It was so hot that day. Maybe in some parts of the country it would have been considered normal, but near the Canadian border the temperature in the high 90s was the melt-the-bottoms-off-your-shoes brand of weather. And I'm still not sure if it was the heat that day or if the wait had simply been long enough. All I knew was that on this day, August 20, 1970, I was going to meet my mother... one way or another.
It was around 10 AM. when the feeling came over me. I began making phone calls to see if someone would drive me the 21 miles to where she lived. No answer, no answer, no answer. I had nearly exhausted my list when I heard a voice on the other end of the line. But it may as well have been another no answer. They apologized, but they couldn't take me either. "Where there's a will, there's a way," rang through the deafening silence in my head. Nothing was going to stop me, nothing.
Growing up knowing I was adopted was not a pleasant experience for me. My natural mother had come upon hard times. It was the late 40s. There was no such thing as being a single parent in those days. Unless your spouse was dead, a woman raising children on her own was branded with other belittling, demeaning, dehumanizing names. It is only the recent past that has allowed the stigma to be lifted somewhat.
So when she discovered that she was pregnant for me, and already having had one child with a man who she believed would one day marry her, her world was shattered when he just walked away without so much as a goodbye. Being young with no job skills left her in a precarious position.
As much as she hated it she went to Social Services for help. There wasn't the focus on the family at that time. So they placed my brother and me into foster care. The one thing they did correctly though was that they kept us together, well, for as long as they deemed fit, that is. He was a year and a half and I was two months old when we entered foster care.
From all I have heard we were happy children. The family who took us had three girls and had taken in many foster children over the years. At this time in their lives they were considering adopting. Caring for children only to end up letting them go was becoming too much to bear. They had done their jobs well, but they desired a son to whom they could pass on their name. In the ensuing months they began thinking about adopting my brother. But they had three daughters and really didn't want another girl which left me out in left field, so to speak.
Inside of seven months they had convinced Child Welfare to approach my mother about adoption. The agency was more concerned with placement than keeping families together at that time. And their handling of the matter was less than kind to boot. Any contact they had with my mother was nothing more than a string of strong arm tactics. In the end she was forced to sign the papers to release herself of all parental rights and we were then allowed to be adopted. Unable to produce proof of a continuous income and adequate housing was her downfall. But even as she signed the papers, she felt that perhaps it was indeed the best decision when she considered all the factors involved.
So near my brother's birthday in March of 1950, he was adopted by his new family. By April I was fostered out into another family. His new parents ended their long line of foster children and began their new life with their new son. I was placed with a family who lived less than a mile from them. In the end they would adopt me, but I was not their first choice.
I was a sickly child being born prematurely at five months. I was not expected to live to see my first birthday. I suffered from anemia and had rickets. According to my adoptive mother, Child Welfare had told her not to worry if I passed away. I can remember her saying time and time again that Child Welfare told her that "if I died they would bury me."
Sometimes we repeat stories not so much out of recall of events, but because we have heard them so many times they 'feel' like memories. I like to call them Spoken Memories. They are the stories you heard so many times as a kid that you feel like you remember them. And besides, your parents told them, so they must be true, right? I'm not so sure any more. But the aforementioned story and many others will be sprinkled throughout the rest of this story. I hope the end result will be a deeper understanding of who I am and why I think certain ways and also why I hold the word 'family' so near and dear to my heart.
As I said, it was blisteringly hot that day. The Dog Days of summer were in full swing and yet it couldn't have been a more perfect day.
Having had found no ride I decided (in my urgency) to hitchhike the 20-some miles. I believed it wouldn't take that long. I knew the first leg of the trip would be easy enough. It was the trek over the mountain that might be tricky. But with a childlike faith I proceeded to the nearest highway to begin my quest. As I stood there with my thumb out the spoken memories all competed for attention. I had so many questions and no answers. Would the end of this day provide any? Only God knew and He wasn't telling.
