleasant and knowledgeable, so I looked for his name badge. His name is the same as my son’s older adopted brother. That’s the very first thing that popped into my brain. I find myself comparing this young man to him. They’re about the same age. My son’s brother has wavy sandy blonde hair, and this young fellow has curly red hair. Hmmm, curly red hair like the gal I work with. I wonder if they’re related? Maybe he’s adopted and they are related! If he’s adopted, does he even know?

Think adoption much?

Man, This is CAKE!

2010-03-02T00:00:00.014-05:00

The edges of my eyelids are dry and irritated, while my eyelids are still puffy from all the crying. Earlier I went through a handful of Puff’s Plus. Although I’ve since stopped crying, my pillow is still wet from the tears. Sleep is not as near as my weary body would like it to be. Tonight as I was driving home from work, is when I started losing my grip. It wasn’t even a bad day, really. But by the time I got into my truck and just a few miles down the road, I could feel it slipping through my hands. I was holding on as tight as I could, but I could tell that I wasn’t far from the end of my rope. By the time I got to the second red light I didn’t have the strength to hold it all in anymore, and I started unraveling emotionally. Try as I might, I could not keep the muscles in my face relaxed. They were all tightening up. I tried to cover up the pained expression on my face, but I could do nothing to restrain the tears as they began to fall. As I described to my counselor, I can usually tell if the emotional distress is from losing my unborn baby, or if it is related to the losing my son to adoption. The grief from losing the baby last fall is generally easy to tell. It brings sadness, a lot of tears, and sometimes heaviness too. Compared to the adoption distress, it’s relatively calm. The adoption distress, it’s like throwing paint on the wall. It’s complex, it’s sudden, it’s unpredictable, it’s everywhere all at once. And that’s where I was tonight, everywhere all at once. I don’t know if I can adequately describe it to someone. For me it’s like a thrashing inside, literally. Sometimes I rock myself to calm down. Sometimes I find myself shaking my head, as if I can shake it off. It feels like my heart beats harder. The crying is not a silent with a few tears. No, it’s sobbing – audible sobbing, while gasping to catch my breath. I often find that I just stop breathing, or am holding my breath. When I breathe in again, it hurts. By the time I got home, I couldn’t stop crying like this. At the bottom of our driveway, I sat in my truck a few moments hoping it would stop. It did not, so I got out of my truck and walked to get the mail from the mailbox with tears running down my face. When I drive up to the house, I turned off the engine and just sat there. The crying obviously was not going away, so I gather my stuff and go inside. I put down my lunchbox and laptop bag and head upstairs. Although I’m not tired, I retreat to the bedroom and lay on the bed. The sobbing takes over and I just cry. My sinuses are jammed from all the ‘extra draining.’ My body curls up from how tense I am. Finally a moment of rest as the sobbing subsides. But the mind does not give me rest, the emotions inside do not give me a rest either. As another wave comes, my fists clench and my chest tightens up. It is pointless to resist the tears or the crying. I can’t really control it – all my muscles start shaking and the sobbing starts again. All the while it feels like a gigantic super ball is bashing into the walls inside of me, back and forth, right then left, up then down, side to side just crashing into everything and out of control. It’s the iron will to fight with the want to give up at the same time. It’s the want to fight on and an overcoming weariness to even go on. It’s the hope and afraid to hope. My heart, it just hurts. I long, desperately long to see my son, but I know that whatever relationship we might have in the future … it will NEVER be what it was originally intended to be. It will always be less, and it will be inferior, it will be secondary. This adoption journey, it’s maddening. There are just so many emotions, guilt, rage, anger, grief, loneliness, sadness, hope, hate, hurt, and pain. Its like being on a merry-go-round in the dark, with an over full stomach, with strobe lights and a disco ball. It’s a mental slide show of all the pain of losing a child… my child… a child that should be here with me…that could be here with me…but isn’t. My child? I don’t even know where he is – what music and food he likes, what his voice sounds like. It was never meant to be this way. It was NEVER MEANT TO BE THIS WAY. Sometimes in life we get a second chance, but other times there are no do-overs. With adoption, it’s not a do-over, it’s a run-over…. like with a 5 mile long train of double-stack cars. There is no escape, and the person from before is gone, and only pieces of hers remain…and she’s left to figure out how to put those mangled pieces together again and somehow go on in spite of it all. There is no peace in adoption – unless a person chooses denial.

There can be enduring, there can be surviving, there can be fighting, there can be reforming, there can be exposing, there can be coping - but there is

no peace

I’m not downplaying the pain of losing an unborn baby. But, Man! So far for me it’s cake compared to dealing with the adoption loss.

This is

Whenever I hear the word, "Freedom"

2010-02-23T22:24:00.007-05:00

For the past few months, whenever I hear the word, “Freedom,” I have a vivid mental picture that plays out in my head. The backdrop is that of a prison dug into the base of a mountain. It had been there for so long, that the vines and brush had grown over and around it. It was naturally camouflaged and blended in with the mountain as if it had always been there and was just part of the scenery. It was obscure and barely noticeable. The hidden door was thick and seeming impenetrable. On the other side of the door, it was cold. There were no windows or any openings to the outside that allowed the sunshine to spill in. It was beyond the reach of the sun, and the warmth of the sun’s rays could not be felt here. A cold stone staircase spiraled downward. It ended in a maze of hallways and dead-ends. This was a dark place of sadness, gloom, depression, and hopelessness. A strong smell of earth and musk hung in the air. When looking closely, it appears that the prison was crudely dug. Further investigating reveals that this prison is not fortified. There were no guards, there were no cells with iron bars, and there was no warden. It was peculiar to notice the mirrors scattered throughout. Some were hanging on the prison walls, others sat on a bench or table just within arms reach. All of the mirrors had broken jagged edges. Some had stains of blood where it was held by what should have been a polished handle. The most puzzling sight of this prison was to be standing inside looking back at the door which would lead to the outside. It was not locked from the outside, yet it was barricaded from the inside. There was furniture, rocks and all sort of objects stacked up against the door. What I’ve described to you is the prison that I lived in for many years. It is a prison that the adoption industry wants to keep society ignorant of. The adoption industry does not want original mothers to talk about how adoption has affected them. Instead the industry wants to continue marketing the beautiful ‘win/win’ picture of adoption to society. Their goal is simple. Sell as many babies as possible so they can continue making a profit. In order to obtain this simple goal, they will do ANYTHING to strip mommas of their babies, so those babies could be ‘sold’ aka ‘adopted.' Much of what the industry does is not technically illegal, but it is immoral and unethical. Adoption hurts mommas. Adoption hurts babies. The prison that I found myself in is a common one, as the adoption industry has spent a lot of money into researching “HOT TO CONVINCE WOMEN TO GIVE UP THEIR BABIES.” Their primary tactic is extremely subtle, yet precisely effective. It’s called eroding the momma’s self esteem. It is subtle, because they have created a very specialized vocabulary to cause the momma to have a negative view of her self and her ability, allthewhile using positive words to do so. Words like “loving,” “stable,” “best,” “deserving,” “selfless” and “right” are all positive words – I think we’d all agree on that. But here is what the adoption industry does with those words, it draws a line. The momma is on one side of the line, and adoption is on the other side of the line. When the adoption industry uses the positive words, it does it only in the context of adoption. For example, the word “Loving” they only use it on the adoption side of that line. For instance, “you’re making a loving choice with adoption.” This leaves the antonym to fall on the momma’s side of the line. The antonym of “loving” would be “unloving.” They tell her that with adoption, her child could be raised by a “loving couple.” Again, the word “loving” falls on the adoption side of the line, and the message is that if the momma were to try parenting, she is “unloving.” When the industry counsels the momma, they talk about what is “best” for the child. And they talk about money (which the momma probably doesn’t have at that time), they talk about stable home (which the momma probably doesn’t have at that time), they talk about promises for a better future (which the momma probably doesn’t have at that time), they talk about everything that potential adopting parents could offer her child now, and all those things are “best”. Hence the momma starts to think that what is “best” is on the other side of the line - with adoption. Adoption is “selfless” because it is making a sacrifice, not only for her child to have the “best,” but also for a loving couple to have a child, when they cannot have a biological child of their own. Since adoption is where “best” is, that means that if she keeps and parents her baby, that would make her “selfish” because she would not be giving her baby the “best” he/she could have. The terminology of deserving is where the digging of my prison began. I was expecting a son. My son “deserved” a two parent home. My son “deserved” to be in a financial “stable” environment. My son “deserved” the promise of a bright future, like college. My son “deserved” to have love poured on him by a couple who could not have biological children of their own. Basically everything my son “deserved” was on the other side of that line. On my side of the line, he “deserved” someone better than me as a momma. Therefore, adoption was the “right” thing to do. And since adoption was the ‘right’ thing to do and was on the other side of the line, it implies and leaves me, as the momma, with the clear message that parenting my own son was “wrong.” I didn’t want to do the wrong thing, and I didn’t want to punish my child by parenting him when he deserved better, he deserved so much more. So, do you see the subtle positive language being used against a momma who is afraid and trusting people who seem to genuinely care and she thinks they are truly helping her? Yet those same people whom she is trusting, aren’t helping her with truth, they are using her and eroding her ability so they can get her to hand over her baby, which they will turn around and sell and make a tremendous profit. There are many adoption myths that are still thriving in our society. One I even read recently on an adoption agency website. “Adoption does not negatively affect the mother’s self-esteem. In fact it improves her self-esteem because she has made a loving choice. She was strong enough to make a sacrifice to give her child a better life.” This is a lie! It is an out and outright LIE! Since I was still very pro-adoption those first 10 years after I lost my son, the problem (depression, sadness, self hate) obviously was not adoption; therefore the problem obviously had to be me. I believed that I had done the ‘right’ thing. I believed that NO CHILD deserved me as a mother! I believed that as a woman I was defective to the very core because, honestly, what kind of woman gives her baby away? The very fact that I gave my son away proved to me how much of a wretch I was. It was a good thing adoption rescued him from me. The mirrors with jagged edges in the prison, was the broken self-image I had. I viewed myself as repulsive, pathetic, and defective. I viewed myself as a failure. I hated myself for what I had done. Does this sound like good self esteem to you? I guarantee you that I am not alone in this struggle of self worth after the adoption. For 12 years I lived at the bottom of that downward spiraling staircase. I wandered through the mazes and ran into countless dead ends. It was maddening and as time went on, it was increasingly painful and became harder and harder to live without the child that I felt I was not even allowed to call “my son.” When describing this prison earlier, there was one detail that I left out. On the barricaded door, there was a placard etched with one small word. It simply read “CHILD.” I wouldn’t allow anyone near The “child” door in my heart. NO ONE was allowed near it. NO ONE was allowed to touch that door! I would not even allow myself to go near that door! I was not about to open it, nor was I going to let anyone else open it either. That's why I had all kinds of stuff barracading access to it. All those things were the distractions I used if anyone tried to approach it. Once I started coming out of the adoption fog, and started finding out the TRUTHs of adoption – it hurt even more. Not only was I ‘defective’ as a mother, I was duped! What kind of fool lets someone talk them out of keeping her own child? What kind of momma gives her baby to complete strangers so they can sell that child to other strangers? It was humiliating to realize I was used like a worthless puppet. It was not until 2006, just a few months before my son’s 13th birthday that I started uncovering these hidden truths of adoption that the industry didn’t want me to see. I clearly saw their motive was not to help keep families intact, but to make money by creating ‘new families.’ Their creation of ‘new families’ thru adoption can only be done by separation of original families. Their motive was simply greed. As I was learning, I was also making connections with other moms who had lost a child to adoption. As we shared our stories, and our struggles, we also helped each other find some healing. Together we talked about the industry. I realized that my adoption loss was not because I was weak or foolish or stupid. The reality was that I was overtaken by professional con-artists. They make it their business to know how to convince a woman who is struggling with a personal crisis, to make it seem that they care and convince her that she can and should trust them. Most of the women in the group had other children. These moms gently encouraged me to look at that “child” door of my heart. Why did I not have other children? There was a two part answer. The first part was because I felt like having other children would be betraying him, ESPECIALLY since I ended up marrying his original dad. The women in my group helped me realize that such a way of thinking was putting a burden on him. Most adoptees do not want to think of feel like they ruined the life of their original parent(s). If he were think that my only reason to not have other children was because of him, it could cause him to feel like he did ruin my life. I did not want to put such an unfair burden on him. Through the group I also learned that most adoptees enjoy finding original siblings. That many of them (even if initially they are a bit jealous) like finding people that look like them, or have similar interests or traits, and siblings just make them feel like they do have a connection in this world. Once I knew about these things and started finding out the adoptees point of view, I soon came to realize that having other children would not be betraying him. He might even like having a brother or sister. That small bit of freedom, combined with the learning, growing, and sharing with these women gave me courage to look inside. To be brave enough to question if what I had believed about own self as a mother for the past 12 years was even valid? or was it the adoption marketed brainwashing? This leads me to the second part of my reason I didn’t have other children. It was rather simple. If I did have other children, this would mean that I am not incapable of being a mother. This would mean the perception of myself and of my ability as a mom, was skewed, and all the reasons I ‘chose’ adoption were false. Coming to one sober conclusion … I lost my son to adoption based on a lie. Losing him was unnecessary. For weeks and months I quietly pondered things. As I came to understand things without the adoption rose colored glasses, I started to see how chained and bound I was by the myths, by the lies, by the untruths. Once I started seeing things for what they really were, I was able to unravel some of the chains. I was able to push them from my arms and let them fall to the ground with loud clangs and clattering sounds. One summer while working in one of my clients gardens, I finally decided that I’d at least like to try. That is my biggest regret with adoption – that I didn’t at least TRY to keep him. I’m not getting any younger while the biological clock is ticking. After two years of thinking, pondering, weighing it all, that was our conclusion. We would “try.” If nothing happened, it was not meant to be. If we did have a baby, I would love him/her with everything I’ve got. And so that is where the word “freedom” comes in. When I hear the word “freedom,” I picture myself inside this prison. I push aside all the garbage I piled in front of the child door. I thought I was protecting myself from going ‘in’ the child room, without realizing that the child door was the door to life, to the outside world, to freedom from so many of the adoption shackles. When I hear the word “freedom,” I pictured myself pushing that door open and the sunlight washed over my face and chased away the darkness as it spilled inside. I pictured myself taking those first few tenuous steps outside. I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the sun and felt it’s warmth. I breathed in the fresh clean air. I heard the sounds of nature around me and I stood a little straighter. I took a few steps toward the clearing in front of me, and paused to look back at the prison that I was in for too many years of my life. I turned away from the prison and resolutely walked away confident, steady, and strong. Summer of 2009 and the all the tests confirmed I was pregnant. When I hear the word “freedom,” I picture myself walking from the prison and into the clearing. After years of being a captive to the adoption lies, I was finally free. I was halfway across the clearing from the past into what I thought would be the joys of motherhood. Suddenly the wind was knocked out of me and I felt a sharp pain rip between my spine and shoulder blade. My arms flew into the air as the impact from behind propelled me forward. I could see the tip of the spearhead projecting through the front of my chest as my knees buckled and I felt myself falling in slow-motion to the ground. So that’s the mental picture that plays out in my mind when I hear the word, “Freedom” – It’s the irony of escaping from prison only to be run through with a spear just a short distance into my new journey. The stinging reality of their words sinks in as I lay there helplessly on the ground. The blades of grass jagged into the side of my face and every gasp for breath was a struggle. I wrap my fingers through the blades of grasses and flowers of the field as I clenched my fists tightly. I was grasping -- clinging -- dying as the words pounded in my ears… “can’t find the baby’s heartbeat...” Reality that my unborn baby has died takes over, and with that I lose consciousness.

