Support Group

It has been some time since I've shared anything recent on my quest. I have been neglectful in ways more than the obvious lack of posts. Although, I did sign up to be a writer for the Examiner.com's local adoption page, I have yet to make one entry. The Examiner is an online publication that posts local writers' articles on a variety of subjects. It was my thought that I would probably copy a few of my entries here, and make it an editorial-ish page.
The Examiner, which I somehow stumbled across while flipping through the world wide web, claims to be supreme in readership attraction and promotion, delivering increasingly consuming audiences and in some cases ultimately leading to book publication. We'll see about that. I'm not taking odds yet.
I decided I would give it a shot, just to see what kind of numbers I can generate as far as hits. I have somehow become a hit junkie. I keep finding myself logging into Blogger even when I haven't published anything recently, just to see if my numbers are increasing. Somehow they are, which pleases me. I finally made it to the 1000 mark. I don't know if that is a wimpy number in the grand scheme of bloggerdome, but to me, it's somewhat of an accomplishment. It's really just a round number, but still.
I've seen some blogs out there that made me shudder to think they have regular readership. One recent winner of most read blog on Blogger is a page by some Asian woman who describes putting on make-up. My God. What is that about? Moreso, who gives a rat's ass? Someone does I suppose, just not this chic.
Instead, the competition for the most hits of a blog really is not dependent upon the actual content as much as it is the intensity of promotion being emitted- the advertising. That is sad, but not surprising, considering that most of what you see on tv is junk, and most of what People Magazine writes about is smut and questionably credible. We are a society that follows others, not as freethinking as we wish and sometimes claim to be. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but I want to be opposite of the norm. Being normal doesn't work. I won't elaborate, don't think I need to.
So, I decided to go to a support group in Greensboro at the urging of Karen, the former Post Adoption counselor at the Children's Home Society. Sure, Greensboro is 95 miles from Charlotte, and it was a school night, and raining enough to irritate the roaches and force worms out of their homes at alarming rates, but it wasn't enough to hinder me. The meeting started at 7 as I recall. I got there early and met the regulars at La Bamba for some authentic Mexican dinner beforehand. The invitation was extended, and I have trouble saying no to any sort of social gathering, especially when the people that would be meeting for dinner were all somehow tied to adoption, by either being a birthparent, adoptee, or adoptive mother. All areas were represented by this seemingly normal crowd.
Had I not gotten the call from the mediator/facilitator of the group, Francie, who also happens to be a licensed counselor at the CHS and a reunited adoptee herself, I might have put it off for one more month. I won't go back until December, when they have the Christmas party. Next month is movie night. Greensboro is simply too far to drive for a movie. I like movies as much as the next gal, but Netflix might boast the same movie, and I can certainly rent it and maybe in their honor watch it on the same night and hold a silent vigil from my comfy green couch with the squishy salmon colored down stuffed pillows that I can scrunch under my neck just perfectly.
When I finally made it to the restaurant where a few members of the group meet for dinner every second Tuesday of the month, I was somewhat jittery feeling, which is not me. I was shaking when I was applying my lipstick, as if I had gone out the night before and really tied one on (not the case, if you were wondering.)
I walked in the room that I thought Francie had described, probably looking touristy, with a puzzled look on my face, trying to blindly identify a group of adopted people.
I was expecting the group to be more my age. I'm 35. It was not the case. They were mostly 40ish and over. Immediately, they recognized me, maybe it was my slow walk and full scan of the room. I noticed a few whisper. It was to be expected. After all, I am a newcomer, a foreigner, but somehow still connected, still integrated through the very fabric of adoption, which brings me to have an even deeper respect for the synergy of adoption.
They were curious of how I got there. I was one of them.
After an initial awkwardness, quickly relieved by one of the ladies leaving early to meet the camera crew (I'll explain later), so that I could sit at their table, things felt comfortable again. Initially, I had to sit alone at a neighboring table because, I assume they had not predicted I would show. I think I maybe have been non-committal in my discussion with Francie that afternoon, since I hadn't made any previous arrangements for Sarah. Thank you Carole. You always come through.
