The Son I Never Wanted to Give up
When I was 19, I found myself unwed and pregnant. Through my own young beliefs and self doubts, the shock, disappointment and fears of those close to me and the encouragement of an adoption agency, I came to believe that the relinquishment and adoption of my first born son would be the answer to all the possible threats that would face us both in the life as a young single mother and a small child.
And though I loved my newborn baby with a fierceness and force that I had never felt before, I was assured that I was strong and selfless and would be a bringer of great joys to others with my emotional sacrifice. Never given birth before, never being a mother before the two precious days in the hospital holding my soon to be lost son, and told that what I was feeling was expected hormones; I underestimated the power of this primal connection and I went through the surrender like a good birthmother should. I signed my rights to be a mother away, dried my tears and went home to continue on my life as expected.
Nineteen years and 111 days later, I found myself on a great adventure. I was returning to Boston, to the place of my son’s birth and this time, I would cry tears of joy as I was going to finally see him again.
It had taken us almost 2 years to get to the point of meeting face to face.
His was a traditional closed adoption as it occurred in 1987 and at that time, open adoptions were still not the norm. I had no knowledge of what his name was, but without ever deciding that I would search for him, I did. Once, I began it was as if a dam had broken within me and I was determined, obsessed, convinced that I would be able to locate him. And within three days, I had. A trail of breadcrumbs had led me right to him. The feeling I had that night, 3 am, as I finally laid down to sleep was completely overwhelming. Just the knowledge that if I decided to, I could get into my car and drive just to breathe in the same air as him, was so satisfying.
Within the next nine months, I had made direct contact with him. It went against everything that is thought to be right about adoption. I was breaking many unspoken rules that people believe to be legal truths, but when it came down to it, I was a mother and my son was one click away. He was mere months away from being 18 and something inside me knew that I had to hit send. And so I did. When he understood who I was, his message read back to me: “Holy Smokes…Mom?”
I cannot explain how I knew certain things about him, but I did. I cannot explain how, raised among people so unlike myself, in a completely different environment, I could still recognize his inner nature. There were so many similarities, it was more than coincidence. How we had the same taste in music. How we had the same sense of style. How a mutual love of Dr. Pepper, wild thunder storms and Mohawks connected us in a way that time and distance could not break. My delight that he too, owned his own pirate flag, as did myself, and my brother and my second son, and his amazement to find that we were descendants of pirates on both sides of my family tree.
And then we met. And it was all true but even more. By the time we had finished our 9 ½ hour marathon of non stop talking, we were not only finishing each other’s sentences and giddy with happiness, but were both aghast at the undeniable strength of our bond. Nature trumped nurture hands down.
Later that year, my husband and I finally got around to getting married and Max came. It was a huge surprise for me and not only was I marring a man I loved, not only was I surrounded by friends and family, but for the first time in my life all my four children would be together in one place. I can easily say, without a doubt, it was the best day of my life.
There was not one person there who did not remark in some way about the incredible natural way that we all fit together. It was not just a mother and son who were reunited, but we were like a tribe that had become whole again. We were his people.
They only bittersweet sadness that crept in was the knowledge that we never really had to be separated to begin with.
I loved him at 19 as I loved him at 40. I was a good mother at 23 and with some small encouragement I would have been a good mother at 20. Yes, he had a good life and yes, his parents were happy and so was he, but the surrender just didn’t need to happen. They would not ever have known what they missed and I would have missed him forever, because even without knowing him, I knew him.
If you would like to learn more of my story and how to help prevent the needless separation of mothers and children through adoption, please visit my adoption blog: Musings of the Lame.
Claudia
