The Light Bulb Moment

It always fascinates me and surprises me, that every time I think I am finally at a point in my life where I have a handle on all this adoption stuff, once again, it will bite me in the butt at the most unexpected moment. My husband and I, have completely redesigned, and are about to begin the remodeling of our kitchen. I’ve picked out the cabinets, counter top, paint colors, and everything else needed for my new kitchen. The only thing I have left to decide on is lighting fixtures and the new flooring. Last night my husband and I stopped by my Aunt’s house to get her opinion on the two flooring samples I have narrowed it down to. For clarification, this particular aunt is my birthmother’s sister. I never expected the conversation to go from, which flooring she liked best with the colors I have chosen, to a book she had been reading, to a discussion on open access for adoptees to their original birth certificates, to how my grandmother felt about my relinquishment, to what it was like for my birthmother, and finally, what I think must have been a light bulb moment for my aunt in regards to my birthmother and some of her issues.

I’m still not quite sure how the subject of the book my aunt was reading had really come up. For some time now, she and I have not discussed anything about adoption, my birthmother, or the issues and difficulties of my relationship with E, my birthmother. I had hoped everyone had finally understood why E and I do not have the relationship everyone thinks we should have, or if not understood exactly, maybe accepted it for what it was. When my aunt began telling me about this book she was reading, bringing up a character in the book, which happened to be an adoptee, my cautionary alarm bells went off. That good old “Proceed With Caution” sign popped up in front of me.

I listened intently as she began talking about this character, the lawyer, representing the main character of the book. This particular client, and case, which Is the story line of the book, had begun to trigger in this woman the usual, adoptee, identity issues. Who was her birthmother, and where had she come from?

I wasn’t quite sure where my aunt was headed with this conversation as she relayed the usual adoptee story line of letters sent, birthmother wanting no contact, adoptee finding out who birthmother was, birthmother telling adoptee she didn’t want anything to do with adoptee, adoptee showing up on doorstep needing answers, and finding out birthmother was raped. I was still cautiously listening; wondering if my aunt was really just telling me about the book, or if this were going to go a direction I would prefer it didn’t go.

My aunt continued on, telling me that after the birthmother told the adoptee that she had been raped, and, as you might expect, that is why she placed her child and wanted no contact, the adoptee went home to her adoptive parents, who loved her more than anything, and of course, lived happily ever after. My aunt didn’t stop there. There was just a bit more to the story. Still sitting there wondering where this conversation was going, I could not believe my ears when my aunt, my birthmother’s sister, told me how the adoptee had come to terms with the situation an realized that, (Are you sitting down?), “Giving birth does not make you a mother.”

I could very well have misconceived the tone of my aunt’s voice when she said those words. I am fully aware of just how much my aunt has struggled with all the issues between my birthmother and me. It just sounded to me like, in her mind, she was somehow trying to reconcile my feelings towards my birthmother with the character in this book, as well as, my birthmother’s feelings towards me, though my birthmother was not raped. It’s highly possible that I was overly sensitive to this, but it also seemed to me that my aunt, the moment she said those words, realized what, exactly, she had just said, even if she might not have, totally, comprehended the depth of the meaning of it. Something in her mind clicked, and I think she recognized that she had just said to the daughter of her sister, that the fact that my birthmother, her sister, gave birth to me did not make her my mother. I could feel her confusion, and I’m fairly certain, I felt her catch her own mistake in saying it, because she knows how it feels to give birth to a child, and she knows that, even though my birthmother and I are unable to have any meaningful relationship, we still think of each other as mother and daughter, not to mention love each other.
It took a whole lot of self-control, and empathy, to bite my tongue, and fight that angry feeling inside. If you’ve read my post “The Miracle Worker?” that same angry feeling I felt when people told me my adoptive family wasn’t my “real” family, is the same feeling, and anger, that I feel when someone tells me my birth family isn’t my”family” too. I’m sure my aunt had, absolutely, no intention of hurting me, but to put it mildly, “Ouch.”

