After-Birth -- an adoptee's purging perspective

I was born in St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada. I became a U.S. citizen at the age of 5. I have no birth certificate, no visa, no documentation of any kind. To my disposal, that is. I cannot remember a time when I did NOT know I was adopted. My grandparents were kind enough to remind me far too often how I'm not "one of them".

Every child loves to hear the story of his/her birth. I was no exception. I would ask my Amother if she knew ANYTHING about my birth. Not to belabor the subject, (pun intended), she would go into great detail and effort making sure I knew few details, but was fully-aware of the many less favorable facts and aspects of the circumstances surrounding my conception and rejection. Briefly, she told me I was the result of an adulterous, drunken night between a Local woman, and an Ukrainian marine biologist. It just so happens, he sailed into-port, met Local Female Drunk, had his way, and because she was Catholic, she was "made" to keep the pregnancy. Romantic, isn't it? Each time I asked my second-mother about my first, I would be told (in not so many words) I would have been an abortion, if not for the Catholic Church. [Hold the applause for The Pope...]

Immediately after the Church Ordained birth, the miracle of life was wisked away to the local orphange. According to some, my "Mother" (can you all hear the pinched, strained ennunciation of that name?) wished to have nothing to do with me. I was left to live among many, many other unwanted bastards. Because of the very poor nature of Newfoundland, the babies of the orphanage were grossly neglected.

My Amother took great pride in telling her story.... how, upon bringing home her newly purchased baby, SHE discovered how poorly developed I was. My muscle-tone, and physical development was that of the newborn she truly wished to get. I was "the best of both worlds." I was an older baby, not too fragile and small; but small and petitie, with the same rudamentary skills and abilities of a newborn.

There was a neighbor who had a baby boy 1 month before I was born. Legend has it my Amother would spend much time with him, and watch carefully how that baby was growing and thriving. She had expected much of the same skills and size  from me. "I could not believe how shocked I was when I held you." (Her words; her story.) Upon first meeting, I was a disappointment. "ALL you did was scream. Your skin was a mess with this terrible-looking rash. You would NOT eat, and your head was flat on one side. The pediatrician warned me, due to the neglect, you would most likely be retarded. I wanted to prove him wrong. Six months later, the dr could not believe his eyes... the dramatic change that took place. You had caught-up to, and even exceeded (the neighbor's boy) in gross & fine motor skills. Your appetite was insatiable, and you would go to person to person, just loving any bit of attention you could get."

This past year, I have learned what happens to a baby, at different stages, when she is taken away from her primary care-giver. Before my 1st birthday, I had 3 mothers. My physical condition was that of a baby in profound mourning and stress. My first 18 months of life were spent mourning the loss of my mother's voice and touch.

My grandmother's story about my origins was a bit more brief. "Your parents were in a car accident. Your father died, your mother lost use of her arms & legs, so The Grandmother had to take care of you, and her. You were too much work, so you were put up for adoption."

My other grandmother's story went like this: "Oh geeze, I don't know! Ask your mother."

Last year, I received notice that my non-identifying information was finally available for me to read. Need I mention I went alone, because no one wished to go with me? The social worker asked, "Can you tell me what you DO know?" I gave my account. The SW put her papers down, leaned forward, and tearfully said - slowly and deliberately - "Kerry, I want you to know, NONE of that information is correct. You have been lied to, and I need you to know this, before you read these papers. Your mother was NOT a Drunk. She was NOT a whore. She was NOT married. And most of all, she STRUGGLED with the decision to relinquish you."

Sure enough, my Birth Story was nothing remotely close to the sewage that was fed to me, under the guise of a Healthy Diet by those who "loved me, like no one else ever could."  I sob as write this. I have no words. I'd log off, but my message would be deleted. After pouring over the 2 paged document, among all the other incredible details and wonderful revelations of this incredible couple, known as my birth parents, I learned how loved I really was.

I was relinquished because during the pregnancy, my father, a Communications Specialist for the Canandian Navy, was transferred to the North Western Territories, for an indefinite duration. They had wanted to get married, but the pregnancy, and transfer were overwhelming developments that made them make difficult decisions. Both were 26, at the time. Both from large farming families in Alberta. Both highly educated. My mother moved from Alberta, to St. John's to spare her family the "disgrace", and to be Alone with me. She kept me with her for 3 days; had me named & baptised before I was sent to a Foster/Children's Home.

The adoption, itself, is a story of "it's not WHAT you know, it's WHO you know". As I said, I was not given any documentation from my parents. However, the shrew and company, decided FDH was worthy of their confidentiality, and provided him with a copy of an unofficial birth certificate -- this was to be used so I could obtain my passport  (for my honeymoon) in 1992.   With that paper, I found a type-written letter addressed to my Aparents.  That letter gave an update and the status of The Baby. According to this letter, I was, in fact, well fed, and developmentally appropriate. The letter was in the original envelope, with the adoption agency's name & address on it. I found these 2 yrs ago, as I was looking for my children's social security cards. I didn't bother telling any of them what I found, until this past year. In any case, since my adoption was International, requiring visas, and Naturalization, there was more of a paper-trail. However, the adoption agency was impossible to find/contact, as I had discovered a year after my adoption, they were forced to "close their doors, due to questionable practices'".

Sheer determination and persisitence ruled me. To be honest, I cannot recall just how I was able to make my contact, but I remember sending SO many letters, e-mails, phone messages to any and every agency I could think to contact. One particular woman, finally responded to me. I will never forget those moments, reading her message. Apparently, the adoption agency not only had to be closed, but there was ALSO a subsequent fire, ruining almost all records. As a state-agency, and having access to birth/adoption records made in the state, she was able to find more information for me, but reminded me it was very unlikely any of my records were salvaged.

Days later, she called to tell me the records for adoptions made in 1967, and '69 were intact, and a few records remained from 1968. God wanted me to find the truth, for myself. 2 months later, I was sitting next to this very same woman, and we spent hours crying together. Because my father is registered as military personelle, it would be "very easy" to find him; or at the very least, my paternal family. [The agency had legal names, but such information cannot be given in non-id info. Writen consent must be obtained, as per Adoption Law, before any names can be given to the adoptee.  Since I was born in Canada, I learned it takes more than a single written request to be granted permission to search and find my family members.] However, just because an adoptee cannot obtain the names without 47 requests and copies sent to 47 different govermental agencies, AND then wait 6 weeks for the biological parents to accept or deny consent to The Process.... (yes... I DO know the madness!)... that does not mean the Social Worker who befriended me, did not have this golden information literally, at her finger-tips.

She (the social worker) is the one who suggested I request a list of enlisted military personele from the Canadian government. (Public information). She went so far as telling me, "he has a VERY ethnic last name, making it very easy to decipher who he is." She allowed me to "guess" my mother's last name. What a fun and frustrating game THAT was! I was told, if I wished the Social Service Agency to search, on my behalf, I would have a 98% chance of success finding both parents. I had asked FDH to pay the $400 fee, as a Christmas gift for me.

This past Christmas, he scribbled a note telling me, "I wish you luck. I just know you will find them". The note was in an otherwise empty envelope. He spent the money reserved for the Search for a wonderful kegerator, we keep in our garage. The theory, I'm sure, is if I'm drunk, I won't notice the gaping hole in my heart & soul. Or more correct, HE will be too drunk to listen or care. I choose not to pursue the search. I cannot bear the possibility of being rejected, once again, twice-over. I know what I need to know. I know I am My Parent's Daughter. Period.