Sharing Truths - Part 2

Confession: I still have a few more blogs to go on the Found Book Tour, and I know more will be posted tomorrow, but I need to take a break. I'm exhausted. I'm not saying this isn't an important conversation to have - I'm saying it's very similar to the one I have in my head on a near-daily basis.

I've come across so much insight and so many thoughtful explanations of people's positions within the realm of adoption. I think the one that stands out most for me right now is this:

There is no place for the word "just" in this discussion. As in, why don't you just..... you all know how this sentence ends.

To assume that putting together a family from the remnants of another, or to plan to expand your family by bringing in someone else's genetics or womb into the mix, or to work through how and when a birth family will interact with your new one....to assume that these things are easy or fast or simple decisions, ones done without nights awake and therapists or counselors on speed dial, simply discredits everyone involved. We should start a petition to ditch that word, at least from this conversation. Who's with me?

Things I think about every night:

Origin stories. How to answer the "where do I come from?" How to explain why mommy and daddy didn't just fall in love and have you in mommy's belly like every one else....how to accurately and honestly respond to these future questions, along with ones of identity and belonging and who are my people, and are you my real mommy or not? How to ensure my own baggage doesn't get in the way of my future child's....

But what parent doesn't have baggage?
And why do I assume my future child will have baggage?

Why do I anticipate this primal wound even though I am really unclear as to where that theory fits in situations that aren't black and white. What if there were my genetics, but not my womb? What if my genetics were missing, yet I carried a child in my body? What if, as Esperanza notes, all parties are present and there is nothing but love surrounding a child when they greet the world? Now, how about this one: not my eggs, not my womb, but I've been present from conception? Wishing it so, willing it so? Where will I fit into this situation?

Hopefully, we'll see.

All of this to say, as one of the other book reviewers already have, The Primal Wound is simply way too simplistic of a concept to be helpful. I want a new theory.

I also want to take this space to elaborate on some of the comments and questions that emerged from my responses to the book. I thought about continuing this conversation in the comments, because there is such a robust discussion there, but I'm terrified that blogger will zonk out on me mid-sentence, as it is want to do. So if I stop making sense, go there, read that first, then come on back.

Like Jennifer Lauck, adoption is not a path we have chosen to explore. Not yet. Unlike her, I can't say that we won't, because I've muttered those words about surrogacy. Things change. It is very very hard to say it's not a path you would pick for yourself if it becomes the only path that is available to the one thing you want and desire more than anything in the world - to be a mother.

I wholeheartedly disagree with this statement: " I equate being adopted to being a slave." Because all children, in one way or another, are "forced to perform for the emotional needs of our keepers." It is quite an enlightened parent that has no emotional need for their child, that doesn't rely on them to fill or complete something within them. As much as you want your child to be his or her own person, you also want them to want you, to love you, to need you on some levels. This is not slavery. This defines just about every human relationship that I know. We all have needs and we all strive to be the ones that fill those needs for others.

And speaking of relationships, here is something that has struck me:

Where is the father in this conversation? Why have we given no credence to the birth father? The adopted father?

In my personal experience, my birth father was rendered just as helpless, perhaps moreso, than my birth mother. He had no say over my fate. He was forbidden to see her, or me. He could have easily forgotten about this "phase" in his young life. But he was the one that marked my birthday on his calendar for 35 years. He is the one that wept uncontrollably at our reunion. He is the one, not my birth mother, that yearned to reconnect. Desperately. And I think his place in this story should be respected and recognized, and I think he has suffered immensely throughout his life because it never was.

I cannot imagine he is alone.

I'm signing off for today using Heather's words. And she has no idea how timely the second piece of it is since M and I were just debating if it is really ok to dislike a child and think they are an asshole (my opinion: yes. We can all blog about that one later). But here's how Heather sums things up:

I think both adoptive and biological families have an equal likelihood of being fucked up, and the level of fucked-upedness very much depends on how open and honest everyone is with each other. And even with complete open-ness and honesty, some people, even kids, can just be assholes and there isn't anything you can do to stop it.

Can I get an Amen?

Thank you ALL for your respectful input into this conversation that I know is going to continue, as it should.

Sharing Truths - Found: A Memior, part of the AdoptLit Book Tour

Whoa. I didn't mean to write a novella. I really didn't. But I've been sitting on this for a while. This morning, it all came out.

Let me back up and tell you what I'm talking about: this morning, I'm taking part on the AdoptLit Book Tour hosted by the ever-lovely Lori. The selection is: Found: A Memoir

And my bit is below.

To continue to the next leg of this book tour, please visit the main list at The Open Adoption Examiner. I am really looking forward to hearing the varied perspectives here.

**

Time and time again as I was reading passages in Jennifer Lauck’s latest book Found: A Memoir, I had to put the book down, step away, breathe. At times because I felt so diametrically opposed to what the narrator was saying. Angry. Hurt. At times because the familiarity was too much to bear. On too many levels.

