It's D-Day

Yes, today is D-day. It's the anniversary of the day a part of me died.

4,383 days ago I was coerced into signing away part of my soul. I was promised one thing by the agency that had vowed to help me and was begged to “take a leap of faith” with the people who wanted my child. I jumped and landed flat on my face in a desolate land of cast-offs, the land of women who, to quote Bethany representative Carlan Foltz, “spread [their] legs and got pregnant out of wedlock.” I was among those who had “no right to grieve” the loss of a baby (again, quoting Foltz) since we had no right to it to begin with.

And, as I looked back up to the precipice from which I lept, I could see the couple holding my baby and shaking hand with the Bethany Christian Services representative. None of them were going to take that “leap of faith” with me. It was just rhetoric used to convince a simple little rube like me to do what they wanted. It was rhetoric that they could use to get rid of me. It was rhetoric that led to my banishment in the land of birthmothers.

Now, the couple kept their promise to the agency and sent pictures and a letter every month for the first year. I am positive that they would have stopped had I not come across their identity, and thus their location, six months into the “open” adoption fiasco. I am sure they were scared of me because, let’s face it, Hollywood has pegged all birthmothers as promiscuous, drugged up pieces of trash, people who are absolutely untrustworthy. So, they placated me for the next 10 years – sending a letter and some pictures every 12 to 18 months. They always sent things through the agency despite the fact that I knew who and where they were and vice versa. I, on the other hand, refused to do so. I would mail letters directly to them. But that was the only contact. I never went to their house, searched them on Facebook, sent emails, showed up at their church, or harassed them on the phone. Nay, all I did was send letters every now and then to the adoptive mother in an attempt to establish a relationship with her. I never asked to see the adopted child at all. I wanted this woman to see me as someone very much like herself, someone that had the best interest of the child at heart. I told her about things happening in my own family (I am now married and my husband and I have two daughters of our own). But no, each response from her was very clinical, always referring to me in the past tense. In one letter, she likened me to baggage. Not just baggage, but Nazi baggage.  How nice.

Like it or not, though, I will be a part of their lives until the day I die. I gave birth to the child they cherish so and I specifically chose them to adopt her. I entrusted them with a part of my soul and they can’t trust me enough to send me a letter in the mail directly.

To make matters even more insulting, we live within 10 miles of each other and have friends in common. One "friend," turns out, talked trash about me to the adoptive mother. I had been warned about this two-faced person, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt and trusted her. My trust led to the closing of the already semi-closed adoption. But I digress, we have other friends in common. One other has come out to Mary, but the others have not. And I will not force them to.
Heck, I graduated high school with one of the associate pastors at her church! I ran into the reverend in a store one day and, after catching up with things that have happened since our days at good ol’ Southside High, I told this person about the adoption fiasco. After a moment of dumbfounded, wide-eyed silence, I got the same old thing – “She looks just like you!”

They all reassure me, though, that Mary (the adoptive mother) is a wonderful, caring person, that she is an excellent mother to her adoptive children.  They tell me that she is more than likely just afraid of me.

My issue is that Mary begged me to take a leap of faith on her and her husband – begged me as I sat in my hospital bed holding the baby the day after giving birth. She begged me to trust her, yet she can’t do something as simple as establish an email relationship with me. Seriously? I hate to sound hokey, but seeing that she is a strongly convicted Protestant, I have to ask: What would Jesus do?

Mary really would be horrified to know how interwoven God has made our lives. I have not sought out her friends – they just seem to fall into my lap. Perhaps God is trying to reassure me that Martin is well taken care of. But I think it’s more than that. I think that He is trying to show Mary that I, too, am a person very much like herself. It seems that she is just too stubborn to see it.

So I sit here, my hands tied. Martin turned 12 two days ago and I was not allowed to wish her a happy birthday via a card or gift. (The card and gift I sent last year was returned, unopened, in a trash bag.)  I gave her life, I allowed them to have their heart’s desire, but I am not allowed to celebrate either. I lit a candle on a cupcake, hummed “Happy Birthday,” made a wish for openness, and blew out the candle. Then, I threw the damned cake against a tree outside.

 That agency used me, lied to me, then treated me like a pariah. And Mary and Ethan followed their lead.

So, I sit here, 4,385 days into Martin’s life and I bide my time. I’ve waited 12 years. My banishment is two thirds of the way over. I’ve waited this long. I can wait another 6 years until I can legally walk up to Martin and introduce myself. She will probably be less than receptive, but I will leave her with enough reading material to make her question everything that she was raised to believe.

I do wonder, though, if it’ll take that long. In this age of the internet, I would be surprised if Martin doesn’t begin search for her roots online. The teeneage years are fraught with questions and how I so hope she not only has them but seeks answers. In the coming years, I will make my blog searchable on engines like Bing and Google. If she does know she’s adopted, that blog will be easy for her to find.

So, looking back, I can say that I am not that stupid, naïve young woman who so easily trusted, who jumped off the cliff into the land of banishment. If this experience has taught me anything, it’s that the old adage rings true: “Beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

So, until June 11, 2017 … I wait. I hope for the best, but am well prepared to wait out this sentence in its entirety.