Sooo... THIS is freedom ???

the donuts made me cry

2010-02-17T00:30:00.004-05:00

Today was Fat Tuesday here. It has something to do with Lent, or some religious tradition that I don’t celebrate or follow, and the Pennsylvania Dutch heritage. I’m not entirely sure of the purpose of Fat Tuesday other than it marks the beginning of that tradition, and they use fat to fry the fastnachcts (which are like an old-fashioned heavier donut). Luckily I don’t have to observe lent to enjoy the fastnachts! For the first time ever, today I’m having a dilemma about Fat Tuesday. You see, it’s not the donut itself, causing the problem. It is the person who brings them in. About 8 years ago, I suggested to Cottonmouth [as I’ll refer to him in this post] to bring in the fastnachts, because he lived near a small bakery that made “the good kind.” He embraced this opportunity and has brought the fastnachts almost every year since then. But this year is different. I am still trying to figure out how to approach Cottonmouth about how deeply wounded I was, and still am, by his responses and lack of support to my loss last September. ( I can’t really go into all the details here in a public place, but it hurts to think about, and doesn’t help that my office is near his .) All I can say right now is that Cottonmouth is one of my ‘former friends’. He is among a handful of people who became invisible last year during that very dark time. He and they have been scratched off my friends list. This morning I was hungry as I drove into work, and my mouth watered as I thought about all those tasty fastnachts that would be there. However, my gut got all knotted up thinking about who I would be accepting them from. My preference was to refuse them, because I did not want ANYTHING from *him*. Yet, I wondered if I would even have the will power to resist the smell of them all day long? (I actually did resist and went to a store at lunchtime and bought my own.) Thinking about those stupid donuts on my way to work of course had me replaying the events as they unfolded last year. I felt isolated and so alone. So many people who claim to be my friends – where did they all go? They cowered in the comfort of their own safe little world. Cottonmouth not only knew about my son lost to adoption, but he knew how much I regret it, he knew me when I was suicidal because of the adoption, he knew how the agency scoffed at me when I needed help. He listened and agreed that adoption agencies only being in it for the money. He knew that adoption was like a strangling burden that I carried every day, and that it constantly gnawed at my soul. He knew how tormented I was at the thought of “trying again’ after all those years. In other words, he already saw and was keenly aware of the hurting side of me; the part that not many people in real life ever see. When the unthinkable happened last fall, his seeming apathy cut through me like a knife. By the time I got to work, I was in tears. My mind unintentionally went to the “should be” timetable…. Fat Tuesday, and there I sat, thin as a rail. But I shouldn’t be thin as a rail …I should be 7 months pregnant! I should be getting the nursery ready with baby clothes, blankets, crib, and diaper bag, all that stuff. Should be getting things in order, ya know. Instead I'm trying to keep it together. I’m trying to deal with the sadness that's become part of who I am lately. I guess I don't really deal with it, so much, I just let it win... I don't really even fight it. And all of this was triggered by donuts??? All these feelings and emotions and tears??? By donuts! How ridiculous!

Warning: Fastnaghts may trigger emotional meltdowns

so, just what IS it about Jazz Dance Class???

2010-02-01T23:31:00.007-05:00

What is it about Jazz Dance?

This is my third year of taking adult jazz dance classes. We have a new instructor this year, and she is really great stuff. The choreography is very cool. By the same token it is also very challenging for me.

We did not grow up with the funds for anything extra, so I didn’t take any dance as a kid. The year after my son was born, I started taking middle eastern dance lessons. But they were private lessons for a small group of women in the instructor’s home.

Those were not ‘formal’ dance classes, but I had a lot of fun. They allowed me to participate in some shows throughout the year. I loved the music, I loved the costumes, I loved DANCE! I loved how expressive dance can be!

I continued with that style of dance until 2001 when my Grammy became ill. Then the dance just lost its allure to me. I went to a big show during that time, and nothing at all interested me. I drove nearly 3 hours just to get there, and I didn’t buy a single thing that day -- not a costume, no accessory, not even a cd or pair of earrings.

When I first started Jazz, it was very confusing to hear all the technical French terms. I don’t know how to spell it, but at least I recognize most of what they’re telling me to do now. So this year our instructor is very challenging. Nothing is done predictable repeated groups of 4 or 8. No, there is something different for each count. So, a 16 count section is 16 different steps, movements, or poses.

The other gals in the class have had formal lessons growing up, and I am obviously the Sloooooowest one in the group. I do my best to write stuff down and to practice between classes so I don’t feel like a complete idiot the following week.

Class usually starts in September. But that was right around the time I lost the baby, and didn’t actually start class until October. That, of course, means that being the slowest in the group just got a whole lot harder since I was a month behind everyone else.

Two weeks into January, and I realized something. I realized that each Monday night I have to talk myself into going to dance. I have to make myself go. Most weeks I find myself near tears – or already crying by the time I get to the studio.

When I get there, I don’t seem to really enjoy myself much at all. Sometimes I am struggling to keep the tears at bay, other times I want to just walk out.

It was the same thing tonight. By the time I got to the parking lot outside the studio, I just sat in the truck and tried to stop crying. A few times during class I had to leave for a drink of water, because I was near tears.

What is it about this dance class that is so triggering to me?

Most of the time, I think the sadness is related to the baby, and I don’t know why?

Granted, it was an e motional year … dealing with losing the baby … dealing with strained friendships by those who were invisible and abandoned me during that time … … dealing with difficult situations with family … dealing with my little Spuddy Wuddy (Monster Paws) being sick and dying.

Granted it’s been a really, really, really rough couple of months. So, maybe it’s really EVERYTHING all together, and I just imagine it’s just from losing the baby.

But on my drive there, my thoughts are always on the baby, the pregnancy, and relationships after the loss. Why? Why is that?

Is it because I was hoping for a little girl?

Hoping maybe she’d be a little dancer? And she never will. She’ll never have her hair pulled back in little pony tails and tied with ribbons. She’ll never give one of those cute little grins for the camera while onstage. She’ll never wear a cute little tutu for dance at night, then be digging in the dirt and turning over rocks and playing outside the next day.

She’ll never be. She’s gone. No life, no breath, no whispers – just gone before she even got here.

So, what is it really

about jazz dance class

that is just

so triggering

for me?

dropping the attempt to 'catch up'

2010-01-28T23:12:00.005-05:00

There are several things I’ve wanted to blog about over the course of the past 7 months.

I was trying to keep my blog posts mostly in a chronological order. However, that became a very difficult thing to do.

I fell behind on posting everything about the ARD (Adoptee Rights Demonstration). While at the ARD in July, I remember being puzzled as to why I was just so completely exhausted, and wondered where did the energy go? Normally when I’m away and have no pressure, I’m up before the sun. I'm packed full of energy that can’t be exhausted in one short day. That didn’t happen at the ARD, and it baffled me!

When I got home, I found that then stress and pressure from my job did not subside at all while I was away. It drained any bit of energy I would’ve had left. My intentions of posting after the ARD just didn't happen like I wanted.

Once I found out I was pregnant, I could not post about any of those experiences at the time, because I was hiding the ‘news’ from my employer for as long as I could. They had just laid off 30 people in my department, and I was afraid that telling them I’d need time off in the spring of 2010 would push me to the top of the list of people they’d cut next. I never did get a chance to tell them the "good news."

When September came and I lost the baby I felt like I couldn’t post ‘current’ things because I didn’t post ‘earlier’ things yet. Then came the period of time that I just couldn't write. There were no words to write.

So beginning today, I’m going to let go of chronological order for now. It’ll be up to you, the reader, to notice dates and put those pieces where they rightfully belong. I’m not going to try to ‘catch up’. I’m going to just write what I’m feeling and experiencing now, with a lot of reflection in some posts.

Today, as the wind blew and the temperature stayed below freezing, I walked outside to get the mail. Although the sun was shining, it was not warm in the least. But I could not resist the urge to walk through the gardens, it was calling to me and drew me in with no resistance. And I noticed signs of life.

There are little tufts of crocus sticking out of the ground! One area even has a few daffodil tips poking out.

That's very significant to me. Just like the spring bulbs, I too was emotionally cold and asleep - for a long time. But I've begun to thaw, and now is the time for me to wake back up, sharpen my pencils, and write!

my little hike on the mountain

2010-01-20T10:43:00.008-05:00

today is Saturday, 1/16/2010 it was above freezing for a few days here the ground thawed enough that we could burry our Monster Paws it, of course was sad...I was so thinking that I don't want to do this again anytime soon Early evening I took a short hike up the mountain. I needed to swap out the rechargable batteries with newly charged ones, and swap the memory cards in our field camera. on 1/3, I picked a new location for the camera, up where we planted 30 poplar trees two summers ago. it's a fairly good workout getting there, since the mountain has a nice grade.