It is so hard to assess or critique a memoir. Harder than any piece of fiction or third party account. This is someone’s truth. How do you separate someone’s truth from the story being told and how the narration flows? How do you deduct style points from words so connected to someone’s life and essence? Can you?

In this particular instance, I can’t. So, what you’ll find here is me attempting to make sense of the myriad of emotions and reactions I felt (as a fellow adult adoptee from a closed adoption, mother of two dead children, and someone actively pursuing a family through surrogacy and donor eggs) reading and reflecting on Found: A Memoir.

Luckily, I have some questions to guide me. And I’ll get to those in just a bit.

The first 70 pages of Found were a struggle for me. I felt detached from the narrator, purposefully pushed away. And I was annoyed. Until I recognized the tactic.

The passive voice, the absence of emotion, speaking almost nonchalantly about life-changing events…this was my m.o. after we lost our daughters. It’s how I functioned when I was forced to function. “Life had been brutal to me and I’d go ahead and be brutal in return.” (28) It is that gray area between going for shock value and simply attempting to cope.

I found myself being pulled further into the story as Jenny reads through the non-identifying information of her birth parents for the first time (77). The dizziness, the room spinning, your reality completely altered but not really. Assurances, suspicions confirmed, new information revealed. Oh yes. I get that. In fact, I wrote about it here.

But just as I would develop a connection with the narrator, I would be pushed away again.

As someone who does not have living children, I felt a little dissed by the author's assertions that being a mother brings clarity that is otherwise impossible to have. Did others read this the same way? Do you agree? Disagree?

(I wonder if it’s cheating to answer your own question? I’m so eager to read how others respond to this.)

For me, the author’s voice shifts dramatically any time she is near her own children. And she states more than once that it wasn’t until she became a mother herself that she realized the loss of her own mother and need to reconnect. It’s true, my own search began after the birth of our daughters. My rationale was different:

Why are you choosing to search? I know what it is like to lose a daughter and to live with that loss every day. I would like to bring some peace and some closure to my birth parents, if I am able.

In my mind, I wasn’t the one who lost out.

The author holds motherhood, specifically to one’s own genetically linked children, as sacred. I wonder for someone who has experienced so much loss and deprivation if she realizes what a place of privilege she is speaking from? At these points in the book I read the tone as condescending (if I were a mother, I’d understand…) and felt my loss and inability to be a mother acutely. It stung. And made me resentful. These were the times I had to remind myself over and over again: this is not MY story. This is not my truth. It is hers.

And this is where discussing a memoir is so damn tough. Because just as I decide, “that’s it. I’m done,” I read a passage like the one on page 105 when Jenny’s adopted friend simply can’t understand why she wouldn’t want to search for her birth mom too:

“I bet your mother is waiting for you too.”
“What if she’s not?”

Yes, what if she’s not?

If a first mother is not willing to have contact with her child or adoptive family, is it prudent to attempt to compel the first mother into an open relationship?

It’s hard to read Jenny’s birth mom here – her intentions, her emotions. All we can see is what Jenny wants her to be. How the narrator perceives these things. It’s the only filter we have. Did Catherine really want a reunion or was she coerced into it? Guilted into it? Or is she far more complex than outward appearances? We can only wonder, just as the narrator does.

My truth is that my birth mother would rather not see me. She knows I’m looking. She’s spoken with the agency social worker and said, yeah, um, no thanks. Her rationale? I was told she’s a counselor and knows “reunions are never what either party wants them to be. They can never meet expectations. I would rather know she’s ok and leave it at that.” That’s what I was told.

Again, just like Jenny’s mom, who knows what else lurks beneath the surface. Shame? A desire to forget? Regret? Simply not wanting a life to be disrupted? I don’t, I can’t know.

My birth father, who was overjoyed to meet me, can’t understand why I’m not furious. I can’t explain it. I get it. In fact, I kind of like her more? Because it feels like something I would do. God, what an asshole.

In fact, the more stories I hear about her, the photos I see, the things I pick up from her once lover, my birth father, convince me that we are probably 100% alike.

And would probably annoy the shit out of each other. Because we’re like that. (I think)

Back to the question: I don’t think anyone should be compelled into a relationship they don’t want. What is the value? Beginning with a tone of obligation? Compliance? These are emotions I hate most in any family dynamic. I would never want to be the source of them. Here’s what I think is non-negotiable: non-identifying information, health records, a name – your name, the one you had when you were born.

As to reunions, man they are hard. No matter how you slice them. There is the initial honeymoon, that moment you have been looking for your entire life , almost immediately followed by a shitload of questions and existential angst, and then, alas, the dénouement aka, the let down.

While my birth mom said no thanks, my birth father said oh yes please and let’s be best friends and you can come over, right? It was all a little much. There was no time spent “building bridges of trust” (202) no caution taken. (did I mention the time he pointed out the park he and my BM used to have some fun, heh heh heh? Cringe.) But we’re getting past that now.