Not sure where I was going to allow this conversation to go, knowing for both of us this was dangerous ground, I carefully weighed anything I said in response, but my curiosity, and the hope that I could help my aunt understand all this adoption stuff a little better wouldn’t allow me to change the subject. I, cautiously, followed her lead down this slippery road. I could not allow her to take something she had read in a book of fiction and apply it to me, much less my birthmother.

Spoon-feeding your own birth family the reality of adoption is a tricky and interesting thing to do, but spoon-feed I tried to do. Briefly explaining how denying adoptees access to their original birth certificates is wrong, and moving on to how records were closed due to the stigma of adoption and the triad in the 60’s, led to what it was like for unwed girls back then. The conversation took on a whole new context, as my aunt began thinking about everything, and reminiscing about what it was like when she and my birthmother were teens, and becoming young women. How families treated their daughters, when they got “into trouble”, etc. She was listening, reconciling things in her mind, but I all but fell out of my chair, when I was talking about why records had been sealed, mentioning the “illegitimate” stamp, once put on birth certificates and Edna gladny’s fight to remove that, when she, very innocently, said, “Gladny was a haven for girls, who got pregnant.” To her defense, she is truly innocent in saying that. It is what she must have really believed, but I think it’s safe to say that, I have, now, completely stolen her innocence, by telling her the stories that numerous birthmothers’ have told me about their stays in maternity homes.

I was completely shocked that she really had no clue what her sister, my birthmother had really been through. My birthmother probably never told her. AS what I was telling her began to sink in, and I asked questions about my birthmother, and pointed out certain things, the light bulb began to flicker. The last thing my aunt said to me, before we were interrupted, was, “It all makes so much sense now.” There’s no doubt in my mind that my aunt is beginning to really see just how much adoption has really impacted all our lives, and the pain all the secrets, and lies, in adoption has caused.

 

Testing knowledge based on age…

This is specifically for adoptive parents and prospective adoptive parents who may stumble upon this blog.  I was told that the average age of mothers who surrender is now around 25 so that is the age I want you to base your answers from:

When you were 25…

1. Were your mom and dad alive?

2. Were both healthy and active?

3. Did either have hereditary diseases that you knew about and their age at diagnosis?

4. What about your aunts and uncles were they all alive?

5. Were they all healthy and active?

6. Did any of them have hereditary diseases that you knew about and their age at diagnosis? 

7. If any of them had passed away did you know at what age and from what?

8. Were all your grandparents alive?

9. Were they all healthy?

10. Did any of them have hereditary diseases that you knew of and the age at diagnosis?

11. Siblings?  Same questions as above.

I would be willing to bet that quite a few would not have had the answers to all these questions…

Now try answering the questions above based on your current age and knowledge.  Could you answer more and in greater detail?  Now consider how much more you may have in another 10 or 20 years…

Again, I would be willing to bet you know more now than you did at 25 because your family health history has evolved and you have become more aware of your own mortality and what you may face based on your own dna.

So just how valid do you think your childs family health history will be when your child is 50 and there are 50+ years of data that is missing?

Don’t you think it is time for change to happen?  

If you are adopting tell your adoption agency that a ‘one time’ medical history form filled out is not okay. 

If you have already adopted ask your agency how they propose you get the information if your child (at any age) is lying in a hospital bed and need current info…

Don’t bury your head in the sand and ‘hope’ it will never happen to your child.

 

The Miracle Worker?

As a young 20 something in the late 80’s, my aspirations were just like most other young women of my age and time. I had imagined myself working towards a fulfilling career, finding Mr. Right, getting married, buying a home, and having children. Basically, the “All American” dream was my goal, and it certainly wasn’t unreachable. I could easily have imagined myself working at an independent research facility, working with a team of researchers, to find causes, treatments, and possibly even cures for blinding eye diseases. Yes, I could definitely see myself working as part of a research team, which was making great strides in such a worthy cause. What I had never expected was that my position on that team would be the actual subject of the research. When, once again, I found myself at another medical center, sitting in another exam room, looking at one more doctor, it came, as a bit of a surprise to find that this was not just another doctor, doctor’s office, or doctor’s visit.

