An Open Goodbye to My Birthmother: Barbara

Goodbye, Barbara -

Although I don't remember meeting you the first time I certainly do remember finding you 40 years later ... dead. Ultimately, I've come to recognize that this is a good thing as all a child's/adolescent's/young woman's/young mother's hopes and dreams of having a "real mother" certainly weren't going to come true in you.

Yes, it stung. Yes, I sobbed. Yes, I thought my life had ended. Yes, the first time I laid eyes on your grave in Sunbury, PA I thought I'd claw my way through the dirt to be next to you ... if only until I got hauled away. Somewhere there are a couple of photos of "us" taken in the rain by my now ex-husband. You, as I have come to know you through your gravestone, were elegant, formal, and have perfect punctuation. Me - wearing an amazingly tear stained poker face ... being photo bombed by two cranky little boys in a minivan already worn out from from a visit to their own grandparents, and a heavy dose of Gettysburg. Were it not for the tears, my face was as blank as that of one hailing a cab. The irony that a self proclaimed genealogist gave birth to a researcher is not lost on me. For as much as I curse the evil medical DNA you shared with us we also got major doses of "smart" along with some other fairly more than ok things. Oh. Yeah. I found my siblings ... and I thank you for that very detailed genealogist like obituary you wrote for yourself! Most helpful!

I had hoped to travel to NY to attend my own high school reunion this weekend, with maybe a visit to the "family plot" on the side. But Lyme, being the adversary that it is, may not make that possible. Given the opportunity I was going to stop by and tell you I won't be coming to see you anymore. I was even going to write you a letter, put it in a zippered plastic bag, and place it atop your grave with a stone (catch that spiritual significance?) But then I decided I'd worry about the potential of the letter getting lost in the rain, or the bag becoming unsealed and all my Lyme wobbly words being smeared (damn gel pens.) What if my computer crashed and I lost the Word doc ... etc., etc., etc.? Then there was the very real issue of the literal delivery. For as public as THIS is, there is also some sort of faceless anonymity behind it all. Mostly for me. Oh, it's "real," but it's not as "real" as my wanting to throw myself on the ground or worse ... sobbing stone faced in a car for 100 miles or so. Or both. I've done it before so clearly it's a possibility. What if, what if, what if. Too many shades of gray for this black and white woman!

I'd like to think that as a "mother" you thought about me on my birthday. G-d knows I sobbed my way through every one of mine thinking of you, and then sobbed my way through that song by that stupid mouse about being underneath the same moon. I saw you everywhere. Wondered if you walked the same beaches I did, read the same books, had any sort of style. I'm guessing "no,"no," and "hell yes."

So here it goes. In the mid-50's in NYC, Spence Chapin was THE place where all the "right" WASP college girls relinquished their children fathered by all the "right" WASP college boys so rich WASP NYers (Westchester Co, please) could adopt them.

ADOPTION WAS A LIE. Everything about it. Barbara, you signed no paperwork promising confidentiality. I was placed in foster care and adopted at age two. My non-identifying information told me things like you were small (true,) had blonde hair (lie,) blue eyes (lie,) and were majoring in elementary education in college. Lie. Lie. Oh. You were quite secretive about my birthfather (true) although he held a very prestigious position (big time true.) It was fortuitous that my dad kept ALL my adoption paperwork including the one where I became a ward of the State of NY. Me. Constance. ME. Two years later, by the stroke of pen and the Seal of the almighty State of New York, Constance vanished. Gone. Like into thin air. In her place, Ruth Ellen appeared. My dad told me there was a very loud verbal brawl between my foster mother, the social worker, and me (on one side of the wall) while my dad and adoptive mother were on the other. Given that all my clothing belonged to the State of New York they had to pin me down to get my clothes off and then I refused to let go of my foster mother. When I was delivered into my dad's arms I was one limp hot mess clutching a stuffed rabbit that the State, in its benevolence, had allowed my foster mother to give me. Apparently I had slept with it for the first two years of my life and she didn't want to me to be scared with nothing familiar around me. Now THERE'S a mom.

Babs, you've been the subject of much counseling over the years and most recently I rather defiantly said to my current counselor, "You know what? I didn't HAVE a mother. I had three chances and NO ONE wanted me. Not my birthmother, not my foster mother, and not my adoptive mother. I'm my OWN damned mother." (Oh, and thanks for that defiant spirit, btw, it's gotten me through a LOT.) I was rather proud of myself for that little nugget of realization only 56-58 years after the fact, and was kind of glazed over when he responded. I had to ask him to repeat himself and as I leaned forward he said again, "You're so much farther than that, Ruth. So much farther. You know what love is and isn't. You know what family is and isn't. You don't like it, but you know the truth. You're past accepting the unjust and have moved on to redefine yourself and those you let into your life through those lenses. If you make this trip, it will be a journey ... one you'll be glad to have made." I kind of shrugged it off as I was paying him until he said, "Don't forget to bring something home with you so you can remember where you've been and what you've accomplished. You do that." (He's right ... I do.)

So yeah. Next time I visit I won't be bringing you any flowers, or letters, or a stone for your grave. But I will be taking one home with me, because MY adoption is about ME. Not you, and not my adoptive mother. ME. Constance. Ruth. ME. You're in the mountains of PA ... I've got some slate from my dad's backyard in NY. I think some slate from PA might be in order. Even if all I do is walk all over it.

Goodbye, Barbara. I'm thankful I found you and am equally thankful I never met you. I don't think I'd like you at all.

Constance -

Oh. I just googled that stupid mouse song and here are the lyrics. I still can't bear to listen to it ... I guess my healing is not yet complete. But it will be ... believe me, it will be. Listening to it no longer makes me weep for you, Barbara. It makes me weep for me.

Somewhere out there beneath the pale moonlight
Someone's thinking of me and loving me tonight

Somewhere out there someone's saying a prayer
That we'll find one another in that big somewhere out there

And even though I know how very far apart we are
It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star

And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby
It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky

Somewhere out there if love can see us through
Then we'll be together somewhere out there
Out where dreams come true

And even though I know how very far apart we are
It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star

And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby
It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky

Somewhere out there if love can see us through
Then we'll be together somewhere out there
Out where dreams come true