The centerpiece of a reunion isn’t necessarily the people whose loins you’ve passed through. For me, it was getting to know my birth aunt. For Jenny, it seems as if that connection was made with her sister. There is a knowing. “This is the way my people are” (212) that just might make it worth it.

The detachment, anger and loss I read in the author's voice at times made me question my own pursuit of a child that will not be genetically linked to me. For others who have or may be pursuing parenthood through adoption or third party reproduction, did anything in the book give you pause? Make you question how your family has come together?

Again, disclaimer, I’m answering my own question. For me, the answer is hell yes. I grew really tired of hearing about the Primal Loss and irreparable damage. As my non-adopted husband constantly reminds me, “we’re all damaged, babe.”

Issues around identity, origin, connectedness – I think about this shit nonstop, as I am sure many, many people who have built families through nontraditional means do. I believe there is a balance between recognizing and honoring origins and finding a space of love and acceptance in a family that is not genetically yours. These things can co-exist. I believe this. I HAVE to believe this.

A passage that gave me chills was when Jenny and Catherine are looking at one of Jenny’s baby photo – one where she’s “stiff-arming” her adopted mom. (195) Holy shit. This is something I do even now. Try to hug me when I’m not down with it, you’ll feel my entire body go rigid. My jaws clench. Uninvited physical contact = shudder. Step off homey, you don’t know me like that. But wait, are you saying this is because I’m adopted? That I’ve been trained to do this from day one? I’m a little incredulous at that assumption. I think I just don’t like other people touching on me.

But still, the stiff arm. It is a monumental fear. Hell, I’ve even dreamt about it.

It’s the constant wonder – what if I don’t pass the test?

If there were any doubts left about how the author really feels about adoption, she lays it out in the Endnote. Is this a full on condemnation of adoption? Is there no scenario in which an adopted child grows up totally normal? Are you telling me I was screwed the moment the docs plucked me? Are my non-genetically linked future maybe children destined to the same fate?

I can’t, I won’t, believe it.

Found: A Memoir is Jenny Lauck’s truth. I can honor her story and her expression of it. I can also share with you a little bit of mine.

Thank you, Jenny, for being open to this conversation.

Reunited and it feels so.....hmm...

Can I get back to you on that?

Yesterday was the day we met my bio dad, his mom, sister and her husband for the very first time. Like, ever.

This I know: I am in love with two feisty, loving, awesome, sassy, smart, funny Jersey ladies. I mean, in full-on love. These are my girls.

That guy that contributed to my birth. Hmm. I'm really gonna have to get back to you on that.

To say I'm still processing it all isn't really true. It's about as processed as its going to get. But perhaps my opinion will get a bit kinder if I sit on it for a while. Mull it over. Talk it through with some folks. A conversation we had with a friend this morning and what he had to say about our recounting of the day actually did give me more food for thought. Maybe I just need some more food for thought.

I could recount all of the things he did/said that made we wince/cringe/roll my eyes/run to the bathroom and text M. (who was there with me, BTW), but then I look like the dick. "Oh m," you might say, "that's not that bad," you could say. Perhaps not, but the culmination of constant foot-in-mouthness (seriously, your jaw would drop) added to the non-stop not pronouncing my name correctly after repeated corrections multiplied by the doing everything that annoys me (please stop repeating yourself and the same stories, please stop adding emphatic footnotes of familial ties anytime you mention someone's name - "oh and so and so, you know, your mother" - yeah. dude I get it and by the way, please STOP TOUCHING ME) contrasted with the absolute wonderfulness of the rest of the family, JFC, I just couldn't take it.

And sure, I bet he was nervous as HELL. And yes, I have been told I can be a little, um, intimidating. And perhaps I was already ready for a rumble based on some previous phone conversations. But dammit, if this is the day you've waiting for your whole life, could you put on a fucking clean t-shirt and pull the cigarette out of your mouth for a goddamn minute? First impressions? Hello? And oh, someone should probably have given you the memo: don't be needy. I fucking can't stand needy.

But let's get back to the bright side: I learned a lot. Namely, I am my mother's daughter, with perhaps a bit of the women from his family added in for spice and sassy. I learned my mother's name. Saw where she lived. Saw a photo. Which is now mine. Learned that not only do my bio dad and I have nothing physical in common, we are about as far apart cerebrally as two people could get. I am tempted once again to add specific examples here but I won't. There's no need.

I think you get the picture.

So, am I sorry we did this? Fuck. No. See my first paragraphs. I now have some amazing new people in my life. And time to figure out that other one. This was all a lot to take in. A lot. Maybe we just need a little more time.

And shit. Time is one thing I have.