When it was suggested I see, yet, another doctor, I never imagined I was being sent to a research facility called, the Retina Foundation of the Southwest, an independent non-profit research center, focusing on finding the causes, treatments, and possible cures, for numerous blinding eye diseases. I was a bit confused as to why I was being sent to another doctor. Just how many doctors does a person with an incurable, untreatable, hereditary, eye disease need to be examined by? I wasn’t going to argue or question anything anymore. I knew my coworker was still sitting in the waiting room, and expected answers. I had the distinct feeling that, this time, I wouldn’t be given a choice in going to another doctor, as had happened with my Father when I was first diagnosed, so I resigned myself to my fate.

I was also, slowly, becoming aware of the fact that it wasn’t everyday a doctor diagnosed a patient with RP, or even had the opportunity to see a patient with RP. I was quite the center of attention that day. RP isn’t exactly a rare condition, but it sure seems to intrigue eye doctors. Some of them get a bit excited, as I would find out as the years passed and I would find the need for an eye exam and new glasses. After numerous visits to numerous optometrist, and ophthalmologist, their enthusiasm as they looked into my, RP affected, eyes, had begun to amuse me. Tired of feeling like such an enigma, I finally settled on one ophthalmologist. I would joke with him, “You should be paying me to examine my eyes.” He would always laugh and agree, “I really should.” A doctor with a sense of humor is a good thing. I wonder what he would have done had I sent him a bill?

At the RFSW, of course, there were more tests. By now, I was becoming quite the expert on field vision test, and the like. I was really getting tired, and my usual sunny disposition was getting a bit cloudy. I wanted to get all this over with, and just go home. The optimistic attitude, kindness, and compassion, of the staff did, however, make what was becoming a very, very, long, long, day a bit more bearable. Best of all, at the RFSw, the hope and confidence that progress would be made and someday, a cure found, was contagious. Doom and gloom is not my normal disposition, so I gladly hopped on board the hope train, letting their optimism rub off on me, and, with a smile, became a part of their research. It certainly wasn’t going to hurt me. Besides, pretending I didn’t have RP, hiding the fact that I did, or telling myself that it didn’t matter, was no longer a viable option, as much as I hated to admit it. Take it from me; telling yourself you “just can’t see very well” when you can’t see at all can be extremely painful at times. Trust me. (Side Note, a tip for those, who, not only may not see well, but at all: The slower you go, the less it hurts, especially when you hit the corner of a half-open door. See my post “A Smack In The Nose”. I should have taken my own advice that morning. It’s not like I didn’t know better, or hadn’t done something like that before. Geez, you would think I would learn. lol)

Knowing that there were doctors, scientists, and others actually working on finding a cure seemed to make all those mind numbing field vision test, and the like. A bit more tolerable. It’s, also, kind of cool knowing that you are a part of research that may someday help in finding a cure for RP. I can’t say the day was much fun, but knowing the results would be used for research this time, and the possibility that someday they would find a cure, seemed to make it all worthwhile.

I began to feel much better about the entire situation when the doctor explained that most likely, I would be in my 40’s when RP reached it’s final stages, and, most likely, I would never be “totally” blind. The worst I might expect is tunnel vision. Well, I could certainly live with that. That was so much better than thinking I would be totally blind someday. (Side Note: He sort of missed the boat on that one, but RP is at times unpredictable.)
When I asked about having children, he didn’t discourage me, and was surprised I had been told such a thing. Yes, RP was hereditary, but until they knew more, no one could say if any potential children I might have would also have RP. There was a chance they wouldn’t. That was just enough “not so bad” news, and all I needed to hear to convince me RP wouldn’t change any of my plans, goals, or dreams for my future; too much. I could adjust. Whew! What a relief! I felt much better.

At the RFSW, things had begun to look up for me. They just needed a little more information after that, I could go home, and put this behind me, until next year, when I would come back so they could monitor the progress of my RP. A battery of boring test once a year for research purposes wasn’t that bad. I could live with that. Bring on the questions. I needed to get home and get on with my life. It was all going to be O.K. Thanks to the RFSW, I had been given hope.

When they said they just had a few questions, I thought nothing of it. When the first question was in regards to my “family medical history”, though my first thought was of the family I had grown up in, I didn’t flinch, or even give it any consideration, when I simply stated, “I don’t know.” Having known all my life I was adopted, and never expecting to know anything about my biology, it seemed like a simple enough answer. I had never given the question any thought, and no one had ever asked before, but somehow, I knew which family she was asking about.

