I
was twelve and stood in a sky blue coat dress feeling very small among somberly
dressed adults at the edge of my father’s open grave. A slim silver crucifix lay
on top of the simple oak casket. An only child, I stood with my small hand
nestled inside my mother’s. She trembled from the cold wind that blew out of
the March sky and the grief that had come from nowhere into her life descending
like a twister from a Midwestern sky.
I felt lonely and afraid yet at the same
time comforted by the strength and love that flowed from the family and friends
who gathered around my mother and me. These people stood around us like an army
ready to do battle in our names. They were the promise that we would survive. This circle of guardians was a reflection of the
life my parents had created for themselves, a life filled with decent,
fair-minded people who, just like them, treasured and nurtured true friendship
and supportive love.
Years before that day at my father’s grave, there
was a half-moon high over our rose-colored, one-story tract home. It was a warm Californian summer night. I smelled
orange blossoms from the small grove down the street. mingled with the heady
aroma of gardenias from our neighbor’s well-tended yard.
I was five years old, small and skinny. Mom
and I waited at the side gate while Dad drove the long, pink Oldsmobile into
the garage. His teeth flashed white in the dark as he smiled and walked towards
us. Mom took my hand in hers. We walked into the backyard and I heard the gate
clang shut behind us. My entire universe
was within my sight, my parents, our tidy backyard with the big leafed mulberry
tree, the light from the kitchen window, and the brilliant starry sky.
We
walked out from under the spreading branches of the mulberry tree. Mom sat down on the top step leading to the
back porch of the house. She gathered me up into her arms and looked up to the
sky. “Look at all the stars, Annie,” she said. I obediently looked up at all
the twinkles. She continued, “You know, you can make wishes on stars? And
sometimes they come true.” I nodded, liking the idea quite a bit. With a bit of
a hug and a kiss to my forehead she said, “Your Daddy and I wanted a baby for
so long. We wished and wished for a
little girl. Finally one day, a little
star was given to us…you.”
After
twelve years of marriage and trying to conceive, they adopted me, a three-day-old
baby girl. Mom would tell of crying tears of joy the entire seven miles from
hospital to home, saying, “Oh, Jimmy, she is so beautiful.” When they got to the house, she ran to the
bedroom to undress me and to stand arm in arm with my Dad staring at the
miracle of a beautiful, naked baby on their bed, their own child.
That sense of being chosen shaped much of how
have I lived my life. Our close-knit family was comprised of people related by
blood and people my parents chose to make family. They knew to nurture all
those relationships like prized orchids.
They took nothing and no one for granted. So when I stood next to my
father’s grave with my numb and
bewildered mother I was a little less afraid because of the presence of all
those that stood with us, stood for us.
My
father’s death at age fifty-two following heart surgery was unexpected. My mother was cast adrift. She was suddenly without her smiling Jimmy,
her anchor, her light-hearted partner.
She was a single mother with only a part-time job and large medical
bills. She was faced with sleeping in an empty bed for the first time in twenty-five
years. She was stunned, angry, and
afraid. Our community of family and
friends supported us in ways I only fully came to appreciate later as an
adult. They sheltered me from just how
badly damaged she was until I was old enough to understand.
Through gestures and actions both small and
large they got my mother through the first couple of years helping her find
herself and her direction. She gradually regained her smile and found a new
path into the future.
Our community of loved ones kept laughter in our lives,
even at a time when it seemed hard to find something to laugh about. These were
conscious, deliberate decisions on the part of our family and friends. They chose to support us, to remain as close
as we would allow, to help us remember the good times, and face the bad
times.
Thirteen
years ago, with the support of my adoptive mother, Maxine, I made the decision
to search for my birth family. Unlike
some, I was not looking for the “missing piece,” as I have never felt
incomplete or discarded. Rather, it was
the simple importance of family connection and community that drove me to
search for my birth family at the age of forty-three.
With
a few facts my mom remembered of the circumstances of my birth, I found my
older half-siblings, a sister and a brother. Despite the passage of years and
circumstances surrounding my adoption, our coming together was immediate,
intense, and joyous. There were long
late-night phone calls, even longer emails and letters, and the sharing of many
photos.
My birth mother, Betty, was
relieved to find out that the daughter she had to give up was safe, loved, and
happy. Yet she was not ready to meet me.
I understood. I was content with the relationships that I was building
with my siblings and the eight nieces and nephews that I acquired almost overnight.
I believed that time would take care of the rest.
Eventually,
my birth mother and her second husband made the long emotional journey to my
home. We shared many secrets, shed tears together, and began to forge a
relationship. When several years later,
I planned a visit to California to visit my adoptive mom, my birth mother
emailed me to say she was ready to meet my mother.
A
Christmas tree stood in the corner of the common area of the senior apartments
where my adoptive mom made her home.
Good King Wenceslas was playing on the stereo system and the scent of
freshly baked chocolate chip cookies floated through the air. Mom and I held
hands while we sat nervously on the small love seat next to the fireplace. We saw the car pull into a guest parking
space.
Mom could not wait. She rose with
remarkable speed given the arthritis in her knees and walked outside. I stayed behind a few steps. Betty walked
across the small palm-lined parking lot towards my mom, followed by her husband
a few paces behind. Under a big blue
Southern Californian sky my two mothers embraced. They stood with their arms
around each other looking into each other’s eyes. Betty said in a whisper, “Thank
you for taking care of her.” My mom
gently responded with tears on her cheeks, “Thank you for letting me.”
It was
the intersecting of two worlds, two lives, through me. My sense of being chosen
was never stronger. I had been, in fact, chosen twice. Once by my adoptive
parents when they chose to make a family with me, and now a second time when my
birth mother chose to reconnect completely with me, my mom, and my family.
The
following years brought a sad, slow decline in my adoptive mother’s life as she
battled poor health and dementia. As
heart wrenching as it was, she and I never doubted the love and connection we
had with one another. Nor did we ever feel abandoned by our pieced-together
family that surrounded us. We navigated the unwelcome and uncharted waters of
her last few years by the light that shone from the many lanterns lit by our
loved ones.
In her last days in hospice,
we were surrounded by pictures of her beloved Jimmy. I would sit holding her hand like I had so
many times before. We listened to the Big Band music of her early days with dad. Long after she could no longer speak or
perhaps hear I would talk of memories, of family, and of friends. At the end,
as it had been in life, it was the family we chose to create that gave us the strength
and courage to fight the battle and face the unknown.
She
died in the middle of the night. When I
left her for the last time, I walked out under a star-filled Florida sky not
unlike the one she and I had sat under so many years ago back in California. I
remembered how once upon a time she had wished upon the stars for a little girl.
Now, it was me looking up to the stars in thanksgiving and grief. It was me
wishing on the stars for her safe passage. It was me giving thanks to the stars
for choosing to bring us together. As I walked to the car, I knew that family
waited for me at home to wrap their arms around my aching heart with love and
support. I knew that I would grieve. I would heal. I would grow stronger. I
would remember. I would remember that I was chosen.