After only a few minutes a car stopped and the guy asked where I was going. I told him and he gestured for me to hop in. Less than 20 minutes later I was standing at the bottom of the mountain. I thanked him for the ride and he turned left making his way to another town.
The trip up the mountain was not something a sane person would attempt. The shoulder of the road was not very wide and the road twisted and turned. A pedestrian could be overlooked and possibly killed. And being a good mile to the top was an endeavor even truly fit people would find challenging. I looked up at that road and knew I couldn't make it. Traffic was skimpy but maybe someone would take pity on me. An hour later I was still standing there.
As I was about to give up and cross the road to head back to my hometown a truck pulled over to the side of the road. I ran to it feeling it was my last hope. After I got in I told the man I was sure no one was ever going to pick me up. He laughed as he told me he would never let anyone walk the mountain. Less than five minutes later I was standing at the intersection of the road my mother lived on.
Back in the day there were no secret adoptions in our area. If you adopted someone's child most times you were still allowed to visit them albeit as an 'aunt' or 'uncle.' That didn't happen in my family, but I heard about such things later in life. In any event, my adopted family would go for Sunday drives and now and then we would travel this road. I can't remember a time when I didn't know where my biological mother lived. I would always look at that big farmhouse and wish I could jump out of the car to go see her. Even a glimpse of her would have given me hope. But that never happened... until now.
The house was less than a mile from that intersection. I could walk that in no time in spite of the heat. It was on the left around a bend. As you cleared the bend there was a field and at the end of the field was the house set back from the road a bit with the barn in the back. It was farm country, but to me it was paradise.
As I approached the bend I felt my heart quicken and my stomach begin to churn. What if she wasn't home? What if she was and didn't want to see me? The spoken memories began their litany of lies. "She never wanted you," I had been told. "She tried to abort you," the lies went on. "She's no good," they kept on screaming. But all that did was make me more determined. I wouldn't believe it until I saw it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears.
As if the heavens felt sorry for me the skies began to cloud up. I heard thunder-boomers in the distance. But with the cloudiness I felt the air cool down a bit. I kept walking.
I could see the house now. As I got closer I realized that she sure had a way with flowers. There were flower beds all around the front of the house. It was funny I had never noticed that before. I guess I had been preoccupied. My mind raced the closer I got and my head felt like it was about to explode. But I wouldn't let that deter me.
There was a young girl playing in the yard. She was skipping and having fun. She didn't notice me until I was nearly at the end of the driveway. I guessed her to be about eight years old. I love the old days. She came right out to the road to meet me. There was no fear, no hesitation. As I stood there face to face with her I felt as though everything was surreal. Looking at her was like looking into a mirror just twelve years before. It's as if she were a carbon copy of me.
I felt like running away. But there was no place to go. And although she came right up to me she was very shy. I asked her if this is where Anna lived. She said yes. And then I asked if she was home. Another yes. She took my hand and began to lead me to the house. I felt like I was going to pass out or throw up or something. The trip down that short driveway felt like what I imagined the trek up the mountain would be like. We passed the front of the house to use the back door. One of the spoken memories reminded me that friends always use the back door and I felt my heart leap.
She let go of my hand to open the door. I held the screen door as she went inside yelling for her Mama. "Someone's here to see you," I heard her squeal in delight. I doubt I will ever forget the image as my mother's body came to fill the doorway. I looked at her. She looked at me. It was a moment suspended in time for all eternity.
"Come in, come in," she said, waving her hand to me to not let the flies in. My legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds each and didn't want to move. But somehow I found myself inside. She walked over to me and we hugged for what seemed like forever. "I am so glad to finally see you," she whispered in my ear. I cried those never ending tears. If she had told me to leave at that point it would have been all right. But God's perfect plan would not allow for that today.
As we broke from the eternal hug I noticed tears streaming down her face too. The little girl was bewildered, but my mother was not explaining anything just yet. She told her my name (I hadn't introduced myself) and that I was someone she had not seen in a very, very long time. She motioned for her to go continue her play, she ran out on her way to feed her imagination and we were left alone.