In No Particular Order

• How are we ever going to find a house if nothing I see is bigger/nicer/better than the apartment we rent now?
• Does searching for a house now make sense, or is it completely ridiculous? Does waiting to see whether or not a child is in the future seem more prudent, or does it relegate yet one more aspect of our lives into that "wait and see" category thereby stunting any development? Keeping it static and unknown?
  
• Do I even want a house? If so, why? (note: so I can have a place to store a real kayak is not an adequate response)
  
• What is so wrong with renting? Particularly if the rental property is quite tony if I do say so myself?
• How will I reinvent my creation myth if/when I find that I have nothing in common with my birth father? When I confirm that he is far more similar to my adopted parents than I ever would have expected?
  
• Where did I come from?
• When will M. shake this constant state of anxiety he has placed himself in? Will it fade once his boss returns from her ill-timed honeymoon, or has he made the conscious choice to engulf himself in work indefinitely since "it's all I got."
  
• Does planning your wedding/honeymoon to coincide with the busiest time of the year at your office make you: a.) selfish b.) clueless c.) brilliant? Discuss.
• Will our next IVF cycle ever happen? When?
• Am I truly this unhappy in my current workplace, or have I created a scapegoat for other issues?
  
• Is my "one year plan" to pull myself out of my boss' (very, very large and imposing) shadow sensible and long-awaited, or terribly ill-timed and irrational?
  
• Can I live with being in the exact same place/position/role 10 years from now? If so, then staying will be fine.
  
• Why have I waited so long to question her authority? (answer: because I am lazy)
  
• Why have I not reached out to a.) a potential surrogate b.) the grief counselor I said I would find c.) the life/career coach my colleague highly recommended?
• am I "getting the most out of" this cycle-free time or am I simply not taking care of myself? Does this make me feel better/worse? Discuss.
• Does a bottle of wine a night between two healthy, able-bodied adults seem excessive to non-Americans? Why do I feel slightly guilty for this habit?
  
• If I care so little about my current job, why am I working on Labor Day? (answer: because there are some people there that I DO care about very much and to not would leave them in the lurch when I go to Delaware later this week to see my parents.)
• How, exactly, do I plan to tell my parents that I have found my birth father, spoken to him twice, and plan to see him, his sister and his mother in November?
• How weird is it that I think my birth father and my brother could be best friends?
  
• How should I tell my brother about finding my birth father? Should I? (yes. I think yes.) Should I do this before or after I tell my parents?
  
• Why is it that I think finding my birth father will bring me closer to my adopted parents rather than what they fear? How will I allay those fears?
  
• Why am I suddenly feeling so defensive about my birth father? My adopted parents?
  
• When did I phase into this latest phase of grief - the one where images and emotions from the past seem to jump out and into my mind seemingly out of nowhere and then disappear just as fast? They are nightmare visions, clear as day, and feel as if I have been punched, or like I wasn't watching where I was going and walked into a wall. They are unsettling and disturbing and I don't quit know what to make of it all. Sometimes it is an image, another time a realization.
  
• I cannot reminisce about my pregnancy. Right now, I have been trying to block out harder than ever the "this time last year" thoughts since last September was truly bliss. And this is so not. Is this avoidance healthy, or simply prolonging a full-on melt-down?
  
• Why haven't I called a grief counselor? What am I waiting for? Is it because I feel fine right now? Do I realize I do not have to be in the midst of a crisis before I reach out to find help I need?
• Why is it so hard for me to reach out?
  
• Why do I have to be so fucking independent? Is independent simply a euphemism for an uglier word? What would that word be?
  
• Why do I wince when my birth father calls me "baby"?
  
• Why do I see allowing someone to love me as losing or giving up something as opposed to gaining? Is this the issue?
• How many times do I have to say "My heart is open for what comes next" until I believe it?
  

Perfect Moment: A Conversation

Yes, ok. I'm sorry. I confess. I did "bury the lede" in my last post and Nutmeg rightfully called me out. Sorry. Sorry.

But I wasn't doing it to be coy. Seriously, I honestly just HAD to blurt it out and I wasn't sure how to segue into that news and where to go with it all once I did. And that's still kind of where I am this morning. How much can I say here? What is "safe" info to share and what might influence future events by saying it out loud?

Bear with me people; This whole "reunification" thing, it's a bit of a mind fuck.

But wait. Stop. I'm getting ahead of myself. Because at the heart of the matter, there are some truly Perfect Moments here that I don't think will fade. Let's see if I can't round them up:

This all went down Thursday evening, just as M and I were setting down the kick ass platter of bean burritos, home made tortillas and fixins and trying to figure out which old movie to watch. I see that there's a message on my phone and who its from. Do I deal with this now, or wait until I eat? M. says, what the hell, just check it out.

Sure enough, the message is brief. "Call me back. I have news."

And so I did. And so she did.

