August 10, 1988

Dear Journal,

It all began with a letter that read, "I realize that this letter may not reach you and that perhaps you have a different last name and address now. I am eager to talk with you to discuss a very personal and confidential matter." Next came the phone number and office hours of a social worker from the Children's Aid Society of Pennsylvania. It is 6:00 in the evening on August 10, 1988 in California.

Journal, I will have to wait until morning to reach anyone back east. Clutching the letter in my suddenly icy fingers, I sank into a chair. I exclaimed, "She's alive! She's looking for me! It's my turn!"

As I sit, a sudden avalanche of long-shelved emotions come tumbling out of the corners of my mind; first amazement, then delight, anxiety, and exhilaration. Most of all exhilaration. How long have I fantasized the ring of my doorbell and a young woman's voice asking, "Mom?" But reality sometimes begins with a letter.

My husband stood back, taking in my unusually giddy words and near out-of-control behavior. Uneasily, he folded his arms across his chest and frowned. "You're losing it, Nan" he warned. "You're out of control!" It is true. I'm behaving in sharp contrast to the cool, controlled, and predictable wife he knows. I feel his reproof. As unexpected as a blow, it hurts. But, then, buoyed again by the letter in my hand, my spirits soared. (Although I did not consciously know it, with my daughter's return, the healing process began.)

10, 1988

Dear Journal,

Twenty-one years ago I surrendered my infant daughter to the Children's Aid Society of Pennsylvania. It was November, 1966, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, when I signed the relinquishment papers; a waiver of all of my parental rights. Sheets of paper that made my baby a member of another family.

It was an awful holiday that year and every year since. (Even today, Thanksgiving preparations for me are an assortment of perfunctory obligations; duties allowing me to repress what a sixteen-year old lived nearly a quarter of a century ago- a gaping wound, a hole in my heart.)

The judge was wearing loafers, his pants were cuffed, a pulled thread dangled from the hem of his black robe, and the court clerk was clicking away on a stenograph. I never saw their faces. I couldn't look anyone in the eye. This was IT, the big event. I'd really done IT this time, but all I had to do now was go through with IT and then I could get-on-with-my-life. After all, they promised IT would be all right. IT was the only thing I could do, the right thing for me to do. Just relinquish my baby. Surrender her to the care of others. Give her away.

One month after my daughter's birth, Uncle Bill drove me to the courthouse; we said very little. Thank God for Uncle Bill and Aunt Chick, they are friends of my parents, they took me into their family when I was pregnant and gave me love and support when I needed it most.

To break the silence Uncle Bill commented on the local statuary, one in particular: William Penn standing on top of Philadelphia's City Hall. The locals would laugh because the figurine stands holding a scroll in one hand, and at just the right angle it looked like he was relieving himself all over downtown Philly. At the time, Uncle Bill's comment offered a brief diversion from the seriousness of our mission.

At seventeen years of age, I did not have the legal capacity to contract away the parental rights over my daughter. So, my parents made Uncle Bill my legal guardian by virtue of a special power-of-attorney for the specific purpose of facilitating the adoption.

In the courtroom, Bill stood near by me. I was numb, in shock. Someone handed me a pen, a ball point; the ink did not flow well. The sweat from my hand left an oil slick on the page and the ink would not stick. The paperwork was visually dull, lots of words and white space, very formal. I did not read any of it. I knew what it did. I did not need to know what it said. I thought to myself, will my baby girl ever see my signature? Should I write it big and flowery with all my love or small and crimped, the way I feel?

"Nancy are you acting of your own free will?" the judge asked. "Yes Sir." I lied. Did I have a choice? No, I was powerless. Maybe I even bought the argument that it was the right thing to do. Powerless to do anything else, I had no rights. This was my deserved punishment. The decision was for the welfare of my baby. Give her away to someone who will care (and I didn't?) Give her to someone who will provide her with a good home, I certainly couldn't.

Uncle Bill and I left the brief proceeding and headed home to join Aunt Chick and Deidre. They had remained at home and were packing the station wagon for the trip to their beach house to celebrate Thanksgiving.

Raised to always say thank you and please, I wanted to take the opportunity to thank the nurses at Memorial Hospital for caring for my infant daughter after her birth. As the family readied the car for the journey to the New Jersey shore, I visited the hospital gift shop, purchased a 5-pound box of candy and a Thanksgiving Card. I retraced my steps to the maternity ward then sought out the nursery.

