Today is June 11th. And four thousand, three hundred, and eighty three days ago I gave birth to a little girl I named Elizabeth Christine. She was born at 10:55 a.m. Today, she turns 12 and I won't be allowed to give her a gift or tell her happy birthday. Why? She was coerced out of my arms by a "Christian" crisis pregnancy center and placed into the arms of a "Christian" couple who promptly renamed her Elizabeth Martin.
But let's rewind. So many of you know my story so I won't linger over the details in yet another post. If you want those, you can read them in the archives listed to the right. Start at the earliest post and read forward.
But, in a nutshell, let me sum it up this way. I was in a very bad relationship from Oct. 1994 - Spring 1999. I fled the relationship after deciding not to abort the baby at 19 weeks. I was literally on the table, abortionist between my knees, when I decided not to have her butchered. I called a crisis pregnancy center that promised to help me. Once they had me in their office and had promised help, they began to pitch adoption. I was moved from the Upstate to Myrtle Beach in April 1999. I had virtually no counselling since my counselor was brand-spanking new. Seriously. I was her first adoption case. I was told that Bethany only did open adoptions but that I would not get any identifying info until the papers was signed.. I chose a couple, met them, had them at doctor's visits, and even in the delivery room.
But after I'd given birth, I was told that the state of South Carolina did not recognize open adoption agreements and that the adoption would be "semi-open" ... meaning that any and all correspondences would go through the agency. I would never, ever receive any identifying information on the family. I started to change my mind on the adoption and was treated like a whore, a piece of trash by that oh-so-loving "Christian" agency family with whom I'd been living. My medical records state that I was crying and distraught, that I had not slept at all. The nurses called my counselor. Ginger came to my bedside ... with the couple who proceeded to cry and promise the moon if I'd just sign the papers.
So, on June 13, 1999, I did just that. I signed those fucking papers from my hospital bed, less than 48 hours post partum, and with no sleep. I'd cried so much that my eye lids were swollen.
Mary and Ethan took her. I was rushed from the hospital without even being discharged.
Since then, I have been lucky enough to come learn the full identity of the adopters. They know that I know. And I have been overly civil. I've never gone to their door or made a nuisance of myself. All I've done is sent letters to the adoptive mother and asked to have a relationship with her -- not the child. She has balked each time, claiming that God wants it this way. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
We have friends in common, but that's still not enough to get her to see me as a person, not some faceless "birthmother."
In September of last year, they closed the adoption and returned -- unopened and in a trash bag -- the gift I'd sent to Martin last June for her birthday. (blogged here http://messagesformartin.blogspot.com/2010/09/snotty-letter-from-martins-adopters.html)
So, today, I sit here and silently wish Martin a very happy 12th birthday. I hope that, as she grows and becomes a curious teen, she will search me out. I hope to be able to tell my side of the story and not that whitewashed, "God ordained this" hogwash. I've waited 4,383 days. I can wait another 2,192 days for her to be of legal age and out of the legal hold of Mary and Ethan Allison.
Infant adoption in this country is, for the most part, a huge money racket. Too many young women are used and lied to in order to obtain that womb-fresh baby to sell to the highest bidder. So, yes, I sit here and send birthday wishes into the cool, silent early morning air. I shed tears from what might have been. And I send a big "SCREW YOU!" to the people who used lies and coercion to take her from my arms.
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