I've been practicing how to sneak up on the deer, since I know they'er often in that area. As I was slowly walking along, I heard someting on the slope above me. I figured it could've just been a bird, until a twig snapped. Birds don't usually snap twigs. I'm sure it was deer, but there was a lot of brush and I couldn't see it. After a few moments of supsense and disappointment, I continued up the path. Then I saw a few deer playing ahead of me. They were in the area of the young poplars. There were at least two deer that I saw, maybe a third. I stood there for awhile watching from behind a medium sized tree. When they seemed to be gone, I continue my hike. I was slowly making my way up to the camera, and I heard a sound. I heard it again. I thought it was a bird calling. But after hearing it a few more times, it sounded more like a goat or sheep bleating. I decided to move close to some brush instead of being out in the open. Sure enough a deer comes to the edge of the clearing, bleating. I've heard deer snort lots of times. That's what they do to warn each other of danger, but I've never heard them call like this. I wondered if i t was a young one that got separated from the herd. It couldn't have been too young, because it ididn't have spots, might have been a two-year old. So, there I was, crouching behind this brush, peering through the overgrown vines watching this deer. It didn't see me and was headed straight towards me. It walked past the field camera, and I hoped there was enough juice in the batteries to get a pic. At one point the deer was suspicious. I could see it looking my way. I think deer are color blind, so it couldnt see my orange hoodie or my blue jeans. But I'm sure that it noticed here was an unusually dark gray spot in the brush where I was. Not sure how strong my scent was. I tried to keep my mouth closed, because I was chewing mint gum. I'm sure a mint smell would not be normal to them at this time of year. But it didn't frighten the deer away, and it walked closer and closer. It was actually on the other side of the brush where I was. I was hunched over and trying to not move a muscle. I was watching toward the spot where the brush ended. When the deer got to that spot, it looked right at me. There was no brush between us and I was almostl completely exposed when the deer saw me. It was only 10 feet away. I could see it's big dark eyes look right into mine. If I had been a hunter, I'd have had a perfect shot. The deer was completely startled. It hunkered down and bolted several yards away, then stopped. Once it stopped, it turned around and kept watching me. But from it's new view point, I was mostly hidden again by the brush and overgrowth on that side of me. The growth was sparse enough that I could still easily see the deer. It watched me, and even walked back my direction a bit. It paced around, watching, stomping the ground with it's front hoovest. It wasn't alarmed, because it did not raise it's tail at all. Finally it just continued it's way down the mountain. I waited until it was completely out of site. I'm told deer are very much creatures of habit. And if there are frightened, they won't visit that area again for a long time. Since this one was just surprised, I didn't want to frighten it too. After it was out of sight, I waited quietly a few more minutes, then headed toward my camera. When I walked up to it, no lights came on. Just as I figured, the batteries were dead - no recent pictures. I swapped the cards and batteries and readjusted the camera's aim.

I lingered there for a little while, leaning on the small tree. I thought I heard something moving about in the woods beyond me, but that brush was much taller brush, and I couldn't see a thing. Finally the birds got to moving about and chirping, and I decided it was time to go. I was slowly making my way down a slope when I heard a deer snorting -- several times. I could not see anything, but I knew it could either see or smell me. I sank to the ground behind some brush and waited. Then I slowly stood up and tried to peer over the brush, and the deer started snorting again. I tried to sneak back up the slope hoping to see something, but no such luck.

It was getting dark quickly, and I have no night vision, so I decided I'd better call it an adventure and get home. On my walk the rest of the way down the paths, I could hear a hoot owl. I don't remember ever hearing a hoot owl here before. So that was my little journey tonight. I can't wait to see what kind of pictures I got.

A dream, with fur, fear, and tears

2010-01-13T17:55:00.010-05:00

I am a cat nap kind of person. In the summer I’ll often go out to my car on my lunch break and take a cat nap. I'll usually wake up in about 20 minutes without setting an alarm. Those 20 minutes will give me an extra boost for several hours. Today I fell asleep and woke up clearly remembering the details of a dream. In my dream I was outside with my friend, Linda. We became very good friends when I was in high school. Back then I was a big horse lover. I was always reading horse books, wrote short stories about horses, and often paged through my horse encyclopedia learning everything about them, about the breeds, their anatomy, and best practices on how to care for them. I greatly enjoyed the Horse Illustrated magazine. I love the dish shaped face of the Arabian, and their slender features. I appreciated the stamina and strength of the Morgan, and the quickness of the Quarter Horse. In my dream we were outside near the horses. We were at the inside angel of a corner. The electric fence wire was in front and beside us. Linda was reaching over the fence petting one horse. There was a second horse at the other fence, it was a dark color. Since it was cool out I had my hood up. This eliminated my peripheral vision and reduced my hearing. Whenever I would turn my back on this horse to face Linda, I was filled with a fear of it. I was constantly turning my head to look back at it, afraid that it was going to charge or attack me. Each time I turned toward my friend Linda, a great wariness would boil up in me. I kept thinking I heard footsteps coming toward me. But each time I would turn and look, the other horse was behind the fence where it should be. Suddenly in my dream Pokey was there. Pokey was a pony I acquired when I was in 7th or 8th grade. We were a poor family growing up. My Mom labored hard as a single mom in a blue collar job. This was back when men resented women working a “man’s job.” When she worked in the steel mill, the men would often comment to her that she should not be there – she was taking a man’s job, and she should be home making cookies. Granted, my mom was good at making cookies. But if our father had been a real man and had taken care of his family at the time, my Mom might have been able to stay home making cookies. She might have even preferred to be home. But the reality of it was that she didn’t have the chance to be a housewife, she was a laborer instead. My mom also worked at a glass factory. One of her co-workers found out about a pony that was being abused and neglected. They knew I was a horse lover and asked my Mom if we’d want to take this pony, for free. Of course, she knew right away what my answer would be. Now, mind you, he was a pony – not a horse. He was a typical adorable little pony. He was brownish with dapple white spots. He was just the cutest thing when he got his very fuzzy winter coat. He had alert bright eyes and a white main and tail. His back was not much higher than my own waist. We brought this pony to the house my Mom was renting. It had a half dilapidated two car garage. We only had one car, so we converted the other side into a ‘barn’ for the pony. I poured all my love and attention on Pokey. It was a bizarre sight to see me ride this pony. I was thin and weighed almost nothing, but I was not short. If I rode in the snow and let my feet hang, there would be the expected hoof tracks in the snow with other mysterious tracks outside those. Those two mysterious trails were where my toes dragged. It was not a charming site at all. But that didn’t matter! He was able to carry my weight without any trouble. We moved twice after we got Pokey. One time my Mom moved without me. I waited until someone could come with a trailer to get Pokey, and then I moved with him. It worked out nicely that a man who was involved with 4-H allowed me to keep Pokey in his barn without charge. In return I helped muck the stalls and went with them to get grain and sawdust. I’m very thankful to him, because we could not have afforded to pay for boarding. The barn was about 2 miles or so from our new house. I would walk there and back every day to care for him. Feed him, brush him, keep his stall (and stall of other animals) clean. Now that we were living in a more rural countryside, there were a lot of fields. I was able to ride to my hearts content. One year I was going on a trip with the school, and we had a fund raising event in a nearby store parking lot. They had a bake sale and car wash going on. Someone allowed me to borrow a saddle and I hosted pony rides. So Pokey helped me raise money for my first trip to Texas. When we moved from there, our new place was a few doors down from a small farmstead. He’d sold off most of his land years before, but kept some for a few head of steer. He allowed me to keep Pokey in his barn at a very small fee. I wanted to go to a private school, so I got a job. I worked the in the dining room and doing dishes at a nursing home a few nights a week to pay the tuition and uniform costs. In the summer I also worked during the day. Some years I worked at a local swimming pool, another year I worked in office at the Military School in town. This meant I had less time to spend with Pokey during the school year, but we made up for it in the summer. With all the hoorays of High School Graduation dies down, it meant a new chapter in life. Turning the page meant going away to school. I found a very small Bible College on the other side of the state. I was at a dilemma. What about Pokey? I had gotten to know the Spanish teacher at the private school. Her husband loved horses, and even had a few. They had three young children. My teacher’s name was Linda, and I gave Pokey to her and the family. The very last day I walked up to the barn to feed Pokey, I took a tape recorder along. I still have the recording on a cassette tape of that last whinnied greeting. It brings tears to my eyes even now to think about it. He wasn’t just a pony. He’d come to mean so much more to me. He was my best friend through the years, and through all the moves we’d made when I was a teen. I loved him and he was so special to me. Oh, how hard it was to say goodbye to him! That was many years ago. Linda's family loved on Pokey and took good care of him for the remainder of his life. So, there in my dream was Linda and Pokey. After Pokey suddenly appeared, he was behind me and nudged me in the back with his nose. But it was not a normal little nudge, but it was a superhero kind of nudge. It threw me and I went flying up, high into the air. As I was flying up, the fear of heights gripped me as I was higher than the trees. I despise the falling sensation, and this was what I was feeling next. As I was feeling those fears and sensations, I saw that Pokey was not standing on the ground. He was right high in the air right behind me. So, I could not get mad at him for throwing me up there, because we were in it together. And I said to him, “well, at least you’ll fall with me.” I remember the falling sensation in my dream. I don’t remember landing. But next in my dream I was on the ground. I was sitting back on my heels and my upper body was doubled over nearly touching the ground. My arms were bent and pulled in tight to my sides. My hands were gripping something above my head, which was down on the ground. In my dream, I was crying. It was not a little cry, but it was a broken cry that came from deep within. It was one of those cries that your whole body is tense and the only words to be heard are are little squeaks that make it over the much tightened vocal cords. I was crying and talking about my Monster Paws, and him being gone. When I woke up from my dream, the details were just so vivid. When pondering it, I realized the significance of Pokey being there. I have not thought about Pokey for awhile. But I guess losing Monster subconsciously took me to the room where my Pokey memories and feelings are. Pokey and everything about him is cherished, preserved, and stored there. And I think that is the same place that all the Monster Paws memories will be stored, preserved, and cherished.

o that’s my dream, with Fur Fear and Tears

a witness?

2010-01-10T06:35:00.007-05:00

Have you ever witnessed someone or something die? Until yesterday morning (with the exception of plant life), I have not. In 2001, I spent a lot of time with my sister at our Grammy’s house during her last days. They did not expect her to be with us 2 months, but she decided to hang on that long. I remember coming home from work and preparing to go to Grammy’s house. I called my sister to see if she wanted me to pick anything up on my way over. She gave me a short list. A few moments later she called me to let me know our Grammy was gone. I headed right over to the house, the list completely irrelevant now. My sister was worried how I would handle it if I had been there at the very end. I knew I wouldn’t have been able to handle it if I had been alone, but I don’t really know what I would have done had I been there with them at the time. There were some people who told me to put Monster Paws down, that it was “the right thing to do.” That last night as he struggled, I wondered if that’s what I should do? I second-guessed myself and wondered if I was just being cruel to him? The truth is that there is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ in the decision. It ripped my heart out watching him. It was very hard on me, but what about him? If I were to drag his tiny frame to a vet, he would sense it. Why distress him? Why drag him to a sterile office for his last memories? Yet even on that last night he, he was aware. He was very aware of us, his surroundings, and what he wanted. He would still purr when we pet him. I carried him upstairs that night. At one point he must’ve made his way into the bedroom as I noticed he was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. He’d spent most of his days up in that room since we lived here. At that moment though, he looked content. The next morning Hubby was kind enough to let me sleep in. When I made my way downstairs, Monster was laying on the carpet all stretched out, with the water bowl next to him. He did not lift his head when I came in the room. It was evident that his time was very close. It was very hard watching him and mentally prepare for the rest of the day at the same time. It was our Christmas get together with family that afternoon. I sat on the couch and cried for a long time. I finally got up and pulled out the ingredients to make a cheesecake for our gathering in a few hours. I was out of a key ingredient, and asked George to run to the store to pick some up as I got everything else ready. He had his coat on and was headed toward the door, but my heart stopped when he paused to pet Monster. I suggested he stay home instead. So he took off his coat and sat beside Monster. I grabbed a box of tissues and sat on the other side of him. He was never a lap cat, so we just sat there with him. Petting him softly, comforting him. I kept talking to him, assuring him we were there and that it was ok. All morning his breathing was shallow. We’d have to look very close to see if he was still breathing. But at that point he wasn’t really breathing, there were a few gasps with pauses between each. I’d wonder if he was gone, and then his whiskers twitched. His front legs moved. After a few moments his back legs moved too, but I think he was already gone and it was just the muscles. So the precise moment of when he was gone, I don’t know. His coat was still shiny and soft. His eyes were wide open. I kept stroking his head and the tears rolled down my face and I looked at the empty shell of my little “Spuddy Wuddy”. Then came the decision of what to do next? I found myself feeling like it was Dejvue as I went up to my craft room looking for a box. Wasn’t I doing this just a few months ago? Only this time I needed a much bigger box. I came downstairs with two medium size boxes. The smaller of the two was a decorative storage box. It was sturdier, so we decided to try that one first. I put in the blanket I had used to carry him outside just two days before. Hubby and I moved him together. I didn’t think the box was big enough, but I could tell Hubby thought he fit okay. To me though, Monster just didn’t look comfortable. Yes, I know he was already gone but that was not the point. Since he was already lying in the blanket, we were able to easily move him to the bigger box, then he looked comfortable. It kept taking me back to September when we lost the baby. Unlike Monster Paws, we didn’t get to see or hold the baby, nor do we have memories of or even with the baby; we only had futile hopes and dreams. But as we did in September, we’ll again have to decide on a final resting spot. Saying ‘Goodbye’ to Monster has been difficult in another way. You see, I had Monster for about a year when I got pregnant the first time. So Monster Paws was there during my pregnancy, and he was there when I lost my son to adoption. He was there that first Christmas Season when my son was gone and my heart was broken -- when I couldn’t sleep at night and cried most of the time. He was there for all the years to follow with each Mother’s Day when I looked in the mirror and hated myself. He was there for all the birthdays as I searched until I found just the right gift for my son. He was there to ‘help’ me wrap the gifts that I’d send. In a bizarre sort of way, Monster Paws is connected to my adoption story. And,well, losing him, feels like I’ve lost another piece of my son.