It was nearing 3 PM. and she was preparing dinner. The tribe would be home soon she declared. I had four half-brothers and sisters. I couldn't wait to meet them. As I look back, it was the most joyful hour I have ever spent in my life, just me and my Mama. It was a time of knowing truths that I had always believed in and finding a sense of confidence inside that faith.
By 4:15 the house was a-flutter with the sounds of children. It wasn't chaotic but rather an ordered pandemonium. Each one knew their task, even the youngest at five, and they all set about to get things done. At 4:25 the table was set and everyone just stood there waiting. At 4:30, her husband came in. He said not a word and sat at the table. We each took our seat and bowed our heads for grace. She introduced me and he simply nodded.
At dinner's end she led me to the living room where we all sat and said the rosary. When it was finished the children cleaned up the kitchen and her husband went out the back door. My head and stomach had calmed down and I felt a wonder inside at how peaceful and quiet this house was with all the people in it. It was nothing like I had ever experienced before.
Around 7:30 PM. she excused herself and set about getting the children off to bed. Her husband came back in, puttered around before taking leave to who knows where. Again, he never said a word to me.
A little while later she returned and all was very quiet. She had brought something with her but I wasn't sure what it was. She sat down on the couch next to me and told me she had something to show me.
There were two albums, one red and one blue. They were the old fashioned type of photo albums, the cover in leather, black pages, and the photos had those little 'corners' that you would paste on the page and insert the photos. Inscribed on the covers of both was the word "Memories" in an elegant golden script. I found myself so excited. I was going to see my family. Oh, how I wished this night would never end!
She reached for the red one first, but I was not prepared for what I was about to see. As she opened the cover I saw the words "My Daughter" across the top of the open page. One photo graced each page, large as life. I turned to look at her. My confusion was evident. The pictures were of me!
Within the pages of that album were myriad pictures of me, mostly school pictures. There were copies of report cards, incidents of illnesses, awards achieved, copies of newspaper articles that mentioned my name, and even a picture of me in my Marine uniform. My life... documented.
As we finished the album, she picked up the blue one. It was the same except it was about my brother who had also been adopted out. It had to be the most amazing experience of my life.
When our trip down memory lane concluded she told me the story of how she was coerced into giving us up by Social Services. She assured me that if there had been any other way, she would have had us with her no matter what. And that after considering all the people involved and all the unknown factors, that perhaps it was best to leave us in the care of others. I now had all my answers. I knew the truth. I could move on with my life and hope for better times. My 'spoken memories' were myth if not downright lies. I learned that sometimes people have to make other people small so they can feel large. It was a tough lesson to learn.
Seemingly timed very well, her husband entered the room. She asked if I had a way back home. I did not. She asked her husband if he would take me and he agreed. As he went out the back door she put her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. "You may not have been with me, but I never stopped loving you... ever," she said with tears running down her face. Once again we embraced in the never ending hug. I felt as though if I died today, my life would have been complete.
Although my trip earlier in the day took nearly three hours, the trip back home took forever. He wouldn't speak and I really had nothing to say. I was too overwhelmed with all I had just experienced. As we approached my house he finally broke the silence. "Why did you have to come back into our lives? We're going to have to tell the kids now. Who do you think you are to just show up like that? Don't come back.
My new world shattered around me as I ran into my house. I sobbed for hours. How could he? How could he?
Life has its way with you sometimes whether you admit it or not. And although his words bit sharply, he could never take away what Mama and I had shared that day. I held onto those images. I relived that day over and over in my mind. Nothing he could say would ever make that go away. He had no idea of the suffering I had gone through just to get to that day.
The next few months were bittersweet for me. I met a man that I would marry the following year. He had a large family, seven brothers and one sister. So many times I wished I could share my family with him. But I had been told. "Don't come back." And I never go where I'm not welcome. By November we were living together planning our wedding for the following June.