At the table were an adoptee reunion match- both the birthmother and the adoptee drove from different cities to attend, one of which lives in the very city that my birthmother lives, and formerly worked at the same college Colette presently works for. Small world, I agree. There was another older women there, maybe late 60s, early 70s, who was an adoptee, who had never been reunited.
I found it somewhat odd that she still cared. I guess that interpersonal dialouge never subsides. Who am I really? Where am I from? Who gave birth to me? Why can't I know that person?
Another lady, who was a bit stand-offish initially, maybe not friendly is a better way of putting it, because I found that I really liked her when it was all said and done, who was adopted and reunited sat beside me. Her story was amazing to hear and brought me to tears, and has been replayed like a broken record in my mind ever since.
Naturally, since I was new, they flooded me with questions, but were urged by Francie to stop, and to wait until we got to the actual meeting. For the first few minutes, while Francie was there, they only asked me the basics. What do you know? Are you reunited? Does your adoptive family know you are searching? All normal and to be expected questions from people who know the entailments of adoption. I knew it would go down like that. I have been asked the same questions many times over the years, but there is a noticeable difference in the questions adoptees ask versus the questions non adoptees ask. One asks the question, "why are you looking?" The other knows the answer, and asks, "how" instead. The phenomena is quite amazing, and the representation of ideas and strategies revolving around the search are quite expansive depending on who you are talking to.
That night, there was a camera man recording the conversation for the local FOX news station. One of the reporters was doing a three part series on adoption and reunition. She happened to have her own story of adoption. One day she met her full blooded sister, whom her parents had given up for adoption. Incidentally, they ended up married to eachother and had gone on to have more children- one of whom was the reporter.
I was somewhat nervous to tell my story, again, not a character trait of mine normally. I could tell my voice was cracking some. I was steadily trying to have eye contact with all who were at the long cafeteria style table, so as not to leave anyone out, because of my deeply felt connection that was naturally integrated because of our similar stories.
It wasn't until I heard the story of the lady I referred to at the dinner table, that I started to really become emotional.
Her story was this.
She had been adopted. She somehow, she didn't go into the nitty gritty details of the search, found her birthmother. She had an address and instead of knocking on the door, she sat silently in her car out front of her birthmother's house in fear. For six years she didn't have any contact with the birthmother until her phone rang one day, and it was her half sister (I think, I don't know for sure) telling her to come to the hopsital as soon as she could. Her birthmother had been given 3-4 days to live and was in stage 4 lung cancer. Hospice was there, a tell-tale sign that death is near. Because of the birthmother's husband's strong will to keep them separated, I'm guessing driven by fear, the adoptee, let's call her Sam, for some reason she reminded me of a Sam, Sam could never get through to her birthmother. The husband, who was not the birthfather, was acting as a barrier. When she had tried to reach out to her birthmother, he made it impossible for the reunion to take place, filling each of their heads with deceitful and hurtful lies.
As Sam walked into the hospital room in Shelby, NC, where the birthmother resided, the mean old husband tried to stand in her way, prompting his own daughter to stand up to him. She looked him square in the eye with her finger pointed at his nose, and said, "If anyone in this world has a right to be in this hosptal room right now more than you, it's her. You have kept them apart for way too long, and she's going to come in here and meet the woman that gave birth to her. You aren't going to stop her."
He backed off, and let her in. I hope that he finally realized how wrong he had been all those years by intentionally keeping them apart, through his undoubtedly selfish motives.
And you know what? She didn't live the 3-4 days that the doctors had predicted. She lived another 9 months. If that's not will to live, I don't know what is.
She developed a wonderful bond with her birthmother, and now has memories of her, even though she doesn't have her.
I told that story to almost everyone I spoke to at work the next day who knew why I was dipping out at 4 instead of the normal 5. I still revel in the beauty, and had to take a moment to ponder it again while typing it just now.
This makes me think I should not wait any longer.I should print out the letter, and drop it in the mailbox. I don't want her to get sick and die before I ever get to meet her. Wow, I shouldn't be offing her so quickly. That's kind of morbid. Maybe I'll rethink that.
There's more to the meeting, but I am tired. It's 12:45 and I have a lot to do tomorrow.