My birth mother was located. Contacted. Said thanks, but no thanks. And for some reason, I was unfazed by that. Did I expect it? Am I simply so well prepared for disappointing news these days? Did I anticipate that better news was awaiting at the end of the sentence? No idea, really. I just kind of shrugged my shoulders, shook my head no to M. and kept on prepping my burrito.

And then,

And then the person on the phone started to chuckle as she explained to me the second reaction she received that evening. The one from my birth father. The one that resulted in tears and shouts and a YES! Please. I would love to talk to her! When??

I got a name.
I got a number.
I have two brothers.

I had an hour-long conversation with someone that I don't know very well who told me that this was something straight out of the movies. He told me he is proud of me and he loves me.

And that, my friends, is my Perfect Moment.

Yes, yes! Still many, many questions and unknowns and I am trying very hard to keep a level head about it all. Stay Calm. Carry On. But I think it is A-ok to just bask in this (not very) little piece of it all right now. Don't you?

Perfect Moment Monday is about noticing a perfect moment rather than about creating one. Perfect moments can be momentous or ordinary or somewhere in between. Want to see more perfect moments? Go check out Lori at Weebles Wobblog and others' perfect moments this Monday.

Ok. Breathe Deep.

You should be thankful that I didn't post yesterday, or the day before, or the day before. It's been a helluva week. But I am ok now. Really beyond ok.

A fight with a credit card company resulted in me transferring that balance into far cooler and better cards - ones that give me things for the debt in incur. Take THAT Bank of America. Hmph!

Obviously, I'm feeling a little empowered by that.

A second look at a house that I really liked (that we learned was under contract pending a home inspection) revealed all kinds of reasons why that house is not the house for us. Two words: Asbestos. Termites. So, absolutely no need to pine over a house that we could have had but were too slow to make an offer. We didn't want it anyway.

Oh what? I didn't mention we were house hunting? Well sure. Why the hell not. It's something to do, right? No hurry. No rush. One of those, if the perfect place pops up maybe we'll think about it kind of searches. But one that has me taking far too many peeks at www.realtor.com nonetheless.

Some body images and self-loathing placed on hold last night after I made some phenomenal plays at our kickball game. I was this close to having a double play all by myself. Note to self: aim for the legs.

Did I say that last paragraph out loud? Shit. Ok, fine. Don't laugh. Our friend volunteered to be captain on a team for this kickball league in our city because there was this cute dude she liked that also wanted to play and she was desperate and we said sure why the hell not and after M. learned the hard way that he is absolutely in no way shape or form to say a WORD about my speed or lack thereof when running we have actually had a pretty fun time. Phew. There. Confession out.

And yes, someone I love very, very much told me (in the best way possible) that she is expecting. And yes, that brought up some things that I thought I was handling but apparently I am not. But (and L. I know you are reading) I LOVE YOU and I love that you told me and we will celebrate your new one together. Don't even sweat it. What I hate the most is that you had to think about me when you need to be thinking about your self and keeping your lunch down.

But, but wait. There's more.

I don't even need to talk about my frustration with the adoption agency that is helping me find my birth parents, or how I felt they were totally brushing me off or any of that. Because it doesn't matter.

Because I talked to my birth father last night.

Searching: Jersey Girl

Dooooooods, I am from NEW JERSEY.

Did you know that? I didn't. But now I do. I am a North Jersey girl through and through (ok, the north part is pure speculation at this point, but we are pretty good at geography and ethnic communities and by process of elimination we are pretty certain its north Jersey.)

Wait. Stop. Let me back up.

I received my first little packet of info from CSS today. The one that contains my non-identifying information. Most of which I already had, but some that I didn't. So, a lot of good news there: 1. nothing was inconsistent with the birth story I have always been told (parents = super young, family = super Catholic) 2. I now know more about my birth grandparents and aunts (2) and uncles (2) and WHERE I AM FROM.

Can you imagine what this means to me?

I have been on cloud 9 since I ripped open the envelope yesterday after work. I have been composing this blog post in my head since then (although its all coming out in a jumble now). I went to bed and woke up this morning HAPPY. Can you believe that? Happy. The happiest I have been in over six months. My soul feels lighter. I feel physically lighter. Because I know where I am from.

This could not have come at a better time. Our infertility and loss and continued bad news on the future fertility front has all been culminating into a pretty substantial identity crisis for me over here. Who am I again? What did I do before trying to trick my body into things it doesn't do on its own? What will I do with my life if it is one that doesn't include children? What was the focus of my life all those years before we even thought children were a possibility? Who am I again? Surely I am more than my lady parts, but what is that more?

Dudes, I am a Jersey girl. That is a start.

Now, I know there is still a loooong road ahead. One that may or may not lead to communication with my birth parents. And based on what I am reading, my prediction is that my birth mother and father will probably want to talk with me (I hope), my birth families, not so much. Now more than ever I am fairly certain that my birth parents had little say over my adoption. My birth mom was shipped off to her grandparents until I was born.

Which is how I ended up here.