Back then the local newspaper would print a list of names of people admitted to the hospital each day. I always thought that was a homey thing to do. Sometimes we lose touch with people and if they are sick it's a nice way to reconnect. On November 8th, I saw my mother's name in the admissions list. I was half crazy. I may not be welcome at his home, but it would take more than him to keep me out of a public hospital. The next day I went to see her.
There was a woman there who could have been her twin. It was her sister, Ellie, who would become my greatest advocate. My mother was so very sick. They really didn't know what the problem was. Doctors said she had pneumonia and they were scheduling surgery. I was young. I didn't know.
I went to visit her every day. As time passed her condition worsened. She was on heavy duty pain killers. Some days she knew me, others she didn't. The following weeks I was stressed to the max. I met other people in my travels there too. She came from a large family herself and during that time span I got to meet all of her siblings but one. He lived in Arizona. And then there was the endless procession of nieces and nephews that I would come to know as family down the line.
The winter was bad that year. I lived 20 miles away but made it there almost every day. In February I went to see her but she didn't know me on that day. She was delirious. She thought I was my Aunt Ellie. To this day I remember her words. "Tell Sally I never forgot her. Tell her I never stopped loving her."
I think it was then that I knew she wouldn't get better, but even so, the denial was so deep that I couldn't admit it to myself. I decided to call my brother. Whereas I never believed the things I was told about her, he bought the whole package hook, line and sinker. So I decided to lie to him. I told him she was dying. And that if he didn't want to spend the rest of his life regretting it, he should at least grant a dying woman one of her last wishes. And that was to see him before she died.
To my utter amazement he actually went. The next day I went to visit her and she was fully lucid but crying. "Look," she said amidst the tears. "Look who came to see me." She was clutching a picture in a frame close to her chest. It was the family portrait he had just had done. She was so happy. We sat there and cried together.
But as February is, the weather got really nasty for a few days before Valentine's Day. I made it most days but the roads were impassable on Valentine's Day itself. Twenty inches of snow had dumped itself on the whole east coast and power was off in many places. So I missed Valentine's Day.
The following day I went armed with card, candy and roses to visit her. I got to her room but she wasn't there. I thought there was more testing or who knows what. So I sat to wait for her. Her roommate was asleep so I didn't bother her.
About 20 minutes into the wait a nurse came in to take the roommate's vitals and asked what I was doing. I told her I was waiting. She asked, "Do you mean Anna?" I said yes. Whereupon she very rudely informed me that "SHE died this morning." I leaped from the chair, the roses, candy and card went flying and I announced, "SHE was my MOTHER!"
I don't remember leaving the hospital. I don't remember how I knew where my Aunt Ellie lived. All I know is that I needed someone to tell me it wasn't true. But when I pulled up to her house and saw all the cars I knew that my heart would be forever broken.
I felt cheated and I was angry at God. How could He? I had six months with her and three of those were spent seeing her in the hospital. How could a person in this day and age die of pneumonia?
As it turns out it was her wish to not inform me of the horrible truth. She had lung cancer and wished to spare me that knowledge. I call her stay in the hospital the last 100 days. That's how long she was there. When she entered the hospital she weighed 175 pounds. When she died she weighed 72 pounds. The cancer had literally eaten her alive.
The next few days are a blur. I learned many things in those days. My Aunt Ellie was my saving grace. She fought to have me and my brother recognized as first family so we could ride in the family cars at the funeral. The husband was not pleased but he chose not to fight back. In the end, it was all as it was supposed to be.
I look back on that horrible time and I see things more clearly now. It's not crystal clear. I don't suppose it ever will be. But I wonder about some things.
What made it so urgent for me to visit her on that August day in the sweltering heat? It isn't like I had been thinking about it for days or weeks or months. It was a child's dream that had come to fruition. But why then? And why so very urgent? I'd like to think it was God coaxing me. That gives me comfort.
And then there's the matter of just going there. I was brought up with manners. Even to this day I ask people to please call before they drop in. But on that day I just went. No call, no hint of warning.