losing him

2010-01-08T22:46:00.006-05:00

There has been a lot going on since July of last year. Some has been good, but it seems there have been more that I'd classify as 'difficult.' November was very hard for me this year as we were approaching the Thanksgiving season. I think the loss of the baby combined with my son's 15th birthday just a month later both weighed very heavily. I really did no look forward to the Holiday at all, because Holidays are supposed to be about celebrating. Personally, I was not celebrating. I was sad and grieving. I was trying to survive. Dont' get me wrong, I did enjoy the time my nephews came to visit around the Holiday. The night before Thanksgiving one nephew rode with me to the garage to drop off the truck and pick up the car. On our drive back home, there was a poor lonely Christmas tree laying along the highway in the rain. I figured it fell off a truck on its way to the city. We turned around and 'rescued' it. The rest of the drive back home we sang,"Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Treeeeee, we found you on the hiiiighwaaaayyyy!!!!" I leven lucked out by having all three of them sleep over one night. We all got up and decorated the tree in the morning before Hubby got out of bed. So there were fun times. But then there were the results of the xrays for the "old man" of the house, Monster Paws. The vet gave him 3-6 months. I classify that as some of the 'difficult' times. At first, it seemed the pills we got from the vet were helping because Monster did start eating again. Monster Paws, what a funny guy he's been. He's one of those social cats. He loved it when we'd have a party with a house fool of people. He loved coming out to greet and meet the company. He was EXTREMELY bad as a kitten, well for the first 8 years he was bad. Almost like a kid in that he'd do stuff just to be yelled at. He'd sit on the banister at the end of the hallway waiting for you to look at him, and when you did, he'd knock something over the side. We did not allow him on the table or counters. Every now and then we'd catch him up there, again waiting to make eye contact, then whap he'd push something off. He loved to run. When I moved from my efficiency apartment to our new house years ago, he had a ball. He loved running up and down the steps. More than that he wanted to be chased from the living room, through the dining room, up the stairs, down the hall, into the far bedroom, and back out into the hallway, down the steps, into the kitchen. Sometimes if I'd stop while chasing him, he'd gladly turn around and start chasing me ... up the stairs, down the hall, up on the bed, and down the hall agian. When he was about 9 we got him a kitten, so he'd have someone to play with. Surprising to us that cats don't like to play the same. The kitten, Pussy Willow, liked to wrestle with bunny kicks and full nelson headlocks. She wasn't interested in chasing Monster. If he would try to chase her, she would fall over to wrestle him. After awhile Monster figured it out and would wrestle with her until he'd make her mad enough that she would chase after him. Monster also loved being pushed around. If he was laying on a vinyl or hardwood floor, just give him a good push so he would slide across the floor. He thought it was great. He also enjoyed laundry basket rides. Pussy Willow has no appreciation for either game. Monster knew how to bend the rules too. At our former house he knew he was allowed on the back porch and on the outside steps, but that was the limit, he was not allowed out in the yard. Well one year he found a way to cheat. I stood at the door to see him tip toe off the steps. But he was not in the yard, no, he was tip toeing along the edge of bricks I had turned on their side to border the flower bed beside the steps. He was right, he wasn't technically in the yard. So, Monster Paws has been a fun cat with lots of personality who made everyone laugh alot. I got him when he was a kitten, shortly after moved into my first apartment. A lady I worked with at the time refused to get her cats fixed, and every year she would take a litter to the Humane Society. That particular litter she brought into work in the morning, and was going to drop off the kittens on her way back home. So I had this box of kittens at my desk mot of the day. There one that was just really adorable, but it didn't have a playful attitude like the black and tan tabby that wasn't as cute. I finally decided that I liked the spunky kitten best, even though he wasn't the cutest, and I took him home that day. In February 2010, he would be 18 years old. The pills we got from the vet, worked at first. But it got to a point where Monster is just weak and not well, and it just didn't make sense to me to be shoving pills down his throat anymore. Especially when he'd fall over when I'd try to give him a pill. Around Christas when he nearly stopped eating, I felt so incredibly guilty. I felt like I was starving him to death. But I talked w/ my sister from NJ, and she pointed out that his system is probably shutting down and that's not why he isn't eating - not that I'm starving him. So far he seems to just lay in front of the coal stove or sleep in the video rocker. Most of the times when we pet him, he purrs. I carried him outside yesterday and walked around the deck while holding him, and he was purring. I could mis-reading it, but his purring makes me feel like he's content and at least he's enjoying something in life still. He laid by the door yesterday wanting out, so I left him out. When he'd stop and lie down, I'd cover him with a small blanket. One of his trips outside he wobbled right down the steps off the deck. He started down the path (that I didn't get done because of the weather and me getting sick and now the ground is frozen) alongside the deck to the front of the house. He went to a flower bed and just sat there in the dark mulch. He looked so happy, that I grabbed my camera to get a picture. He is not indicating he's in pain. If he were in pain, we would not allow him to suffer. But if he's content to just fade away here at home and isn't suffering, that's what I want to allow him to do. That doesn't mean it's easy. It's hard, not just for me, but for my Hubby too. After all we were dating when I got Monster Paws. It really is his cat too. In fact I think Monster was more his cat than mine from the beginning. Tonight however; Monster seems restless. He isn't just curling up and going to sleep. He's moving from place to place. His back legs aren't cooperating, and he can't keep his balance. I've cried a lot tonight, because I know the time isn't far away. But how long is that, exactly. It is hard watching him struggle. He was a 17 lb cat at one time. Now he's so skinny. I don't want him to suffer, but I don't really want him to die either - I don't want to lose him. Yet, I know it will happen... it must happen. We're hoping he'll drift peacefully away in his sleep. I'll miss you Monster Paws. ***11:30am 1/9/2010 - The struggle is over, he's gone. ***

Totes by Cheerio

2009-12-02T22:37:00.030-05:00

I discovered something last year. I discovered that I love working with material. I've started finding ways to actually use this 'new' discovery. Last year I made over 3 dozen little Christmas pillows. They were black and green and red, with many different designs. The funny thing is that people didn't put them away after the holiday. This year I've been making reversible totes. I've been enjoying myself. I have no intentions of turning my blog into a sales pitch - however, I think I have plenty of time to make 4 or 5 extra totes before Christmas. So, if you'd like to order a Tote by Cheerio for yourself or as a gift for someone else, shoot me an e-mail. (cheerio2you@yahoo.com) Here are some pictures of ones I've done so far. I love this little holiday birdie print! It's whimsical, which totally matches my personality. Holiday Birdie and White with blue contrast stitching

Holiday Birdie and Red with white contrast stitching non-Christmas designs: Penguin print and Tan with black contrast stitching Purple Bats print and lavender with black contrast stitching (added closure loop and buttons) ---oops, had to take this one out, didn't want to spoil a surprise--- Elegant Red with Gold and Tan with red contrast stitching Crazy Cats and Tan with blue contrast stitching (or with red contrast stitching) Hot Peppers and Tan with green contrast stitching (or Red material with black contrast stitching) Reversible Totes by Cheerio would be custom made. With or without monogram. With or without button & loop closure. (I do not have an embroidery machine, so monogram is hand fed through regular sewing machine)

Finished product is about 13" tall by 16.5" wide No pressure, no problem, I hope you at least enjoyed the pics.

our babies ...

2009-11-23T11:49:00.004-05:00

Sep 13, 2009 at 11:30 PM
our babies are not supposed to fit in a box as small as the palm of my hand
and yet,
this weekend,
that is where it ended for our Little Flower Bud
it ended on Saturday morning, 9/12 at 3am

it was obvious what I saw, and I gently wrapped that Always pad and set it aside, instead of putting it in the wastebasket

i feel fortunate that he/she was not just dumped into a trash bin while at a hospital or that i passed him/her w/out knowing

grotesque some may feel,

but i needed to show respect to this baby, no matter how tiny he/she was

after he/she passed, the pain lessened, but the dr still wanted me to go to the ER

7 hours in the ER before I could come back home

I made sure my hubby knew why that one pad in the flowery yellow wrapper was on the floor and he knew to not throw it away

we talked about a 'final resting place', and agreed where that would be

I rummaged around in my craft room looking for an appropriate box for our Little Flower Bud, and found one that was heart-shaped. I used purple tissue paper to line the bottom, and covered the Little Flower Bud with yellow tissue paper

it was so hard i didn't really cry, it was more like whimpering as i arranged everything in this heart shaped box

putting the lid on the box was something i didn't think about ahead of time - doing so broke me
i just lay on the floor crying, weeping, and shaking

my husband comes upstairs and sits on the floor near me
he rests a hand on my shoulder

eventually i get up off the floor and walk downstairs
i tied a ribbon around the heart shaped box holding our Little Flower Bud

just before it gets dark, we walk up the hill
beside the Bleeding Heart seemed the most appropriate spot

while my hubby was digging, i stood behind him watching
watching and holding the heart shaped box and a fresh picked creamy pinkish-white rose
i am somber as he digs

he turned to me and asked if I thought the hole was deep enough, nothing can describe the pain that once again washes over me when hearing those words
nothing can describe the pain to peer into a dark hole in the ground
but this must be done and i step forward and kneel on the ground

i wrap the heart-shaped box and place it in the bottom of the hole
i also put in all the color swatches i was using to decide on colors for the baby blanket I wanted to crochet
once everything was in place i stepped back again

my hubby proceeded to refill the hole with the earth

on the freshly dug ground we placed a big heart shaped stone i unearthed this spring when expanding a flower bed
once again i kneel on the ground and lay the fresh picked rose on the stone that covered the final resting place of our baby
the tears flow freely
my husband kneels on the cold ground next to me
we hold each other as we cry and say our final good-bye

our "little flower bud"

2009-11-18T00:08:00.010-05:00

our "little flower bud"

Thursday, September 10, 2009 at 6:40pm
today was another dr's appointment
i was not as uptight as last one and was looking forward to finding out if there was more than just one little flower bud in there i didn't have any reason to believe there would be
- except that my Grandma had a Twin Brother --
just another thing to mentally check off my list

so the gal who takes the weight, blood pressure, etc (i don't know if she's a nurse's aid or what her official title is?!?) asked a few questions then described the Doppler process

was relieved I didn't have to put on one of those flimsy hospital gowns

she couldn't find a heartbeat, which didn't freak me out, I've been doing my reading and they say it can still be hard to hear to at 10 weeks so the nurse practitioner came in and she couldn't find a heartbeat either, so they decide to try other methods, and took us to the ultrasound room...

the nurse practitioner called in the dr, and they talked a few moments she turned the screen my way and pointed to stuff as she talked I still was not freaking out, so far, it's all normal

"...either the pregnancy is much earlier than we thought, or the [baby] has stopped growing "

the words "stopped growing" stuck in my heart - this was not the norm I tried to stay calm all the while thinking, I cannot Lose Another one...not ANOTHER one! and with that very thought the tears started to fall

they sent me to the hospital for a 'better' ultrasound, and after a long time it only confirmed what the dr's office saw

our Little Flower Bud has faded, and will not grow into a mature flower that will become a vibrant blossom

I thank Every Single One of you for your Love for your Support for your Encouragement and Congratulations through this unscripted journey

Everything you ALL have said or written has meant so very much to me and my hubby and we just thank you from the depths of our heart for EVERYthing!!!