The expression on the staff member’s face, who had asked the question, caught me by surprise. For some reason, I began to feel a bit like I had said something wrong, so I added, “I was adopted.” She looked a bit confused, and excused herself with an “I’ll be right back.”

You might think I would have caught on by now, since the last thing I had discussed with the doctor was having children and the possibility of passing RP on to them, but the importance of the words “hereditary”, “family medical history”, and my biological parents and family, still hadn’t connected in my mind. It all struck me as a bit odd. Why had she left? Where did she go, and what was up with that look? I couldn’t help it if I was adopted and didn’t know anything about my biological family. It wasn’t like being adopted was something out of the ordinary. Children were adopted everyday, weren’t they?

Growing up, it wasn’t like I was oblivious to being adopted. I heard the comments from others about not “really” being related to my family, and other stupid things people say about adoption and adoptees. I can’t say those things hadn’t stung, no matter what the intentions of the person making the remark had been. What person likes hearing another point out, or imply, that you are, in some way, not a part of the only family you’ve ever known? It hurt, and it made me mad when I heard such things. The fact that I was adopted never mattered, at least not to my parents, and not to me, so who cared if I was adopted?

This time, however, for some reason, inside, it was more than the usual awkward, and uncomfortable, feelings I had felt in the past that always passed quickly. This time, it felt different, though I wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was that look? Something had struck a nerve inside me, but I had no words to name the feelings I felt at that moment. The feelings confused me, and I had no idea of how to react to them, much less, deal with them. This time, something was different, and I didn’t like this feeling.

It had seemed like forever, when finally, the staff member came back in the room, with the doctor in tow. The “Houston, we have a problem” look on his face made me even more uncomfortable, and a bit defensive, when he inquired of me again, “You were adopted?” I began to feel a bit like a bad schoolgirl, who had just been caught by the principal, doing something I shouldn’t have been doing. What had previously, in my life, been nothing more than a curious wonderment, in my mind, meaning my birth family, was now, apparently a problem, and an issue, something important? Why were they looking at me like that, and why did I feel bad about it? What was going on here?

Facing the reality that RP was probably going to impact my life in more significant ways than I had originally wanted to admit, was one thing. Being slapped in the face with the reality of my adoption, and its significance to me, on top of that was not a place my mind was prepared to go. I listened as the doctor gently, explained the importance of finding out whom, or if, anyone in my biological family had RP. I understood as he explained it was a major, determining factor in the possibility of passing it on to any children I might have. I just didn’t understand what, exactly, I was expected to do about any of it. I didn’t know anything about my biology, and never would.

It, apparently, was just me that was clueless, because the doctor was already working on how we would get this information. All I could do was sit there trying to absorb what was happening to me. How do you put it into words, what it feels like when you’ve just been slammed with the reality of adoption, when you didn’t know there was a reality to adoption, nor did you really want to? How does being diagnosed with RP, a visit to a retinal specialist, and being sent to a research facility turn into me searching for my birth family, when my birth family, not to mention the significance of their relationship to me, still hadn’t even crossed my mind, much less, had the chance to be absorbed by my mind?

As a young 20 something, woman of the 80’s, I can tell you for a fact that being diagnosed with a hereditary eye disease, called Retinitis Pigmetosa, had not been part of my future plans. Finding myself the focus of study for a research facility trying to find the cause, treatment, and a cure for RP, had, also, not been in my future plans. Even after the reality of those two facts, and having a doctor explain the importance of knowing my family medical history, would you believe that reuniting with my birth family, was not even a thought, much less a concept, and certainly not part of my plans for my future? Wasn’t reuniting with birth family supposed to be impossible for an adoptee of the closed era? Could RP really be the miracle worker that would open the, always and forever, closed-door of my sealed records? It didn’t matter at the time. My mind just didn’t want to go there, so it didn’t.

Note: The Retina Foundation of the Southwest website can be found at http://www.retinafoundation.org. More information on research and treatment for RP can be found at http://www.blindness.org.