So much more to say about all of this, but its going to have to wait. The work emails and skypes have started, two of my co-workers are out of state and freaking out about various things (M! L! Relax!) so I should probably begin my day.

Just know that I am starting it with a smile on my face and a peace that is entirely new.

Searching: the forms are filled

How would you describe yourself? Generally fearless. Curious. Eager to get as much as possible out of life. I am married to my best friend who shares my interests, my humor and love of life. The recent birth and death of our daughters continues to cast a shadow. We are still grieving.

Why are you choosing to search? I know what it is like to lose a daughter and to live with that loss every day. I would like to bring some peace and some closure to my birth parents, if I am able.

What do you expect your birth parents to be like? Thoughtful, intelligent, wise, funny, sarcastic.

Is there anything else you would like to share? I would like my birth parents to know I have never had anything but love and respect and admiration for them. That is still how I feel. There were times in my life when I was angry - not because I was adopted - but because I often see things so differently from my adopted family. Now that I am older, I think I understand this can be the case in any family.

When our daughters died, all I wanted in life was to see them again. If they (magically) appeared at my door 30 years from now I would simply be overjoyed at knowing they were ok.

I want my parents to know that I am ok.

**

Six full months after Isa and Jovi were born. Nearly six months after I requested the forms. Months after I had a painfully frank conversation with the woman from C*tholic Ch*rities who called to check to see if I had received them and if I had an questions ("maybe I just have a problem giving you more of me than you already have. Maybe I don't want you to know anything about me. Wasn't having the power over where to place me enough for the organization?") Poor woman. She got an earful. She shouldn't have asked.

After all of that, I realized that not starting with the place that actually does have names on file (even though they won't give them to me) made no sense. Principles be damned. Why am I making this harder than it already is?

I filled out the damn forms.

Adoption records in my state are sealed and despite the hard work of many advocacy associations, there is no ability for adoptees to pull up their records besides working directly with the agency that have them up in the first place, or a court order, and even then, judges are testy and will only allow non-identifying information out unless you've got a helluva good reason for more. (I have a right to know who I am and where I came from does not cut it.)

We won't talk about the forces that were behind closing the loophole that existing until the early 80s that many adoptees were able to use to get their birth info. We won't mention the conflict I feel writing a check to the place that produces nothing but bile and resentment from me. And we won't even mention the existential crisis and tear-fest the first question caused yesterday. (Describe myself? I am a mother who is mourning. I am someone who used to be happy every day and now I am sad and get even sadder thinking about how much I hate to be sad. I am a shell of the person I used to be.....) No, best not to talk about that.

Let's talk about the fact that after all my talk, I finally put the wheels in motion.

I filled out the damn forms.

(and yes, I mailed them too. Smarty pants)

Recapping the Week

Remember how it felt when a bunch of kids got invited to a party, and you didn't? Or maybe that year when the pretty girl next to you in 2nd grade got a ton of valentines and you only got a few. (All for me? Oh my gosh...) Remember that time when your friend forgot your birthday?

That's kind of how it felt yesterday when we found that yes, the local newspaper from the area where I was born did indeed publish birth announcements (along with the school cafeteria menus, volunteer schedule for the hospital, and who visited whom after church the week before). All there in black and white (so strange to see how things were pre-HIPAA): A baby girl born to Mr. and Mrs. Blah of 123 Blah Lane of Blahville....All there.

Except for me.

Not that we expected the baby girl born to a 16 year old who would then give her to Catholic Charities and hope for the best to be celebrated in the evening news. But it still kind of stung. Where's my big "hello"?

But now, we have names of people who ostensibly spent time in the hospital with my birth mother. That is, if she was even kept on the maternity ward and if she was allowed to commiserate with other patients.

Cue image of young girl in hospital robe surrounded by strict looking nuns in full regalia yielding rulers, encircling her and preventing other patients from seeing or talking to her. Ok. Well, that's the image in my mind....

Anyways, we have names. I don't know what to do with them. But it feels like something. Something more than we had. Not like it gets us any closer to knowing anything. But still.

Some things that could get us closer is registering with the Soundex Registry and putting together our petition to the courts to get more than just non-identifying information. I've also sent all of the girls' vital info to the person in M's family that puts together the genealogy - he has promised that Iso.bel and Jo.vita each have a branch on that family tree. Forever. And that feels wonderful. That's what we've been doing this week.

Among other things.

Yesterday was our visit with the RE. And that was good in a number of ways. Never mind that I had a near anxiety attack in the waiting room. What's taking so long? Or another one trying to figure out insurance stuff. What do you mean my coverage isn't verified and you can't use our new coverage (which just might pay for our next cycle) until I drop my other one? Once we finally met with our doctor (and our Nurse and the counselor) we were reminded that this is one of those rare places - one of those places that feels like people know your history, and know the path you've been on so far, and know the victories and obstacles and want more than anything to see you with a baby in your arms.