***I am trying to catch up copying over the earlier posts I wrote on FB, the date and time stamps at the beginning of this post are accurate,I came home from the dr's appointment and wrote this***

our little flower bud

Down with the movie, “UP”

2009-11-11T22:54:00.008-05:00

August 27, 2009 Occasionally on my blog I mention my youngest nephew. I call him My Buddy. He is an absolute joy to our family. He has an infectious smile, alert dark eyes, and a memory that surprises us. Sometimes he will bring up an even that took place over a year or more ago, even though he had not even commented about it at all just after it happened. He remembers with great detail, even when we think he it’s having no impact or that he’s not even paying attention. He’ll be 9 years old this December, and they really do grow up too fast. I am afraid that I don’t spend enough time with him to make lasting memories, or for him to realize just how much I love him and how special he is to me. One weekend this fall I picked him at his house. He sat in the truck in the seat next to me as we drove. I suggested we could stop to pick up a movie at Red Box on the way to my house. He talked about the movie, “Up.” He wanted to see “Up.” Since I don’t have a tv, I had not heard anything at all about “Up” and figured that if it just came out, it wouldn’t be at the Red Box yet. Unfortunately I was right. There was no “Up” movie. We ended up with a Sponge Bob instead. But I didn’t forget that My Buddy wanted to see “Up.” The next day I searched on-line to find out more about it. Then I looked for theater listings. I noticed that it was schedule for showing at the $2.00 theater in just a few weeks. But this $2.00 Theater is special. It is a quaint old theater in a small town across the river. It has a very good sound system and they’ve kept up the building, and it still has that ‘olde time’ feel to it. My Buddy hasn’t been to this theater before. So I planned to take him there to see “Up.” I copied some of the pictures from the on line advertisements and pasted them into a word document to created a special invitation. To: My Buddy to go see the movie, “Up” – From: Aunt Cheerio. And that is what we did. The day of our movie date, my Hubby wanted to along too. It is so cute to see my Hubby and My Buddy together. You can see the love they have for each other. I sent those two ahead to pick out the seats while I stood in line to buy popcorn and the rope of Nerds that My Buddy spotted when we walked in. I made my purchases and set out to find the boys. The theater was fairly dark, but I was able to spot them in the middle of the theater. I tried to joke with My Buddy that they were all out of the Nerds, but he didn’t believe me. We sat there chattering and eating popcorn (My Buddy is a king of chatter, keeping him quiet is the hard task). We looked all around at the décor of the old theater while we waited. As the movie began it felt good to be there with My Buddy sitting between us. So often I feel like the world’s most boring Aunt, and I was glad to finally find something I knew he wanted to do. In case you haven’t heard abut the movie either, it’s an animated comedy. All the trailers and promotions for it show a chubby little Boy Scout and an old fellow who ties a bunch of balloons to his house and they float all away. But none of the trailers show anything prior to this scene. The ‘old fellow’ was just a nerdy kid at the start of the movie. They showed him and how his other nerdy friend met. They fell in love, and you know the progression. They did a good job in the movie of implying the progression without actual dialogue. They skillfully showed them growing up from kids, to teens, to a wedding, to thinking about having children, to decorating a room to be the nursery. Then she lost the baby. It showed her sitting in the Doctor’s office with face in her hands, while the husband stood outside the room. The tears just started to flow down my face, and my entire body tensed as I cried. The scene moved on to her sitting outside in the yard on a swing, as the husband stood inside watching her through the window. I don’t really know if My Buddy was following along with what all was going on or not. But he did notice me crying. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him several times looking up at me. When he asked me this past spring if I was ever pregnant, it was the same reaction – tears. Through the tears I told him that I was pregnant a long time ago, and suggested that maybe we could talk about it another day. We haven’t talked about it yet, but the tears, these tears and pain, they are all from the same place. They come from any reminder of the child I lost so very long ago. It can be a subtle reminder like seeing a blonde haired boy, or it could be a poignant reminder like in this movie of losing a child. Those reminders point to and make me look at the hole and empty spot in my heart. The scene of the wife sitting in the chair sobbing-- that is a picture of me to this day. Losing my son is something I will never get over. My heart is stuck there like a scratched record. It plays the same sad notes over and over again. Nothing has erased the pain of losing my son. Not even now as I sit here with my Nephew, who doesn’t know that I’m pregnant (again) and planning for our new little Flower Bud’s arrival. I still cried for quite awhile after those two scenes. I did not have the courage to look back at My Buddy until after I stopped crying. The movie went on, and there were plenty of funny spots once the Boy Scout appears on the scene. My Buddy enjoyed the movie and I was glad that I could take him. I wish it were as happy as a memory as I originally planned. I took him to see a comedy, but it pierced my heart. Now anytime I hear about the movie, my mind goes right to those scenes. It was a good movie, but I won’t watch it again.

Down with the movie “Up”

Cheerio gets help ?

2009-11-04T23:25:00.008-05:00

August 2009 If you’ve read the prior post, then I think you’ll easily understand why several people suggested that I “talk to someone” – meaning counseling. I’ve tried counseling before, and didn’t really benefit in the times I tried. Here is an abbreviated history on ‘ Cheerio gets help.’ ( TRIED to keep it brief, really I did!!!) Before I do that timeline, please remember that I’ve said countless times that I was in denial, and I mean complete denial for several years after losing my son to adoption. So complete was the denial that I never referred to him as “my son.” I felt like I was not ‘allowed’ to. After all, I was not the one parenting him, I was not he one tucking him in bed at night, I was not the one taking care of him when he was sick. You know, it’s all those things people say about why the aparents are the “REAL” parents. Yup, those are the things I believed. Part of the denial was that I believed he was ‘their’ son. Was that because I did not want him or not love him? No, that was not it at all! Him being ‘their’ son meant he could not be my son also. In adoption there is a great divide. There is a definite “us vs them” mentality. This great divide is also what is generally accepted and promoted by society. People forget (I forgot) that children are not possessions. Relationships are not inanimate objects. “Mom” is just a title, just a label for description, just as “Aunt” or “Cousin” is. People don’t freak out that a child would have more than one Aunt, or more than one Cousin. Yet in regards to adoption, there is a skewed thought, that a child can have only one Mother. This thought is not generated from love, but possessiveness and fear. There is much that could be said on that subject, but that would be going a completely direction from where we’re headed. My point in bringing this out was that SINCE I did not acknowledge him as my son, I did not recognize the adoption as a loss. At least not right away. It was not until the aparents stopped sending pictures that I was not able to keep a lid on all the feelings that kept surfacing. I literally felt like I was going to go crazy sometimes, and I finally decided to get help. At this point in my journey I was still very pro-adoption. And even though the aparents closed the door, I was still supporting the adoption agency, Bethany Christian Services. (what I know now, I do not view their ethics or practices as ‘Christian’, so I drop that from their name, leaving Bethany Services. I found that I could use just their initials, and from here on out refer to them as BS…a reference they rightly deserve.) #1 – I desperately needed help. I met with the BirthParentCounselor and the Branch Director admitting I needed help dealing. Whatever the aparents were going through was not really my concern at that time; I just needed help for me. That meeting is a movie burned into my memory. I recall sitting there with the director across from me. He was oh, so sincere and seemed caring. But his response was that he didn’t know how he could help. I asked if they had a list of counselors/psychologists/therapists that they could refer someone for me to see (and pay for it myself.) The answer was no, they didn’t know of any counselors they could refer me to. Recognizing my NEED for some kind of help, I threw out the question “Well, can you at least give me the title of a book, so I could at least try to help myself?” The director again slowly shakes his head from side to side and he says, “Gee, I can’t think of any.” That was very painful and depressed me even further. That meant there was no help, and I would have to live with this turmoil forever? #2 – My second attempt at counseling involved help from my pastor. There was a time when BS wanted to host a service at our church. The ONE person in our church that knew about my adoption experience made me tell my pastor about BS and about my adoption. He recognized right away that, yes, I NEEDED help. He vowed to help me find a Christian Counselor who had experience with adoption related issues. My pastor was frustrated when he came back to me empty-handed. He even went to the “crisis pregnancy center” that our church supported and asked if they could refer any counselors. That in itself is a great question, after all, this center promotes adoption – so they should in some way be able to provide someone with post-adoption help. But they could not. #3 – While my pastor was searching, I was also searching on the internet. I found a ‘counselor’ that was about an hour away. The first time I saw her, she gave me some little workbook pamphlet. That first visit, she was very very surprised by the responses I got from BS. She said she was ‘concerned’ because she referred many people to them on a very regular basis. (Hindsight recognizes now that her business is based on promoting adoption.) Visit#2 – she was a no show. Nice a two plus hour drive round trip – for nothing. Visit #3. I don’t know why I remember this, but one of the questions in the pamphlet she gave me asked the question, “What have you learned from your experience?” And my answer was “To trust NO ONE.” But that visit got under my skin for a different reason. She asked how many other children I had. Which of course, I did not have other children. Then she asked why I didn’t have other children? I gave her all the reasons of why I ‘thought’ I didn’t have other children. I was not yet out of denial enough to realize the real reasons. Her eyes lit up, and she says very emphatically to me, “There’s your problem. Don’t you see it?” And she proceeded to tell me that “MY PROBLEM” was that I did not have other children, and this made the aparents afraid that I never accepted my adoption and moved on. This is evident by not having other children. They were withdrawing from me because I haven’t moved on yet. At that point in my journey, I didn’t even realize the “move on” part, because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. I thought moving on was ‘normal’ part of the process & I that was why I was so frustrated by and didn’t understand all these feelings and pain that was constantly surfacing. But that was not the red flag to me. The red flag that infuriated me was her transferring the responsibility of the aparents onto me. If the AParents were withdrawing because they were afraid, that was not “My Problem.” It was “their problem,” and they had no right to punish me for their problem. It was Their Responsibility to deal with their own issues. So, as you probably imagined already, when I left her office that day riled up – I never returned. I later had another confrontation with the BS Director. He mentioned this counselor and I could tell by what he was saying is what I had told her. So this counselor also broke confidence and talked to the Director about me. Now, I understand that if someone shows signs of harming themselves or others, that confidence can/should be broken. But if it is a very real threat, you would go to authorities. Lovely, huh? #4 – Instead of a three hour tour, it was a three hour drive to and from the office of the next counselor I tried. It was very difficult driving over an hour crying all the way, crying an hour in her office, and crying all the way home and the rest of the night. She was a nice lady, but I didn’t know that what I needed was a counselor who had experience with Adoption Loss issues. I stopped going, because we never talked about the adoption. We talked about my family, about my husband, about my missing nephews, etc. But we didn’t deal with what I wanted most to deal with and it didn’t make sense to keep giving her money so we could talk about what SHE wanted to talk about. #5 – Last year, 2008, I finally got up the nerve to call the EAP (Employee Assistance Program) to try counseling again. This time I was aware that I needed to find a counselor that was experienced in adoption issues. It was mentally and emotionally draining. It was daunting to sit there with a list of ‘approved counselors’ and then pick up the phone to call and ask questions. I was not just questions about scheduling, but each time someone answered my call, I was opening the door in my heart where the adoption was ‘hidden’, and I had to look at it. I had to talk about it to a non-interested stranger. It was very difficult to do this, not just once, but repeatedly. It took me several days to finally make enough phone calls that I found a counselor who said she was “qualified.” Our first Session I found out that her “qualification” relied on her having a sister who adopted two children. I don’t remember much else about the session. I wasn’t convinced she’d be much help. She talked about getting on with my life. How adoption is a good thing, not bad. Before our second Session had even ended, I mentally checked out. I was tense and all my body language clearly indicated that I had closed. What did it? It was her complete lack of understanding of an adopted person’s struggles – from the adoptee’s point of view. Her adopted niece and nephew were both “well adjusted” and “happy adoptees.” She went on to say that the niece decided to search for her original family, but the nephew doesn’t need to. And she believed that façade, that mask, that “grateful mentality” that was projected onto those kids. The thing that caused me to close down was not her talk of her adopted family; but rather her comments about my son, whom she does not know. You see, the reason I went for counseling was that I was considering the possibility of having another child. This was a stormy sea I was trying to navigate. I was trying to undo the brainwashing of who I really am versus who I though I was – based off of the adoption. I shut down when she said to me, “He will never consider you his mother. You will always just be a stranger to him. He will never consider any of your other children as his brother or his sister. They are your children, but he will never consider them his family.” And that did it. I decided this lady smokes the adoption mushrooms, and I mentally pitied the other clients she tried to help with their adoption issues. She was no help. She would only muddy the waters more and make things worse. #6 – And so, August 2009 – here I am pregnant (not unplanned), and very distraught and struggling with all the emotions, fears, and feelings from 16 years ago, in addition to the new influx of pregnancy hormones. There was no denying that I should seek counseling to help me deal with the issues from 16 years ago, so that I won’t be a complete basket case when my next baby is born. And so I call the EAP and get another fresh list of counselors. I broke the list into sections and determined to call 10-15 counselors each day. This time, the question I asked was if the counselor was qualified to deal with the grief of losing a child to adoption? I talked to some receptionists who had to ask the counselor and get back to me, and some places I left a voice mail message. There were two counselors who returned my call. One said she has not worked with anyone who lost a child to adoption, and did not feel that she would be qualified to help. The other counselor who called me back surprised me. It surprised me that she called back herself, kind of late in the evening (and pathetically enough I was still at work), instead of having her receptionist do it. But what really surprised me is that she TALKED with me! – for 10 minutes or more??!!??. She said she felt like she could help me deal with the adoption trauma. She described that she has worked with numerous women who have lost a child to death. She suggested that I probably needed to work through some grief as well. When I hung up the phone with her, I sat in my chair and just stared at the phone. She recognized I was hurting. Unlike everyone else who associates adoption with celebration, it sounded as though she saw the adoption as a tragedy instead. I was encouraged that maybe she really could help. In my first session with her she thinks that what I need to deal with more than the grief is the trauma. Then she goes on to talk about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. “PTSD” . . . “PTSD” ? ? ? “PTSD” . . . “PTSD” ! ! ! “PTSD” rolls around in my head like 16 lb cannon balls. I’ve heard so many references to original moms being diagnosed with PTSD from the adoption. I just can’t believe that maybe that is what the ‘real’ problem is with me too? 16 years of walking around with this “thing” affecting every aspect of my life, and it’s gone totally “un-noticed”? After talking with her, I did additional investigating on the internet and questions on forums, etc. And it all makes total sense to me know. Her simplified description of PTSD is that the body gets ‘stuck’ at the place where the past trauma occurred. Whenever triggers or other things that happen in the future that bring back reminders of the trauma, the body, by reflex, reacts in the same way as if the trauma were happening now, in the present. I think this explains all the descriptions in my prior post … when I saw an infant or an infant of a picture, my body immediately responded with the tense muscles, the increased heart rate, the change in breathing. That description was not at all limited to my OB visit. It was the reality of what happened every time I saw an infant. It would happen anytime I would walk by infant clothes at a store. It would happen whenever I would hear someone talk about pregnancy. So, here I am at counselor #6, over the past 4 years (2005 – 2009). For the first time, I am hopeful, that maybe she can “get my body to recognize the trauma as an event from the past” so that I do not continue experiencing the same physical reactions whenever there is a trigger. I know it won’t take the pain away. I know it will not undo the past decisions. My hope right now is to just do what I can to be emotionally healthy, for the sake of this new little Flower Bud. If I can be healthy for her/him, then when I reunite with my son, hopefully I will be healthy enough and strong enough to be there for him too. I don’t want him to feel like he is alone as he navigates the deep dark waters of the chilling Adoption Ocean.

