A birthmother shares her experience with the closed adoption process: “I came from a good family, was a good girl, on the honor roll and crazy in love with a boy one grade ahead of me. Within a year, I was pregnant. My parents did not discover it until I was five-months-along. They were devastated. My father wouldn’t see or speak to me for the rest of the pregnancy and my mother quickly whisked me away to live with relatives in another state. My uncle was a doctor and I lived with him and his wife for the duration of my pregnancy. It had already been decided, by my parents, that I would not keep the baby and would give it up for adoption immediately after the birth. Social Services was contacted and the agency took it from there.
I remember the home visit. All the vital information was taken down, including the birthfather’s, with whom I continued to have a secret relationship. The agent recorded the color of our hair, our eyes, and our weight and height. The social worker never asked if I liked to draw, if I was musically inclined or even what kind of music I listened to. I felt like an object, not a human being. The agency never told me I had any other option. The social worker told me there was no way I could raise a child alone, with no money and no husband. It would be unfair to the child, she said. She told me how selfless I would be if I gave my child to a deserving couple who yearned for a child of their own. The couple would be able to provide where I could not. She told me I would soon get over it and get on with my life.
The day I went into labor, I was neither excited nor scared. I was almost angry. I already loved the child inside of me and was not looking forward to us being apart. I would hug my belly at night and rock back and forth – and cry. I knew that would be the closest I would come to holding her. My grandmother took me to the hospital where I was met by nurses with hearts of stone. There were no smiling faces, no congratulations. Only stern looks that reflected disgust and judgment. Back in 1979, it was still taboo to be so young, pregnant and unmarried. In 1979 it was shameful. I knew this would be one of the best and worse days of my whole life.
I was still a kid but I had courage that day that would make a grown man proud. I received no pain medication. When I told a nurse I didn’t think I could take the pain, she replied, “You should have thought about that before you got yourself this way”. I didn’t say a word after that. They strapped my arms to the table and told me to push when the time came. I remember thinking that I shouldn’t touch her or look at her. As soon as she came out they put her on the table, beside my leg, to cut the cord. I stretched my hand out from under the strap just enough to stroke her leg with my right index finger. It was the only time I ever touched her and it’s burned into my memory. Then they took her away.
I have all but forgotten all the mean, judgmental people who were there that day. One angel was there in the form of a young doctor. He surely knew I wasn’t supposed to see my child and wasn’t even involved in my case, but brought her to my room anyway. She looked so tiny and helpless in the bassinet. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The doctor said only a few words to me but was the only one who made me feel like a respected human being for the first time in a long time. He told me she was a “handsome child” and asked me if I wanted to touch her. I wanted to scoop her up and run with her. I could hear a soft sighing and asked him if it was her making that sound. He said yes and asked me again if I wanted to touch her. Something told me that if I ever actually held her or touched her that I would never be able to go on. I would die. I knew that ‘they’ were coming to take her away and I would never see her, hold her or know her, ever. I replied to the doctor’s question with a simple “no”.
The next memory I have is of being wheeled down to the lobby of the hospital to sign papers, relinquishing my baby. I was still numb but it was made very clear to me that I had absolutely no other option other than to give my own flesh and blood to people I didn’t even know. I was signing away any right to ever be able to contact or receive information about my child. I tried to look at the papers I was signing but they covered them up and, of course I was not given a copy. I meant nothing to them now. They had what they wanted.
Not knowing what has happened to her or where she is pains me to this day. Thirty years later. Thirty years. I still grieve. I still cry sometimes like it was yesterday. Apparently the social worker was wrong. I didn’t get over it. It feels like a ‘living death’. I’ve wondered if parents, who have lost a child, ever really get over it. Of course not.
I will not even allege to know what the death of a child feels like. But, as horrible as it sounds, sometimes I think a parent could cope better with the death of their child as opposed to not knowing. Just knowing your child is out there and not being able to perform the most basic, primal act of nurturing and loving that child is torture, hell on earth. I have put my name on every registry site and contacted every social service agency in my area to make sure that my daughter knows I will welcome a reunion with arms wide open. So far, all I’ve been told is, “I’m sorry, we can’t give you any identifying information, it’s the law”. When the laws finally do get changed regarding closed adoption, I just hope the system that created it is ready for the backlash.”