I paused at the nursery window, looked at the babies... One month earlier, my daughter had been in one of those bassinets. I wonder which one? I never saw her, nor did I ever walk to the nursery for a peek. I couldn't do it. I knew that if I saw her I would never go through with IT.

A slightly overweight, short, sandy-haired nurse greeted me with a thick German accent. Her cheeks reminded me of Santa Claus, she had a natural glow and obviously loved her work. She radiated enthusiasm and she looked me in the eye. Her eyes were hazel, warm and sparkling.

Mustering my courage, I spoke, "I just came by to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving and thank you for all you did for me. My Uncle is the hospital administrator here. Last month, I gave birth to a baby girl. I gave her up for adoption. I know you took good care of her and I want to thank you." I handed her the box of candy and card, which she opened.

Reading the card the nurse said, "What a good little girl, she was so sweet, our little Gretchen."

Stunned, I asked, "What did you say? What name did you give her?"

" Gretchen."

Of all the names in the entire world to pick. Why, God, did you let them pick that one?

In San Diego, California, three thousand miles away from the Philadelphia hospital where I had given birth to a nine pound ten ounce baby girl, lived my family, including my little sister. She is the light in my life. The best thing that had ever happened to me was the gift of a little sister. Blonde hair, blue eyes, dazzling smile, 100% unconditional love all wrapped up in one package named, Gretchen.

I was ten when she was born. She was like having my own live baby doll that wet, cried, cuddled, ate, slept, and adored me.

I had been convinced that there was nothing more painful than delivering a baby, signing relinquishment papers and dealing with the void in my heart, body and mind. I was wrong. I could still be hurt. Naming that void, Gretchen was like taking the knife in my heart and twisting it.

As if gut-punched and gasping for air, I choked out, "Thank you for caring for her" then blindly stumbled out of the hospital and back to the house. Thus began a crying spell that intermittently lasted for two straight weeks. The hole in my heart redoubled that day.

Well Journal, it is now twenty-one years later. Is there a chance for me to heal the wound that I had accepted as just punishment for betraying my family, society and the neighbors?

Since that long-ago time, there had been 252 months of subconscious and conscious wondering; 7,665 days of longing to know, had the decision I made at sixteen been the right choice.

August 11, 1988

Dear Journal,

My baby girl is named Janet! That's what the social worker in Pennsylvania told me over the phone. Janet is a college student in Florida. The social worker asked if I have other children. My reply was the one I've given all my adult life. "No, I've never had any children." Apologetic suddenly, I stutter, then correct myself.

"I mean, I never had any other children."

For some reason I felt the need to explain my response, so I rushed on; it just didn't seem necessary, and it never really fit my lifestyle. (Later I discover that some professionals believe forty to sixty percent of all birthmothers who lose children to adoption do not bear other children.)

The social worker continued making conversation, perhaps in an attempt to make sure that I was not the type of person who would either hurt Janet in some way, or reject her. The voice on the other end of the phone sounded relieved to discover that I am married, have 22 years of formal education, culminating with a Juris Doctorate. Currently, I told her, I hold the position of Vice President/ Sales Manager of a national title insurance company. I added that my hobbies are journaling, photography, and public speaking. When she asked for permission to give Janet my phone number, I could hardly get the numbers out quickly enough.

"Tell Janet that I am thrilled," I said. "Tell her I can't wait to talk to her." Thinking to myself, now I wait for Janet to make the next move.

For hours after the call to the social worker, I reviewed questions I'd punished myself with over the years. The answers will soon be forthcoming, I feel somehow lighter, less burdened, a bit frightened and so excited my mind refuses to settle down.

Unexpectedly, my excitement is eclipsed by another feeling. From behind the slightly ajar closet doors in my mind slips the almost forgotten anguish of a teenager forced to make an excruciating adult decision, have the baby, give it away, and get-on-with-your-life echoes a hauntingly all too familiar refrain through my mind.

August 12, 1988

Dear Journal,

Tonight, a well-schooled voice was recorded on my answering machine. She said, "Hi! Um, this is Janet. I'd really like to talk to you, but I'm not at home." I was dazed by the sound of her voice...she sounds so eastern...I forced myself to listen calmly as she said that she's staying at a hotel with a friend, but I can call and ask the desk clerk to connect me with their room. I called immediately. The desk did not answer my call. In Philadelphia it was four o'clock in the morning.