We brought birth announcements for our doctor and Nurse. And there were some hugs and tears. But not without hope for the next time. And our doc felt pretty darn good about our odds for the next time. Or the next time.

She had questions about the reports from here, and asked many of the same questions we asked the MFM specialists. She had her own theories and thoughts and wants us to meet with her hospital's MFM dudes to see what they think. No problem. She also wants me to have an HSG to ensure that there isn't any scarring from the curettage. But she wants that to be done at her place as well. Also, no problem. In fact, if we could just do everything up to and including a delivery where she is, that would be great. But distance doesn't really make that feasible. Alas.

So, an HSG is scheduled for Feb. 5. As is a meeting with their MFM. She admitted that she is not too crazy about the idea of doing a cerclage "just in case" the next time. Because that's not without risks, and she's just not convinced my cervix was the issue. Her theory: that there was some sort of trigger that caused my body to go into pre-term labor. The size of my uterus? The fact that it may not stretch as well as others due to radiation? The fact there were two little ones in there? Hard to tell, but in her mind, it seemed like labor started first, my cervix started to open, infection came second.

And, this is ridiculous, and it's small consolation, but that did console me. This infection thing (what did I do? What did I not do?) has been driving me batty. The idea that this was not under my control was, for once, a small mercy.

Whatever happened, she felt very strongly that the biggest risk factor was the fact there were twins. We talked about next steps and where to go with this knowledge.

The good news? Of the 3 remaining embryos, we have a straw of 2 frozen together. And 1 solo. We are going to thaw Han Solo first. If he grows, we'll still have 2 embryos to try the next time. If not, we can try to thaw the 2 we have left and see which one grows the best. If they both progress to blastocyst, we could refreeze one.

We talked about using our 3 ice pops vs. starting the process of finding a new donor and starting a fresh cycle. She felt very strongly that there was no reason not to use the 3 on ice - especially since we had such success with other members of the cohort. I'm not sure if M. feels better about our odds, but I do.

The counselor that we met the very first day we ever visitedthe clinic happened to be in the office yesterday and Nurse wondered if we'd like to see her? Sure. Why not. We had declined offers from the bereavement counselors at our hospital, but this was someone we knew and liked. We weren't sure what exactly we were going to talk about, but we said, sure. Send her in.

And we were blabarific. It seems we had a lot to talked about. We talked over each other, finished each other's sentences, veered into all kinds of topics well beyond Iso.bel and Jo.vita, but still connected. Before we knew it we were talking about our morning, our mourning, our search for my birth parents, expectations around grief and grieving, everything. It was great. It was great to say things to someone other than Michael. It was great to hear him talk to someone other than me. (Not that we don't talk to other people, but we usually don't do it together). It was great to hear some perspective on the search, the process, the possible results, and the rationale behind some things that were frustrating us beyond explanation. I'm glad we saw her. Glad we stuck around.

Before we knew it, it was nearing rush hour and we both cringed at the thought of the traffic we might be facing on the way home. But it wasn't bad. And we still managed to squeeze in a stop at TJs and make it back home in time for a birthday dinner for M's mom (and dad who had his birthday earlier this week). We met at a BYOB French restaurant none of us had tried before and realized midway through the meal that it had been a very long time since we enjoyed a meal out like this together. It was wonderful. The food and the company.

And now the final match of Smackdown is happening. And you now know I can't miss it.

Motion

Not necessarily forward in a straight line. But motion. Nonetheless.

We now have an appointment with our RE in January to discuss next steps. Nurse intimated that some of those next steps might include another HSG to ensure there was no damage to the uterus and a discussion around transferring only one embryo at a time next time to minimize risks.

I don't know how I feel about that second piece of info. While it probably makes sense on a number of levels, part of me thinks, well hell, if next time is going to be defined as "high risk" anyway (since I now have a history of pre-term labor and will no longer fly under the radar of "advanced maternal age." Shit), and if I will be "watched like a hawk" anyway, is there really that much more risk in transferring two?

Not like we have a cache of embryos here. We have 3 on ice. 3. That's it. And I am guessing they are probably bundled together. As in, thaw one, thaw them all. So, let's just say we are lucky enough to have more than one survive the thaw. I am saying right now there is no flipping way that one goes in and the other goes out the window. Sorry. That's where I stand. Risk or no risk.

So, perhaps I do know how I feel about the 2nd piece of info. As for the first, I know for a 100% fact I am absolutely dreading it. Because I did so great the first time around. Remember?

So there's that. #6 off the list. Along with #1 and #4. (Those were pretty easy.) Working on #9...

Now, how's about #8? That's going, going, going slow. Here is a brief explanation as to why. At least why it is so damn hard to get to some basic info in my state. Still trying to come up with a plan. Still exploring options, including petitioning the court with "good cause." Doors aren't opening yet.

But they aren't closed.

