Every Christmas
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It's my son's birthday today, 9th December. It's something that I should be celebrating. I should be happy in the knowledge that he has reached this wonderful age, but I'm a long way from feeling like that.
I did the most painful thing that I have ever done in my life: I gave my son up for adoption. I wasn't a 'lady of the night', or an alcoholic, or destitute, or someone that 'slept around,' and I did know and love his father. I was brought up by two caring parents.
My partner did not love me. We had been dating each other for 6 months or more, and I loved him with all my heart. I became pregnant, not out of ignorance, but the contraceptive coil that I had fitted had failed.
I had the choice of having an abortion, parenting on my own, or having my baby adopted. Tough choices. I felt very strong maternal instincts and could not entertain abortion. I lived in a rented one bedroom flat above a shop with a full-time job. Back then, it wasn't acceptable in society to be an unmarried mother. My parents reinforced that idea by saying that I had brought great shame on the family and that the shame would never be able to go away.
My mum's best friend couldn't have children, and this lady and her husband had been lucky enough to be able to adopt a beautiful baby boy. This baby boy had brought great joy into their lives. I saw how they gave him everything that money could buy, as well as all the love in the world that they had to give. He had two loving parents to care for his every need. It was a pretty powerful sight. I loved my unborn child so much, and I wanted him to have the best opportunity in life. I had little in the way of a stable relationship to offer him: no lovely home, no garden, not enough money to look after us, no long term prospects, etc.
I made the choice, the 'noble' choice that I have wept over nightly for two decades. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of him and wonder if he's ok, well, or even alive. I miss never having had the time with him as a child, teenager, and adult. I did talk to him in my uterus and in the hospital. I dared not pick him up and cuddle him when he was born, as I knew that I would NOT be able to give him up after that.
Twenty years down the road, I still yearn to hold my 'baby'. I know he went to a loving couple, desperate for a child. He was a wonderful Christmas present; he was taken to their home on Christmas Eve. Christmas has always been a time of great sadness for me, ever since.
This year, I have made the decision to try to find him. Right or wrong, it is something I have to do. I will try all avenues, gently and with courage, as I may face a painful rejection (amongst other emotions), or reprisals that an adopted child often feels. I have two children, now young adults. They are his half brothers and sisters. They know of my shame and regret and have given me their full support to find their half brother.
If he doesn't want to make contact, I will respect that. But, today, now, this year, I must try and reach out, just in case he is curious. I have spent too many years in emotional pain, feeling disgusted with myself, guilty about giving him away, shame for not having the guts to bring him up myself.
I read so much pain and hurt in these letters, but rarely does someone like me want to admit or write about how painful it is to give up a child. Whoever his adoptive parents are, I respect them. I'm ever grateful that they were able to give someone else's child (mine) a family to grow and belong in. I look forward to this uncertain journey with in trepidation.
- from another mother
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