My mind's awhirl.

Congratulations, Nancy for keeping the names on our driver's license complete-- just in case the child we lost ever comes looking. The idea was to make her search easier. It worked. Odd, I always knew (I had this hunch) we'd meet. Even though I felt that I had no right to connect with her, I felt that when the time was right she'd look for me. A letter of inquiry sent by the Department of Motor Vehicles arrived the same day as the Children's Aid letter, forwarded by my mother, arrived.

Journal, do you believe it? My little girl has learned to walk, talk, and succeed without me. But can I, even in the privacy of my own mind, refer to her as MY little girl? Do I have the right? No. So far, society has no room for biological mothers. Which means I'm not a mom. A mom, after all, is an amalgam of bonding, worrying, loving, mentoring, parenting, planning, and financial support. So how do I feel about all of this? Somewhat like the other woman in a husband-wife-mistress triangle. Odd to say the least.

Am I prepared for this? After locking my feelings away at sixteen, I almost militantly rely on left-brain control over my emotions. Here I sit in a torrent of recall, an untidy progression of anger, joy, abandonment, euphoria, and finally, a sobering memory of lost self-respect; letting my family down.

I know how to handle this.

Control, you are the sword and shield of my dependable left brain. I order you, resume command! Ice-Queen exterior, you developed during the dark days and nights of my sixteenth year to keep me from feeling life's hurts. Please, both of you, return to help me get through this. Help!

August 13, 1988

Dear Journal,

I'm filled with a private pride and a secret smile. No one who sees it knows the reasons for it. I'm glowing. I'm so happy it's scary! Was I unhappy before? No. But there's no doubt my life has changed significantly.

Today is Saturday. Although we have a housekeeper, I compulsively cleaned every nook and cranny, next I organized the junk drawer until interrupted at 3:00 p.m. by the phone ringing.

"Hi, this is Janet!" a strained voice said. For the next few minutes we exchanged physical information.

Janet said, "I'm 5 foot 5 1/2 inches tall."

Me, too.

She continued, "I've got blonde hair and blue eyes."

Me too!

Janet added, "My friends say I am an upbeat person. Myself? I guess I am an optimist."

I thought, once, I'd been trusting, too! But there was much neither of us had said yet. So I jumped in.

"Let me see if I can make this easier on both of us. There are two questions that I would want answered if I were in your place. First, why did I have you, and second, why did I give you away."

That broke the ice!

I went on to tell her that I had her because the movie showing at the drive-in the night she was conceived was dreadfully plotless; things just got out of hand (no pun intended). Her birthfather is 4 years my senior, a very nice guy, but I did not love him. Birth control issues were not openly discussed in the 60s. Good girls waited until they were married for sex; they did not experiment the way boys did. I never planned to have sex with Matt. Abortion was not a legal option in 1966. Roe v. Wade was not the law until 1973, not until Janet was seven years old. As a pregnant, underage, unwed teenager, living with parents, I had absolutely no control over what was going to happen to me. I did what I was told. The doctor assured my parents that because I was too young to legally get married, he believed it was in my best interest to have the baby, give it up for adoption, and get-on-with-my-life. In the beginning, I felt that adoption was a deserved punishment for my actions. I was powerless. I accepted that it was the right thing to do.

The reasons I hadn't kept her, I told Janet, were complex. I was too young to be a mother and I certainly was unable to financially take care of myself, let alone two of us. Alcoholism at home was the enemy of my youth and key in making it possible for me to part with you; it was very important to me to shield you from its influence. Finally, it had been made clear that I was not welcome to come home with a newborn baby; the term single parent hadn't even been coined yet.

Our conversation shifted to today, "I'm happily married to a wonderful man who has four adult sons from a previous marriage. I have no children of my own, except for you, that is. I'm an executive heavily involved in business and my community."

Janet interrupted me to say that the social worker had filled her in on some of the details when she was given my phone number.

Somewhat sharply Janet quipped, "So who's got the rotten teeth?" We both laughed; everyone in my family has bad teeth. Then we turned the conversation to her family.

