My (reunited) daughter doesn't speak to me: What did I do now? Cont., Part 4

The weekend Jane and I met, 1981

Fall 2003. I am on a panel of birth mothers at a Concerned United Birthparents retreat. One of the other women speaks rather long and forcefully about her therapist telling her repeatedly that giving up her child “was not her fault,” words a therapist had her repeat until she believes it, she feels it, she knows it. Her relationship with the father is a fleeting one-night stand in France, and maybe she does feel that way but I find her insistent “not my fault” message at odds with my own frame of mind. I did give a baby up for adoption. In some way, that was my fault. I've always tried to own up to what I did.

When I get up to speak, I talk about taking responsibility for our actions, no matter what. There's no winner, no polling of the audience, no instant feedback. I have no idea how those in attendance react.

 Later I attend a healing session led by Carol Schaefer, author of The Other Mother. Now as I hear Carol’s soothing voice, guiding our visualization, I see Jane [my daughter] coming toward me,
walking over a bridge, carrying a small, flat package wrapped in dark pink tissue paper—I have no idea what’s in the package, or why it’s pink, except that she’s a girl—and suddenly I am engulfed in a tsunami of tears. Cathartic tears? Not on your life. Just tears. At this point, I am way beyond catharsis; once again I am merely wretched. Many women in the group are in the same sorry boat—we had a reunion and then somehow it went south.

FEELING OUTSIDE THE MAINSTREAM OF LIFE 
Those of us who have relinquished a child often feel outside of the mainstream—we are the pariahs we know we are—and so we rarely speak of our deep and abiding pain. Being among our own kind, where we are not judged, or pitied, is immensely comforting. You don’t have to explain, or apologize, or feel embarrassed by the sudden rush of tears filling your eyes. It is all okay, for the woman sitting next to you, who is otherwise a stranger, understands. I confess to the group that my daughter has rejected me--again--and that's why I am in such pain. But in quite moments when I walk alone that weekend, I can’t help but recall the theory that the people who repress their feelings are the healthier. Maybe I ought to try it. 

Sometime that very same weekend, I hear Nancy Verrier, adoptive mother/adoption therapist/author, suggest that we tell our children, at least once, I am sorry. Sorry without caveats. Just sorry that your child is adopted. That you didn’t raise him or her. Sorry, plain and simple. No statement with “it was the times” or “my father/mother/priest/grandmother made me do it” or any of the other million reasons, no matter how true and valid they are. No matter if you were truly forced into signing the surrender papers. No matter if you felt you had no choice. No matter if you were raped and your parents sent you to purdah and said not to come back with that bastard. 

So what? is Verrier’s argument. No matter how it happened that you did not raise your baby, you can still be sorry, because, after all, aren’t you? The adopted person might rationally understand the mitigating factors about why she was relinquished, but maybe, she explains. to hear a mother say just once, “I’m sorry you were adopted,” would be healing. It would not deflect the blame to anyone or anything else, it was be an acknowledgment that no matter how the adoption turned out—good or bad or in between—you are sorry that it happened at all. She adds that a lot of after-reunion relationships improve dramatically once this is said. Do it once, she adds, not a million times. You don’t have to be a whipping post.

WHY DID YOU GIVE MAMA UP?
A light bulb over my head switches on. Have I ever done this, the way Verrier is talking about it? I am pretty sure the answer is no—otherwise, why would this feel like such a revelation? On the flight home, I stare out the window of the airplane as a conversation I had with Britt that summer floats by like a passing cloud. She was eleven—old enough to be fully aware of that adoption meant I had given birth to her mother, but then gave her up. She knew by then that there were both grief and joy between Jane and me, and now she wanted to know, Why did you give Mama up?

Verrier's long-selling book

She saw that Tony and I had a normal middle-class life, that we lived in a neighborhood of nice houses in a swell seaside town, so how come? We were in her bedroom at our house, it was after dinner, early evening but not yet dark. We had not put on a lamp yet.

How to explain what it was like in 1966, what my situation was then, what it was like to be an unwed mother?  How to explain how the rare “unwed mother” had whispers clinging to her like pollen in the springtime? Britt knew kids who had single moms, and by the way, she herself had not seen her father since she was two, and until Jane married, her own mom been a single mother. Britt had been absorbed into the family of Jane’s other parents, so why hadn’t that been the way with Jane and my family? She was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.

But didn’t you have an uncle or someone you could have asked for help? she wanted to know. Someone who would have helped you? Couldn’t you have gone to the bank and explained to the man you needed money?

I explained the situation, the times, he was married, I was alone, I couldn’t get a loan, you weren’t supposed to have a baby if you weren’t married, et cetera. 

She wasn’t buying any of it. Finally I say, women who had babies and weren’t married were, uh, scorned. Like hos. I knew she had recently learned the word. 

Oh.

But. The look on her face told me she was not convinced. I knew she was thinking: There must have been a way. I turned on the light. I waited.

“I made a mistake,” I finally said. “A terrible mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. I thought it was best for both her and me, but it turned out not to be.” I raised my eyebrows and stared into her bright blue eyes, aware at that moment how much like Patrick’s they were. I knew I was staring into the eyes of an old soul, one who understands much.

Ah, now she got it. A mistake.

Mistakes she understood. Grandma Lorraine made a mistake. That she can accept. It was a doozy of a mistake, but still: a mistake. She said nothing more.

By the time the plane lands, I know what I must do. I would make that call. I would simply say: I’m sorry. No caveats added. Said or unsaid would be this: I made a mistake.--lorraine

NEXT: Conclusion: The reason for my daughter's withdrawal/rejection is revealed. 
________________________
Previous sections at First Mother Forum to this chapter of hole in my heart, a memoir still-in-progress. I swear this will be published soon!
First Mother to (reunited) daughter: What did I do wrong now?
What did this first mother do wrong now? Cont.
What did I do wrong now? Cont. Part 3

The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child 

This book is a definite "must read" for all parents of adopted children. I know that as a parent you will resist believing in the Primal Wound but you must for the benefit of your children. You will learn to understand your adopted children and will be able to help them throughout their lives - sometimes even in the smallest way, i.e. the simple reassurance that you WILL return home after work. I met my birth family at 30 years old. Then I read this book a few years later. This book made a difference in my life. It will make a difference in your life." --An adoptee at Amazon
LOVE
I love this book--an illustrated story told on vibrant pages with uneven edges and popups and cut outs--and have given it to people I love. The story is a simple one about a little girl who loses her parents and ends up in an orphanage and feels very very alone...until one day....Yes, I would give it to a mother or an adoptee for Mother's Day. You may feel differently, but I will always love this book.  
THANK YOU FOR ORDERING THOUGH FMF.