Cheerio and Counseling

7 Weeks and 5 Days (or so they say)

2009-10-18T21:23:00.008-04:00

Thursday, 8/27/2009 Today I had my first OB appointment. It was not a visit with the doctor, just an appointment with the in take nurse. I am so glad my hubby went with me, because I was very anxious. As we sat in the waiting room, I was wringing my hands the entire time. This is now how it's SUPPOSED to be. I'm supposed to be all smiles and overjoyed that I'm going to have a baby. But the teeter totter inside won't let that happen. Some friends (other original moms) say it's just my body's way of trying to protect itself from what happened before. They called my name, and we headed down the hallways. The nurse steers me to the potty for a 'sample,' then leads my hubby on to the exam room to wait. I was so uptight that I just couldn't go. All the while, my mind starts kicking into overdrive and I feel my chest and throat tightening up. My face muscles start to feel drawn and a lump forms in my throat. "No, I can't start crying now...not here ... not now..." I kept repeating that to myself over and over. It felt like I was in there for house as I fought to maintain 'normalcy' until I was finally able to provide a sample. I washed my hands and splashed water on my face. As I looked in the mirror, I thought that my face didn't look too splotchy & maybe no one would be able to tell that I was fighting to hold back the tears. I finally opened the restroom door and there was the nurse standing just outside. She lead me to the room where my hubby was waiting. Then she left to test the sample (ewwww). So, once again, I'm sitting and waiting. It almost feels like I'm waiting for a sentencing and an 'inevitable doom'. My hubby can easily see me struggling and rests his hand on my knee to reassure and comfort me. The nurse walks in and closes the door. Everyone here has been pleasant so far, and she is no exception. She had a big white smile as she sat down and spread out her stack of papers. She put her hand on a 3 ring binder as she moved it into it's place. Immediately my entire body tensed, tears welled up in my eyes, my heart began to race, my fists clenched, and I started feeling shaky; all from just seeing this binder. "Your Baby's Birth," it was labeled, and had a picture of an infant on it. The picture of an infant is what triggered everything I'd been trying to hold in. Here it was 16 years later, and I still cannot see an infant, not even a picture of an infant, without feeling panicky. It was very apparent I was distraught, so the nurse stopped her spiel and said, "What's wrong? Talk to me." My throat was constricted and I could not even utter a sound, nothing would come out. My sweet hubby helped out by saying, "She's very anxious about everything." Then the nurse waited patiently (no pun intended) until I could at least talk again. With a very choppy and quiet voice, I squeaked out in broken words, "This is not my first pregnancy." Then the dam broke and all the tears I was struggling to hold back spilled out over the edges and streamed down my cheeks. People who have not lost a child to adoption ridicule the 'second time infertility' topic. They forget that the mind and body work together or against each other; however you want to look at it. Those insensitive narrow minded know it all rosy adoption pain pushers don't care to acknowledge how very real this is for us. Adoption IS a TRAUMA to both the mother and the child. It is NOT a "gift" (well, maybe a gift of scorpions and rattlesnakes) and it is NOT a "win/win solution." After I mopped the tears from my face and could speak again, I explained to her that 16 years ago, I did not know the truth of adoption, and when my son was only 3 days old I lost him to adoption. I wanted to make sure that I expressed the idea that 'untruth' was involved, and that it was not happiness to lose him. The nurses' response was "Just remember, you made the best decision you could at the time based on the information you had available to you." Then she rearranged the order of how she usually does things. She was really sensitive and kind, she was wonderful. When we left, I was still edgy, but I had calmed down quite a bit. When I got home, I put the 3 ring binder on the kitchen bar. I got out a sharp paring knife and made a slice along the top of the binder and removed their picture. Someday I'll be OK with pictures of infants, but right now, I'll leave this space blank for the pic of my own little Flower Bud when she/he arrives.

with the wind blowing ...

2009-10-13T13:16:00.016-04:00

Aug 11, 2009 – Tuesday There was a nice breeze as I was leaving for work this morning. It was already humid, so I decided to pin all my hair back and drive to work with the convertible top down. I don’t usually enjoy the drive into work, but today it was nice. It was warm, the sun was shining, the sky was a beautiful blue color (like my Hubby's eyes), with a few puffy white clouds floating lazily along. I had another chat with my Little Flower Bud. I was just rambling about the important things in life, and how it’s what is on the inside that counts. I’m afraid this poor little thing will be subject to a lot of these chats while I’m driving. I am concerned about how the relationship will be with my hubby once the baby is born and I go back to work. We won’t be using day-care; instead we’ll do split shifts during the work days. This means we’ll be like passing ships in the night, and only get to spend time together on the weekends. What is life going to be like without spending time with the man I so dearly love? It’s an uncomfortable thought. But then I’m intrigued to think that while he’s working I’ll be spending my time with some one else that I’ll love. Who knows, is it even possible for me to love anyone as much as I love my husband? While on the thoughts of love, my mind wandered back to 16yrs ago. I thought of love and of my first baby. I loved him, and I have never stopped loving him. In fact, it's a mystery to me, but it seems that this love for him has grown instead. He is no longer a baby, but is a teenage youth now. I remembered how the adoption industry made me feel; if I loved my baby, then I would not even consider subjecting him to growing up with all the disadvantages I would surely handicap him with. I was so absolutely convinced that I would ruin his life. Slowly my thoughts then turned to what I’ve learned from my support group on CafeMom. It is now what I tell every Expectant Mom I run into who might be considering adoption – that her baby already loves her. I didn't know this 16 years ago when I was pregnant the first time. At that time I believed the old adoption myth --that babies are blank slates, and it doesn't matter who parents them, as long as they are loved. And now you know what I was thinking as I drove down the highway with the wind tugging gently at tiny wisps of hair, that this Little Flower Bud already loves me… ? ! ? He/she will have my blood running through their veins and they will fit right into our wacky family. In fact, I smiled to think that they will not only fit, but that will have their own unique flair of weirdness to add and enhanced that level of wacky. I’d gotten off the highway, and was driving on a country road for a few miles. I told my Little Flower Bud (yes, I’ll need a new nickname if this is a boy- but for now Flower Bud it is) - I told him/her that I just cannot wait to see their precious little face. I cried as I told him/her that I can’t wait to hold their tiny little hand in my palm, and let his/her little fingers curl around mine. I can’t wait till I can hold him/her knowing I won’t have to let go. I can’t wait to feed and nurture him/her – which I did not get to do with my son 16 years ago. As my Dad often says, “I can’t change the past, but I can change the future.”

with the wind blowing . . .

from WTP to WTHeck??!!???

2009-10-08T11:52:00.004-04:00

Monday, August 10, 2009

Today started off normal I felt pretty good, aside from the tightness in my shoulders. Over the weekend I felt like I was making progress (see prior post titled 'WTP'). Well now, it’s time to try to find an Ob. The one who delivered my first child has retired. I lucked into having a fabulous Ob that first time around. So, today I faxed to my family doctor a list of OB GYN’s in my health insurance network. They said they’d help me look over the list to see if they recognize any names. While waiting for a call back I thought maybe I’d find something on the internet. Nope, nothing really helpful, just a bunch of names, addresses and phone #’s. Then I thought I’d search for a few ‘pregnancy’ questions I have. I now realize there are two very quick hitting triggers. Knowing too much information before I’m ready for it seems to having me feel panicky rather quickly. I’m less than 2 months along yet, I am NOT ready to think about delivery, and all that jazz. Maybe I’d be more ready if my mind wasn’t still doing the teeter totter with embracing this pregnancy. As one friend suggested, she thinks my body is just trying to protect itself from what happened before. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t view it as “a bad thing,” but feelings and fears from the past don’t just magically go away all of a sudden. I am not excited about facing all those fears and demons. I am not excited about such poignant and painful reminders. I am fully aware that this “path of joy” will run parallel with the “path of my greatest sorrow.” The other trigger I’m having is, well of course adoption. One site, which I think is the one that pushed me over the panic edge, was where I clicked on Pregnancy section, and their very first listed topic was Adoption. Is their agenda clear? Well, since it was a Disney site, and since they do believe they can make fairy tales come true – having adoption as your first thought just falls right in line with the rainbows and unicorns of adoption. Then there is the American Pregnancy Center’s website. There was, of course, a section on “Pregnancy Options.” It would be nice to think they had Parenting listed before Adoption because that was the priority. But that can’t be true because Abortion was listed above Parenting. They tried to provide guidance and education on options but once again adoption is presented with only *Benefits of Adoption. This one-sided presentation of adoption is LACKING education that women deserve to have. Yet at the same time, their section on abortion has a more on educating. Under abortion they list *Possible Emotional Side Effects, and *Possible Physical Side Effects. Why don’t they have those warnings under adoption? Oh, right, because adoption is a win/win situation. Your child will grow up grateful he/she wasn’t aborted or raised in a poor home. There ARE no Side Effects with adoption! Oh, I forgot! Tell that to the part of my heart that they forgot to cauterize when they ripped my family apart! So, I started the day off feeling okay, and then it went to panicky again; the rapid shallow breathing, the shaky feeling, and pounding heart. I’ve got to keep it together. I can’t let the industry steal all my children.

What the Heck !?!?

WTP

2009-10-03T01:35:00.010-04:00

August 9, 2009

Many women who lose a child to adoption struggle with the thought that if they have other children, then they are betraying the child who is adopted. I can absolutely echo that this was a huge obstacle for me. Adding extra weight to this idea was the fact that I ended up marrying my son's father. Which made it seem even more like betraying 'our' first child. I just could not fathom ever looking him in the eyes and trying to explain why? Why did I let him go, but keep another child/children?

Then at the end of 2007 I started to learn differently from other original moms. In particular, I learned from the amazing women in the Cheerio group on CafeMom. Moms in this support group helped me realize that this was actually creating a burden for my son. I learned that adoptees do NOT want to feel as though they have messed up the lives of their original parents.

If my son were to know that the reason I did not have other children, was 'because of him' - this could cause him to feel guilty for "messing up" my life.

I would not want him to feel that way, but if he did, I could not just wish his feelings away. I would not want to add guilt to his life, especially since it is not his 'fault' in any way.

Learning that helped me, but only a little bit. The other thing they taught me is what helped the most. I learned that most adoptees are happy to find out they have siblings. Originally I learned of this notion from original moms; however, since last December I've gotten to know many adoptees, and they've verified it.

I meet them on Facebook, blogs, and on forums. I read their stories, their experiences, their struggles, and about their lives in general. Time and time again I've heard adoptees say that, yes, they do like finding siblings.

From what I've heard some say, siblings makes them feel more connected when they find other people who look like them, or have common interests with them, or sometimes siblings make them feel like they finally fit in or belong somewhere.

So, with this hope that my son might be happy about a sibling, rather than hating me, I worked my way over the 'betrayal' obstacle.

Several years ago our I was sending a box of gifts to an orphanage in India. One person in the group donated a series of Winnie The Pooh books. I never told her, but I did not send them to the Orphanage. Books are heavy, man! and it was already expensive to ship overseas.

I've had these books since before we moved to our 'new home' 3 years ago. I've boxed them up a long time ago to give away. Several times this year I've nearly had the box to my car, but changed my mind and brought them back in the house "just in case" I'd be needing them for my own child.

So, last night as I was putzin around the house "nesting," I unpacked the books and put them on the little bookcase in what will be the Little Flower Bud’s room. I pulled out book #1, and sat in the video rocker and read WTP to him/her. I’ve never really watched WTP, so I didn’t know all the voices to imitate.