 

Second class citizens

A donor conceived woman has taken the Province of British Columbia to the BC Supreme Court and the judge ruled September 15, 2010 that the trial could proceed.  BC has open records for adoptees and in this case she is arguing that the adoption act is unconstitutional as it discriminates against donor conceived, I’m not a lawyer but it seems like the logical process to include donor conceived in the Act and will not impact adoptees adversely if she wins.

I hope the link and the video in the link below works.

“Children have ‘fundamental’ right to father’s identity, sperm donor trial hears” story.html 

The story also ran in the local papers and the comments show the same level of animosity to the donor conceived as adoptees trying to change laws receive.

Nanaimo-born woman’s search for sperm-donor dad goes to court story.html#Comments

Please let me know if the links do not work…

 

 

What if…

There have been quite a few celebrities who have come forward in recent years confirming they placed a child for adoption.  Most recent news is about Rod Stewart but he is only the latest…

What if all the celebrities who placed a child for adoption stood up and said all adult adoptees deserve the right to their Original Birth Certificate…

That they never asked for confidentiality…

That they were never afraid we would come knocking…

That we deserve the same right as every other individual to know where we came from…

What would happen if they asked their fans to support legislation to open our adoption records and give us our Original Birth Certificates…

Just imagine if all their fans wrote to the state governments asking why we don’t have the same rights as everyone else…and if their reps want their vote next time to make it happen today.

 

and then the lights went out…

As I sat in front of the computer doing my normal morning blog rounds of my favorite adoption related blogs, drinking my dark strong coffee, reading the latest thoughts and words from other adoptees and parents on both sides, nodding my head in agreement, a series of crackles and pops fills the air followed by total blackness.  I reach over to open the curtains but realize it is dark outside too, and as that realization dawns on me a sliver of fear snakes its way down my spine.  Where are the flashlights?  I vaguely remember putting that little book-light away in the cupboard in the dining room.

I stand up and push my chair back away from my desk and fumble towards the door as another thought randomly hits my mind, how many steps before I hit the book-case, what if I hit it too hard and it crashes down on me?  I reach the bookcase and gingerly sidestep over to the door and out into the hallway where I am more comfortable, a hall I have gone down so many times in the last seven years in the dark so I do not wake up my hubby.  I turn the corner towards the kitchen and another thought flashes into my mind – did I lock the back door after I put the dogs out this morning? – that sliver of fear just grew bigger – it makes no sense because I wasn’t worried about it not being locked before the lights went out.  I walk across the kitchen to the door and my hand reassured me that yes, it is locked.  I turn and move towards the dining room – to the cupboard – to light…

I reach the cupboard and fumble around the shelves searching by feel for the light.  I realize just how unorganized I have become and vow to change that.  I find the light, relief, but short-lived, my brain cannot figure out how to turn it on, my mind is blank.  I turn and move towards the living room, hoping hubby has left the lighter on the table.  I curse Big Puppy as I step/slip/slide over a ball and then another…finally I reach the table and cautiously move my hand over the table, vividly aware of the half-drunk cup of coffee hubby always leaves on the table as he heads off to work.  I find the lighter, I have light, I find the switch on the book-light, right there in plain as the nose on my face, I switch it on. I can see!

I move over to the window and scan my street – no one has electricity so I find the phonebook and go into the hall to the old rotary telephone to call the power company.  I am prompted to press 1 for residential or 2 for business which does not work with rotary phones, prompted again, and then finally a real person answers my call.  The nice lady cheerfully tells me the estimated wait time is 2.5 hours…I thank her and hang up and then realize my coffee cup was empty just before the power went off.  I stand there trying to figure out what I will do without electricity for 2.5 hours, how that will impact my day, what I can do while waiting and realize I can read.  I go get my latest book by Kathy Reichs – 206 Bones and settle into a chair by the window armed with my trusty book-light and then realize I probably don’t want to be reading a very scary book in the dark. 

So instead I sat there thinking of my blogging partner and just how much her world was impacted when she lost her sight.  I have dealt with power outages before, but they are few and far between.  This time scared me badly and I KNEW IT WAS TEMPORARY…and I wished my friends sight loss was only temporary too.