BirthMothers and Adoption: Why We Never Forget

"I promise, you'll forget with time." This is what the mediator, Carol, told me when I was carrying my first child, about eight months pregnant. Carol knew the adoptive parents, and would place my baby with them when the time came. I really wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that the memory would fade, and that my life wouldn't change much. How wrong. How very wrong she was.

The adoption was a private one, with escrows and a lawyer. I was 19. I wasn't married, and I only had a part time job. A kick in the stomach from an old goat at a kid's zoo threw me into labor two weeks early. I wasn't ready. Carol drove me to the hospital, got me checked in, and we walked the halls of the maternity ward for several hours during the early stages of labor.

I had asked to be under general anesthesia, because I was too afraid to see the baby. I feared that if I saw the baby, that it would hurt too much to relinquish him. Yes, it was a boy. He was a little over 6 pounds, with red hair, I was told. I never saw his face.

I gave birth on a Thursday, and stayed until that Sunday. Sunday was a really rough day for me. I don't remember very much except that some paperwork came in, as I was laying in my hospital bed. I signed a few papers, and the deed was done. My gorged breasts were aching, my heart was aching. I was in a kind of mental stupor. What. The hell. Have I done? I've just given my child to strangers! I begged for some valium, for 'the pain', and tried to sleep until I was released. Later as I was being wheeled down to the first floor, I watched new mothers holding their beautiful babies. I clutched the pillow in my lap. The pain began that day, and it continues till today. I did not forget.

As a birthmother, I can honestly say that I wish now that open adoption had been a choice back then. To have gotten a few pictures through the years would have been a godsend. I never wanted to intrude on his life, just to be informed OF his life on occasion. As the mother of four other children, I understand perfectly the joys of raising children. No one can love my children as I do. I also understand that my birthson's mother and father love their son in exactly the same way. I can not be "Mom" to my birthson, anymore than I can be Mom to someone else's children. And yet, there is forever a connection, a curiosity about him. We all wonder what his life must be like.

I often think about my birthson. My children all know about their brother. I've been honest about what very little I know about him with them. I called Carol when my birthson was about 13, just to ask about his well being. She told me he was tall, thin, still red headed, smart, and good at sports and art.

I wonder all the time about him. Is he in college? Is he married? Am I a grandmother? Was his childhood a happy one? Does he think of me? Will we ever meet?

Oftentimes, I fantasize that one day a handsome, tall freckled-faced red head will knock on my door. He will look exactly like his younger brother, only perhaps skinnier. He would ask me hundreds of questions, and I would spill a million answers. He would meet his birthfamily. My life would be complete. And I will never forget.