This seemingly insignificant event of reading a book was a definite mile marker for me. Since I found out that I am pregnant, I have mostly struggled. It causes me to think back and feel and remember my first pregnancy from 16 years ago. Losing my son was the most and worst defining moments of my life. And through much of this pregnancy I have been sad. So, for me to be able to just sit and read WTP to our Little Flower Bud for the first time gives me hope that once he/she is born - everything will be allright. I won't have to lose him/her, as I lost my son. I'll be able to bring him/her home and read ALLthe Winnie the Pooh books and so many more!

Winnie the Pooh

the Load O Fear

2009-09-29T17:51:00.002-04:00

Sunday, August 9, 2009 at 12:27pm

Copied this from a note on FB I'm using this note feature on FB, so I can have a place to journal without my family or co-workers finding out (yet). I'm still waiting for blood test to confirm if I'm pregnant, but I know that I am. There is not a doubt in my mind. It's only been a week since I took the HPT, and those first few days were really rough emotionally. When I was pregnant 16 yrs ago I didn't realize that all emoms deal with fear. Surprisingly, I've learned that just a few years ago from my on-line support group. But what I felt during these early days this week was not just the normal ‘OMGosh, what now?’ typical fear. Instead it was all the fear, all the emotions, all the thoughts and everything from 16 years ago all came back. They came with the pressure of 16 yrs worth of being bottled up. The fear and feeling of judgment also returned. Everything from 16 years ago feeling so ashamed and condemned. Remembering how I felt walking in any public place, obviously very pregnant and feeling like everyone noticed I had no ring on my finger. Not that they did, but is how I felt back then. And all those haunting feelings and imagined taunting voices and whispering filled my head and my heart. On top of it was the fear of how will this affect my lost son? how will this affect his new sibling? Will my son reject his new little brother/sister? I cannot expect him to understand “why”. There is no way for him to understand why I abandoned him, yet kept my next child. Even I can’t understand it. But it’s a mute point now. I was sitting in the bathroom with my head in my hands crying. I was so afraid and feeling panic. My breathing was rapid and shallow, I felt like I could throw up. My mind was reeling. I didn’t intend for my hubby to hear it, but I know he overheard through the door when I was saying “this was just such a bad idea.” I did not mean to hurt him or blame him. But there was definitely a war going on inside of me. It was like a dump truck had backed up and unloaded everything on top of me. It was a H U G E heaviness!!! It was nearly overwhelming, partially immobilizing, and totally consumed me. Even the memories and comparison of pregnancies began. I remembered vividly (as I do every 4th of July) exactly where I was on July 4th, 1994. I was about 7 months along. I went w/ my (at the time) boyfriend’s aunt’s family. Her twin daughters were in a beauty pageant. The twins won first and second place. The event was held at a public park. There were little tea lights that filled the stream as it meandered thru the park. I remember the glow from the lit tea lights. We sat on a blanket on the grassy hillside, and watched fireworks. I felt so incredibly out of place. Because I already had my mind set on adoption – obviously I was a horrible person, because no good mother would ever give her baby away. So there I sat in the middle of their fairy tale perfect family. And my family, well, was no fairy tale. I remember crying a lot that night as we sat there, but it was dark out, and no one really noticed.

fear fear fear fear LOAD o FEAR

Fuzzy Flannel Shirt

2009-09-27T18:34:00.004-04:00

Saturday, August 1, 2009 As I was getting ready to pack for our trip to the ARD I was scanning thru the closet to find something long-sleeved. I was rummaging to the far right and saw a white flannel shirt. I had the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up one time. It had pink and blue teddy bears all over it. I paused and touched it. Rolling the fabric between my fingers, I remembered back to how long ago I wore this shirt. It was 16 years ago, when I was expecting my first child, my son lost to adoption. Although I'm waiting for the blood test to confirm it, I know I'm pregnant again. I know I'm 'supposed' to be happy, jumping up and down and beaming with joy. I WANT to be happy. I think that is what my husband is expecting. But all the lies, and fears, and feelings from 16 years ago are staring me in the face. I feel like I'm THERE again. While I was sitting in the dr's office I remembered that blood work was done on a Friday way back then too. I keep thinking, how do I tell my son??? And it makes me cry every time - just like now. I am so afraid so ashamed so remorseful over the loss of my oldest child how do I tell him about his full brother/sister, which would be labeled "the kept child" I'm supposed to be happy and I'm sure that as the baby grows, I will, but right now I'm so torn so very very torn somber is the word my husband uses As I sat there wringing the life out of a newspaper, my Dr kept reassuring me that it's going to be okay. It was obvious I was "anxious" was the word she used. I found myself yesterday trying to cover or hide my belly (like with a sweatshirt or something). I still associate being pregnant with being punished, and feel ashamed. I know that's not the truth...but it has been my truth for the past 16 years...and you don't just get over that in the snap of the fingers, do you? I am sitting here with the tears freely running down my face. I should stop, I think you get the picture... I am so afraid

Fuzzy Flannel Shirt

Cheerios World Back Ordered

2009-09-26T16:51:00.012-04:00

I don’t know what you expect when you visit this little blog. I tell people that [here] I am an open book. You may have noticed and maybe even wondered why there have been very few posts from Cheerio since the ARD in July. It was because I did not have the physical strength. I noticed the lack of energy seemed to start at the ARD (Adoptee Rights Demonstration at Philadelphia in July). Several weeks leading up to the ARD I was under extreme pressure at work, but in the past when I went away on vacation and was able to relax, I would be up before the sun, and just bursting with energy. This did not happen at the ARD. I was confused and frustrated with myself at the ARD, because I was tired and slept a lot, much more than I usually would. My Hubby chalked it up to it just being emotional for me, and therefore; he concluded, I was just emotionally drained. When I got back from the ARD, the pressure at work had not subsided. I was so extremely tense. I don’t think I had ever felt this unbelievably tense at any of my other jobs before. One night while I was driving home, I had a thought… What if I’m pregnant? What if I’m pregnant and the stress hurts my baby? I would hate them forever if anything happens to my baby from all this stress. This nagging thought kept coming back until I finally decided I would take a HPT (home pregnancy test) just to be sure. If I was pregnant, I would have to find a way to not let the pressure and stress get to me. There are a few more posts about the ARD event, including the ARD March itself, which I plan to write. However, before I continue with those posts, I am going to post some of the journal notes I wrote after the ARD and taking that HPT. I was not able to post them at the actual times - so I will note the actual journal date.

Cheerios World Back Ordered

Hi Mom

2009-09-23T19:14:00.019-04:00

It was Monday. We had a wonderful time earlier at breakfast and meeting a whole bunch more folks who arrived for the event. It was around 11 am that a small nucleus was beginning to form in the hotel lobby.

We were all excited and there was a lot of chatter as we waited for H of the UK to join us. Although she was not downstairs yet, we were all talking about her and what was about to happen, Our Crafty Art Teacher made a sign for her the night before. If she didn’t want to use it, that was ok. But it was there ready for her if she did.

H arrived and we took a head count. Most people could fit in the van that Our Transporter drove down from Long Island. The rest piled into a car with the Itty Bitty Loudmouth and her hubby. I got to ride in the van with H. On the drive to the airport we listened to her tell parts of her story. It was very sad and angering to hear.

Now I’m not new to the adoption arena as far as what society believes and what apparent choose to think. In general society as a whole does want to hear anything “bad” or “negative” about adoption, especially NOT from an adoptee! Right away they want t o label him or her as “bitter” or “ungrateful” or both. Then they completely dismiss their experiences, thoughts, and feelings so they can just continue believing their untrue ‘feel good’ ideas.

But the sad part of H’s story is not about her childhood. She was raised in a good home and loves her afamily very much. But the truth is that her aparents and her life with them was not the VERY BEGINNING of her story (which is true of every adoptee). Her story started with a young woman I’ll simply call Mom.

Mom was a young single woman still living with her parents when she was expecting. It really was not all that uncommon, as some may think -- not even from back in that era. People just think it rarely happened because society tried to hide these young moms. These girls were whisked way from their home, families, and towns. They were hidden away in secrecy at maternity homes.

These ‘bad girls’ were punished by how they were treated throughout their pregnancies, and at the time of labor and delivery. They were mistreated and their babies were often forcefully taken away so they could be sold to a childless couple. Some stories have been recorded in the book “The Girls who Went Away.” http://www.thegirlswhowentaway.com/

Mom somehow was spared the punishment of being sent away, and the time came for her child to be born. After giving birth, she wanted to hold her child, but her child was not given for her to be held. Instead she was given platitudes and told her baby died while she was giving birth.

Mom did not believe it, she did not believe them. Yet they insisted her child was gone, had died, and sent her home with empty arms and a broken grieving heart that was now filled with anger, betrayal, and distrust.

After several years had passed, and Mom still refused to accept or believe that her first baby died, her mother’s conscience and the guilt got the best of her. She confessed that she had conspired with the delivering doctor to pretend the child died. It was all so the child could be adopted out.

I had not heard this part of H’s story before. There we were sitting in this van all listening to H retell what happened to her original Mom. She went on to tell us that after much searching she finally found Mom just a year ago. She dialed the phone number she was given. Mom answered the phone and H said to her, “Hi. You have not seen me in 38 years.” Right away Mom knew this was her stolen baby.

In just a few sentences Mom comments to H, “It sounds like you have a bit of an English accent?” She was stunned to learn that her baby was not just stolen away, but stolen away and carried across the ocean to another continent, to another country that her baby would call ‘home.’

Since that first phone call, they’ve called and e-mailed each other often. Mom even got to talk to her little grandchildren on the phone and got to know them too.

What a range of emotions we all had as H of the UK talked. We finally got to the airport, this little caravan to pick up Mom. It still chokes me up to remember and think how special this was, as that this would be their very first face to face meeting. Phone calls and e-mail during the past year was good, but not at all the same. Mom lived in FL and H obviously lived across the pond in the United Kingdom., and here at this Adoptee Rights Demonstration would be their chance to finally meet face to face.

We found a parking space, and this little caravan hurried on our way following this very quiet and soft spoken woman, H of the UK.

We found the area where her flight would be arriving. There we stood this cluster of guys and gals, with a buzz of energy and nervousness in the air. With the exception of myself and just a few others, this group had one thing in common, they are adopted. Back and forth they would ask each other that ‘forbidden’ question … “Have you reunited with your original Mom?”

My heart was heavy to hear some of their answers. What courage and strength for Jimm to be here among us. He found original siblings, but the search for his original mother proved to be too late, she had already passed on a few years earlier.

It broke my heart to know how much he wanted to see her, to talk to her, just to know her. Yet even her last breaths on this earth, she did not know this. Two hearts, two lives that were destined to be together were instead separated; separated forever, never to connect again. What an unnecessary tragedy.

The ridiculous laws of ‘secrecy’ (sealed birth records) cost him (and her) that chance and hope to reconnect. Michigan needs to change these outdated and discriminatory laws! Change them ‘for the sake of the children’ – for surely these children will grow up. When they become adults they should have their original birth certificates hassle free!

Next to Jimm stood Our Transporter. He is adopted, but he is no longer a child. He is a husband and a father of two lovely little girls. We originally met on Facebook. As he stood there, I remembered some of the messages he sent me about his story.

Although NY is like Michigan in regards to sealed OBC, he had the info on his original mother to search for her; and search he did. But his search took him to one dead end after another. How much disappointment can one heart endure and still have the strength to continue on. While the dead ends were discouraging, none of them had the weight of that final blow – the original birth records were falsified. He will never know his original Mother’s name. Worse yet, he will never be able to find her.

I can’t even begin to imagine what an isolated feeling to be in a sea of people, yet not be biologically connected to any of them. No original grand parents, no original aunts or uncles, no original siblings. Yet, here he stood with H of the UK as we all awaited Mom’s arrival.

Many thoughts and feelings swirled around inside of me. I wondered what was going on in H’s heart and mind as she stood there at the gate (well, as close as a non-passenger can get)? She was holding her ‘Hi Mom’ sign that could’ve been read from a very far distance.

As the passengers exited, we did not know what flight they were disembarking. So with each flight that came in we had no way to know if Mom was among them. For some crazy reason Mom would not send H a recent picture of herself, so we all just scanned the faces of the passing crowds.

Had it been me standing there with the sign, I would have been embarrassed at the strange looks and comments of those who passed by. But H of the UK stood there, she seemed a bit nervous, but she was unwavering as she held her sign waiting expectantly for Mom.

I don’t know how I missed it, short attention span got the best of me again I guess. I looked over and there they were!!! The ‘Hi Mom’ sign was on the floor and Mom and H of the UK were in one of those gigantic hugs where you could just see the love, joy, and happiness radiating! They were unashamed to embrace in a public place.

Finally! Mother and Daughter together again!!!

The rest of us stood there crying – yes, even the guys had leaky eyes as H and Mom hugged and cried and hugged again.

Slowly we started to make our way to the luggage pickup area.

Then I saw it!

I’d read and heard about it from many other reunion stories, and I got to witness it for myself. H and Mom walked side by side chatting and holding hands as they went.