Ambitious Lists

When all of this went down, I was contemplating dropping out of IComLeavWe this month. Granted, it wasn't the first thing on my mind, but it was there.

How can I read about everyone else's lives when mine feels like it's falling apart? How can I share joy? Offer comfort? Commiserate? Laugh, even? Those were my thoughts from what feels like ages ago.

Today, on this sunny, brisk morning, I am thinking that I can. Not only that I can, but I should. And that it will feel good.

This morning, armed with my cup of (decaf) coffee, I am so ready to crack open my computer and visit some worlds that aren't mine right now. Look out, ladies. I'ma comin' over!

And I am not stopping there. After I get my bloggy fill, I have big plans for today which include:

1. getting dressed (look out, world)
   
2. ironing
3. watering my plants
4. addressing and sending the remaining announcements and Xmas cards
5. making soup (and maybe some cookies)
6. calling our RE to see when we can come over, talk, hug, check out some donor profiles
   
7. cracking open my work email (if only to peek. L, don't get mad. I won't do anything useful)
8. doing more research on possible avenues that might lead me to my birth parents (dear readers - comments and suggestions are welcome)
9. prepping some walls I plan to paint (because, well, I have all these cans of no VOC paint)
   
10. maybe, just maybe, going to the gym
    
11. finishing The Big Year and then,
    
12. taking a walk to the library

By then, M. will be home and ready to share his latest sleuthing ideas (see #8).

So, did this post really devolve into a mundane "how I plan to spend my day?" Yes, sorry. I'm afraid it did. But for those of you who know me in real life, this should bring a smile to your face. Because is there anything that signals a return to (semi-)normalcy than my anal-retentive lists?

Muppets from Space

[Note: Dear Creme de la Creme readers, welcome! Please, please note that since this post, our little seedlings were born too early (21 wks), with us only a short while, and in that while changed our lives and our perspectives on a lot of things. Some things have ended, others started. Please stay tuned for an update.]

Contacted through my breakfast cereal and then confirmed to me by the cosmic fish...I am from outer space.

Sometimes I feel like Gonzo.

Not always. But every once in a while I get that nudge, that reminder. That feeling like in a sea of genes, in a long line of dominant traits and bloodlines, I am a little blip. Seemingly dropped at the doorstep. Origins unknown. With no ability to pass those pieces of myself along either.

Sometimes that's humbling. Sometimes these thoughts feel like the worst kind of hubris. Hey, I'm a one in a million! I could exclaim.

But aren't we all.

Sometimes I wish for a grand reunion. An easy search. Puzzle pieces falling into place, all leading me to one or both of my birth parents. It's not as if I landed in a bad place. My parents love me. H*ll, they adore me. And the support they have shown us ever since we shared our journey to bear children has been amazing. Eager grandparents-to-be is a grand understatement.

But every once in a while there is that desire to look into my cereal bowl or up to the heavens for some answers.

I think about beginning a process. Recently, my brother asked if I was at least going to go in search of my medical records in case we would need then for the seedlings, forgetting that their origins are also a bit unknown. To be honest, I did too for a moment.

What can I do to ease this longing? Will the seedlings have these same feelings? If they do, I will need to remember that this particular kind of curiosity and longing does not go hand in hand with rejecting the life, or family, or love that you have. It really does coexist.

And I have to remember that in the end, Gonzo doesn't run into the spaceship, into the open arms of people who share his nose, his personality, his love of cannons, people just like him. He opts to stay right where he is.

My life is here. This is my home.

Over the Hills and Far Away

The other evening, as I was making dinner and hubby was keeping me company, we were listening to Echo and the Bunnymen. Ok, maybe we were listening to me sing along to Echo and the Bunnymen at the top of my lungs. And hubby wondered out loud...

"Do you think they'll like cool music? How do you like the music that you like now?

Hmm. I'm not sure. As a kid, I can remember doing somersaults in my living room listening to Mac Davis and Neil Diamond, pulling wheelies on my Big Wheel singing out loud to the Charlie Daniels Band. The tastes of my parents do not seem to have translated to my own.

Hubby went a little further:

"What kind of music do you think you listened to when you were in the womb? Do you think the music your birth parents played had any part in the equation."

And all of a sudden, I was overwhelmed with this image of an awkward 18-yr old boy, holding his baby daughter in his arms, knowing that he probably would not win his case to keep her so spending every evening at the orphanage to capture the moments before her new parents came to get her...

Humming Led Zeppelin into her little ears.

"I think my birth dad sang Zeppelin to me," I announced to hubby. Based on nothing but my own dreams.

And it suddenly felt like the realist visualization that I have ever had about my origins. Undeniable. Irrefutable. And in my own mind, from that moment on, that was the truth. That's what went down. And hubby and I both got a little teary.

Oh dad. I do love Zeppelin. I do. And I think you'd be proud of what's become of me.

You really ought to know...
I really ought to know...