I sighed as she told me her father was a physician and her mom a former laboratory technician. What I didn't know was that they had three natural sons when they adopted Janet; James, Johnny, and Robbie. "Pops", she said, "wanted a princess and Mom had wanted a little girl to fuss over. They are all just great!"

She went on to describe the 9-bedroom stone house in the suburbs, filled, occasionally, with visiting relatives and a 94 year-old grandmother. Others had also come and stayed; all of them filling her life with love and a true sense of family. I pictured an upscale Waltons kind of interdependent loving family.

"I've always known that I was adopted," she said. "It was never an issue because both of my parents were careful to treat all four of us alike. Our parents," she said, "always guided us, but they did not steer us."

I was curious as to why Janet had sought me out. It turned out that her mom had suggested it. In search of a medical history, that was their reason. I wonder if she's thought about the medical history being attached to a real live person? Janet searched to learn where she'd come from and to discover why she is as she is. I must admit that I was delighted that Janet's mom encouraged and supported the search. Silently I promised myself that I would take extra care to protect her family's feelings. I don't want her family to regret giving their support.

I was amazed to learn that it had taken less than six weeks from initial inquiry to our first phone call. Short search!

Children's Aid had helped Janet execute the search and emotionally prepare her for the first contact with me. I asked Janet, out of concern for our futures, "Is it OK with you if we're friends? I mean I know how to be a friend. I haven't a clue how to be a mom. From the sounds of things you have a pretty terrific mom already!"

"Yeah, she's cool. Friends, that sounds great I have lots of friends and I'd really like that."

We closed our first hour together both promising to send pictures soon! Hanging up that phone was almost impossible. There was a feeling of near panic as I haltingly placed the phone down on its cradle. It felt, for an instant, like I was loosing her all over again. But a large part of my conscious mind knew that this phone call was just the beginning.

Journal, the Platinum Rule was a great guide for me today, treat others as they would like to be treated; as opposed to the Golden Rule, do unto others as you would like to be done unto.

I feel almost effervescent; like I'm floating. This is real! I feel magnificent, jubilant. The truth is so freeing, uplifting. I had no idea how heavily denying Janet's existence had weighed on my shoulders. Journal, with the phone call concluded, I sit down to record what just happened and I realize what a lifesaver this chronicle of thinking has become, not only providing a record of what I do, and what I feel, but in helping me to design a life. Journal, I'm glad you're here.

Now I ask myself, where am I in my life right now? Swiftly, the answer comes from deep inside of me. Seeking a job description for a birthmother. Next I asked, what do I want? With equal swiftness the answer surfaces. A friendship, contact, and ultimately the unconditional love that grows over time-if I earn it!

Having just reread my above journal entry, I add that I also dream of having a mother's vicarious thrill of watching, with pride, as my offspring conquers the challenges in her path and takes her learning on to new heights. Hopefully, my genes will help her along the way; mine and those of her ancestor's, especially Dad's. I want Janet as part of my life, and I hope she wants to have me as a part of her life!

But first, I've got to figure out how to do this and not cause our families distress. In an unprecedented situation like this I wonder, is it possible to minimize their anxiety? Is it possible to manage mine?

It seems absurd that my husband should be critical of my excitement. His reaction hurts. Normally he's very supportive, but today he lectured me about sharing the fact of Janet's existence let alone the incredible happiness I feel. Why? Is he worried that I will hurt? Is he threatened? Somehow is his security being disrupted? He says he's afraid for me. I think my exhilaration frightens him. He married an Ice Queen and she's melting.

This extreme state of happiness is something I've never experienced. Nothing in my life, no awards, recognition, praise, accomplishments can touch this feeling of soaring above the clouds, smiling constantly, excitement, enthusiasm. There is nothing like it.

Spin and smile, shout from the roof tops, hop on a plane, go to her, do something, tell everyone. Frantic-chaotic-colliding thoughts of elation, rejoicing, thrilled. It truly is awesome.

But this intensity is not understood by others and it scares them; it scares me a little too. I will try to put a lid on it. Try for the sake of all the people I love, not to show what I feel. Can I do that?

And yet, the opposite of lost is found. How do I put a lid on that? How do I help all those who love and need me know that I'm still here? It is just that a very large hole in my heart is beginning to heal.

Trust.

Journal, are you kidding? Trust! When I trust I get hurt. Oops there it is again; FEAR wearing an anti-trust suit.

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