They held hands the entire journey from the airport terminal, to and from the luggage pickup area, and across the parking lot to the van.

I hope to never lose that picture I have in my head.

(Romany contributed the photos I’ve shared with you. Thanks Romany!!!)

What a beautiful and emotional experience for H to share with all of us. While we waited for Mom to arrive, thoughts and hope for reunion with my own lost son danced through my mind. These thoughts were soon followed by a keen awareness of missing him and desperate longing; longing to look into his eyes, to hear the sound of his voice, to feel the warmth of a loving hug.

What an amazing time it was! I tried to imgine all the thoughts and emotions that H of the UK might have been feeling. And yet, and yet as we were riding back to the hotel, she reached out her hand and rested it on my shoulder. A gentle squeeze was her simple gesture of compassion and understanding. Mom noticed this and looks at H questioningly.

H leaned over to Mom and let her know that Cheerio is an Original Mom who lost her son.

Mom looked at me and simply said “Never give up Hope.”

links to other Cheerio ARD related posts:

Sign Making Party and Encounter with Itty Bitty Loudmouth (Day#2, second of 3 posts)

Searching for Identity and Ridiculous Red Tape (Day#2, first of 3 posts)

Day #1 Meeting on-line Friends

Funky light patterns on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge

part iii of iii - coming soon

2009-09-04T15:56:00.001-04:00

3 day weekend on the Horizon... I promise to finish ARD - Day #2, part iii of iii... look for it next week (Hope I can find the photos I want)

Sign Making Party and Encounter with the Itty Bitty Loudmouth

2009-08-13T18:16:00.008-04:00

Adoptee Rights Demonstration - Day #2

Sign Making Party and Encounter with the Itty Bitty Loudmouth

(Day #2 part ii of iii)

**Sign Making Party

By now I hope you’ve seen some of the signs that were used for the Adoptee Rights Demonstration, both for the March to and displayed during that protest in front of the Convention Center where the Legislators National Conference was being.

If not, you can find some great shots in the youtube ARD Documentary just below this post.

The hotel allowed us to use the room that is the breakfast area. It had several tables that were pushed together to create our workspace. Jeff and his wife brought lots of arts and craft items. Others brought poster boards, sticks, markers, a staple gun, duct tape, and glitter.

There was not enough room to lay out all the signs in that one work area, so many folks overflowed out to the lounge area, to work on their signs. I wonder what the other hotel customers were thinking? Wondering what all these adults were doing acting like a bunch of kids?

I had an important job, and took it very seriously. To avoid splintermania the next day, I covered the wood handles with duct tape. It was a great task that I could do without thinking, which allowed me to talk with whoever came over to help me out. (Although my hubby mocked me for making the tape line up just exactly. NOT OCD!)

The final volunteer that helped me get to the end of the stick pile was Right Hand Man. He was with his friend, the Camera Guy, who spent most of his time peering through a camera while he interviewed and filmed. It was so very encouraging to me that he was such a big supporter and encourager for his friend, to the point of attending an Adoptee Rights Demonstration when he is not adopted himself. He described that it was very apparent that being adopted very much affected his friend, Camera Guy.

I don’t think this Right Hand Man realized how rare that is in a friend for an adoptee. As I listen to adoptees from all over the US, Canada, Australia, and even Lebanon, one of their struggles is that people who are not adopted just don’t “get it.” Their friends brush off the struggles with comments like “be grateful for what you have,” “everyone struggles with family problems,” or “don’t let it get to you,” or “you’re better off with your afamily”. And the frustration is not just with friends, but I've heard the same frustration about significant others, who do not understand and do not offer support through the adoption related struggles.

I think this is one of the things that cause adoptees to shove most of their feelings deep inside, because when they try to express what they are really feeling, even to their best friends – they are either criticized, or their feelings are dismissed. They feel isolated with these feelings that no one seems to understand, and often don’t want to hear about. So, it was very encouraging to know that the Camera Guy has a true friend who “gets it” and encourages him instead of telling him just to put on the “happy face” mask.

As we were splinter-proofing the sticks, it also gave me a chance to sit and watch. When I’m around people that I don’t know, I tend to clam up and hide, especially in a big crowd. This task allowed me to sit on the sidelines and just observe others. It really was amazing to see all these people from all over the place joking and talking, and asking someone to pass the glitter.

It was also amazing to see all the hugging. People I’ve only ever chatted with on-line would give me a big hug. It really was the coolest thing. It was just a warm environment, with lots and lots of energy going on. There was also an air of concern for each other. When one person would share painful parts of their story, others would stop and empathize and express sadness.

In the room there were obviously lots and lots and lots of adoptees. Some who are searching, some who have searched – but it was too late, some are in reunion. It was very interesting to hear the stories of interaction with their original family. Pro-adoption myth believers have this dreamy idea that “someday” the adopted person will meet their original family, and that suddenly they are instantly ‘fulfilled’ and they go on with their merry lives as if that meeting was the most natural thing in the world.

Put a Screeching Halt to that Cherry Cart! It just doesn’t work that way! There are years and years of unresolved issues on both parts, and it takes a lot of work to make a re-union a good one. And frankly, sometimes it takes more work than some people are willing or able to endure. It broke my heart to hear how badly some of them were treated by their original families, siblings are suspicious of them or their intentions, first moms withholding the name of the natural father, flat out rejection by people who are supposed to love them the most, their original mother & their original father.

Some talked about their afamily. Somehow society thinks that people who adopt a child are saints. But then again, that is the same society that believes that adoption is a win/win situation, therefore the aparents must be wonderful and special people for rescuing a child. (pardon me while I pull up the barf bucket…)

While many aparents are good, there are still whole boatloads of them who are not. I talked with at least two adoptees who were in very abusive homes growing up, and a few others who don’t even talk with their afamily anymore. Many faced rejection and retaliation from their afamily for even searching.

I sat in disbelief with my mouth dropped open while Our Transporter told me that his aparents would not acknowledge the birth of his first child. They would not visit his new baby, and they would not even congratulate him or his wife. Why? Because he was able to do something they could not do – have their own biological children. His aparents apparently never dealt with their own issue of infertility, and took it out on what could have been their own grandchildren. Pro-adoption people won’t tell you these kind of stories.

While I’m on a little sidebar conversation, let me bring up a point that I hear over and over from adoptees, but no one else (especially pro-adoption folks) talks about it -- Extended AFamily. Sure the aparents may be very good parents, and they may love their adopted child with all their heart, but that does not mean that everyone else in the family will.

The new Aunts and Uncles don’t consider the adopted child as a “real” neice or nephew. I’ve heard countless stories of how “Grandma made this special gift for every grandchild- except for me.” Adopted children are not included in the “survived by #children or #grandchildren” portion of obituaries. The rest of the family still treats the adopted child differently. It is no fault of the adoptee, and yet they are not stupid, they see it. The see it, and more dramatically, they feel it growing up.

I could have let those paragraphs out, but then it wouldn’t be real. This was an adoptee event, by and for adoptees. These are stories of what they experience. It makes me incredibly sad that I was pro-adoption for so many years and promoted something that puts a child in such a tenuous situation throughout their entire life.

Back to the sign making event… There were other first moms there. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that I did not reach out and talk to them all. In fact, if I didn’t have a hint of who someone was (like if I would know them from on-line) I kind of just sat there working merrily along.

There was a t-shirt there with a slogan that I decided to use for my sign.

“Original Identity is a Basic Human Right.” I’ve also decided that instead of natural, birth, first, that I think “original” is the best description possible, and maybe you noticed that in this post. I am my son’s Original Mom, my dad, my father-in-law, my nephews, they are my son’s Original Family. I’ve just decided that I like it. So far, I haven’t had to explain what I mean when I use the term.

I also liked the statement that Original Identity is a right, and I believe it is. It is THEIR identity that was changed, and if they choose to search back to where it originally started, I believe they should have the right to do that.

This is a perfect segue to the story I alluded to in my prior post, my story about our “Itty Bitty Loudmouth,” and she knows who she is. Anyone who was in the room that night making signs knows who I’m talking about. She was definitely “itty bitty” in size, but NOT in volume!

**Encounter with the Itty Bitty Loudmouth

The sign making party had dispersed. Well, actually I think they chased us out of the room (heehee). Most folks had gone to their rooms. I had the armful of sticks while the Itty Bitty Loudmouth and her hubby had the remaining box and a few signs.

When the elevator door opened for us to enter, Itty Bitty Loudmouth decided to go check the room one more time to make sure it was presentable. Her husband took some supplies up to their room. I walked to check out the room with her, and the trash was already taken out, the tables were in order, the chairs were all put back in place, the countertops had been wiped down.

Itty Bitty Loudmouth went over to close the other set of doors, which was near one side of the bar. I just stood in the room waiting for her return.

Even though I was in another room, I could hear she was engaged in a conversation with a few fellows at the bar. It started out with one of them asking about a slogans on one of the signs. This of course led to a discussion of what the heck were the signs for anyway? Which of course is a subject the Itty Bitty Loudmouth is very passionate about.

The conversation slipped into a confrontation when Itty Bitty Loudmouth referred to adoptees as b@stards. The fellow sitting right beside her took offense to that statement. He challenged her that he has two adopted children, and they are not b@stards.

And of course we know that most AParents are delusional about the true needs of an adopted child. Many AParents feel (they not admit it outloud, but they do feel) some sense of ownership of a child they adopt. Many AParents are unaware of their own insecurity and fear that the adoptee might ever want to know - or God forbid! have a relationship with their original family.

Now keep in mind, Itty Bitty Loudmouth is an adult, she is a wife and mother, and an employee. She is small in stature, but she is not a teenager or a little kid anymore.

I admit that as I listened to the confrontation I could not make myself leave the room to ‘defend’ her as she stood toe to toe with this ADad. I thought about it, but when he described the typical idea of an original mom, I did not want to listen to the abuse that he certainly would turn toward me – if he knew I was an original mom too. I did not have the backbone to face the sneers or judgmental looks, and certainly the mocking as they would jump to all kind of conclusions of “what kind of woman” I am.

Their conclusions that would most likely be wrong. Many people think original moms do not WANT their child. This is just so not true. Many people think original moms are incapable of parenting. Many people think original moms are defective – druggies or sluts or child abusers. I did not have the will to fight their imaginations. They already have their opinions formed and their mind made up. I am not willing to put myself out there for them to attack so they can just walk away feeling better than me.

So there I stood, nearly paralyzed at first. I eventually made my way out of the room and stood behind Itty Bitty Loudmouth. In all honesty though, Itty Bitty Loudmouth did not need any help at all. She was standing her ground, and was quite literally in this guys face – pointing her finger at him as she vehemently spoke.

You must pay special attention to this part of their conversation. I know this post is getting long, but I think this is what is in the minds of many AParents.

ADad, “my kids don’t need their birthmother. We took them and have cared for them as they grow up.” Basically the “we’re their parents now.”

Itty Bitty Loudmouth “But when those kids become adults, they should have a right to their own original birth certificate.”

ADad, “No.”

Itty Bitty Loudmouth, “I am an adult adoptee, and I should have the exact same right as you and every other American, I should have the right to my original birth certificate.”

ADad, “No, that’s not your family any more. And you should not have a right to that certificate.”

Itty Bitty Loudmouth, “Why is that? I am an adult, as you are. You can request your birth certificate and get it without any questions. I want that same right.”

ADad, “No, the Aparents are your parents now, just like I am the father to my adopted daughters.”

At this point the bartender made her way over to this corner of the bar, and was leaning on the bar, making sure no punches were thrown.

Itty Bitty Loudmouth, “What about my rights?”

ADad, “What about them?”

Itty Bitty Mouth, “Every one else can get their birth certificate, and I can’t.”

ADad, “You should not have access to your birth certificate.”

Itty Bitty Loudmouth, “So, are you saying your rights are more important than my rights?”

I wish I could have captured the look on this man’s face.

She posed the question straight up.

You could see that for a few seconds he was pondering her question, he didn’t just blurt out an answer. His response was deliberate. “Yes,” he said, “my rights are more important.”

And this is where the bartender put her hands between the two of them and suggested that they agree to disagree.

And so that is what we did the very next day, was we marched through the streets of Philadelphia, exposing this blatant discrimination. One adult’s rights should not trump another’s. Especially in this case where there is no valid reason for it.

It is based out of fear. “OMGosh, if they know who their original parents are, they might not love us anymore….and they HAVE to love me, after all, I’m the one who paid for them, and took care of them while they grew up, and bought their first pony and their last car.” The basis is fear and a sense of ownership.

I am still dumbfounded (not really surprised) that this man flat out said

“Yes, my rights are more important.”

Links to other Cheerio ARD related posts:

Searching for Identity and Ridiculous Red Tape (Day#2, first of 3 posts)

Day #1 Meeting on-line Friends

Funky light patterns on the Benjamine Frankliln Bridge