It never occurred to me that she might just turn me away. She could have just as easily as not. Instead I was welcomed with open arms... literally. How wonderful is that?
And were it not for her illness, I may have never known all the wonderful things I know about her today. I may have never met my Aunt Ellie who was a fountain of knowledge and who lovingly shared every tidbit she could remember with me.
Were it not for my sudden urge, I may have never known who my biological father is. I may have never known the truth concerning the 'real' reason for her giving us up. Her husband... the one who told me never to come back... he wanted to marry her. He was much older than her. His first wife had died and left him with several children. The oldest was not all that much younger than my mother. But he told her he would not raise someone else's bastards. It was us or him. And believing with all her heart that we would be well taken care of, she let us go. I never resented her for doing that. Not ever. All I wanted was just to know her.
The husband's children from his first family never accepted my mother. They made her life a living hell. But Aunt Ellie told me that she believed it was her punishment for having children out of wedlock and she couldn't forgive her self.
I used to hear "You're just like your mother." And you know what? In many ways I am, thank God. She was a loving, caring person who gave up what she valued most because she believed it was the best and right thing to do. I wonder how many would do the same?
In conclusion... there is the matter of the albums. For years I wondered who sent all that information to my mother. I asked my adopted mother but I won't print here what she had to say. I knew it wasn't her. And so I contacted my brother's parents. They told me they didn't do it either.
I was sitting and thinking about school one day. I had a teacher who always favored me. She was my first grade teacher. By the time I reached high school, she was teaching special class then. I joined Future Teachers of America and was assigned to her. Through the years, every year she would somehow contact me. Had I continued writing? Had I been sick? Had I won any awards?
That got me to thinking. So in 1986 long after she had retired, I looked up her name in the phone book and invited her out to eat. Her health issues prevented that from happening but she graciously invited me to her home for brunch. I asked her about the albums. She became very quiet.
"I knew I could get in trouble sticking my nose into things that didn't really concern me," she said. "But I knew your household was very bad. Back then there weren't the laws there are now. Suspicions didn't matter. But I always felt your mother had the right to know how you were doing."
Full circle. It was now complete
I harbored resentments for years over my life as an adoptee. It's a good thing that people are now screened more efficiently. Even so, some still fall through the cracks.
I have always wished for children in my life. I was never so blessed. And being adopted you may wonder why I never did that. Well, my life was a mess and I knew it. God gave me the sense to know not to drag someone else through my own heartache. I have left out major parts of my life as an adoptee. That isn't what this story is about. Perhaps another time... another topic.
Today's story is a celebration of life and love... a mother's love. Although my time with her was brief, it has left an impression on me that will never fade. Isn't that what mothers do? Until we meet again, Mama, I have memories... real ones, not the spoken ones.
No... we didn't have a normal, traditional relationship. That wasn't in the cards for us. We never did those girly things. I never got to tell you secrets or about that special boy in my life. You never got to see me graduate. And you didn't get a chance to cry at my wedding (any of them).
On the other hand, you were spared the pain of seeing me in the throes of alcoholism and drug addiction. You never had to endure as I went through episode after episode of domestic violence, nearly dying once. And you never had to see me give up on life and try to take my own life.
No, we didn't get to do a lot of things that perhaps many people take for granted. My greatest regret is that I didn't get a chance to see you grow old. I felt resentment for so very long, Mama. But it weighs too heavy on the human heart. In a blast of what I consider Pure Grace, I have been relieved of that burden. I suppose people will always have regrets. These days I choose to remember what makes me feel good and alive and loved. And boy oh boy, do I have things to remember!
- I remember... the eternal hug... times two.
- I remember... leather-bound photo albums held with love.
- I remember... "Tell Sally I never forgot her. Tell her I never stopped loving her."
- I remember... a mother's love spanning distance and time.
For those of you who have mothers... Cherish them. If like me you have had one and lost her... NEVER forget. For those of you who are mothers... The lives you touch are touched forever... make them loving touches...
Happy Mother's Day, Mama...
I haven't forgotten you either.
