Biology Means Nothing

It was a Thursday, about 1pm, another sunny day, and the phone rang. I looked at the number staring at me on the screen. It said Wayne.

I answered it with a questioning, Hello?

I'm not sure why I answered like that when I knew perfectly who it was. I had his number saved, treasured, just as he had mine. I wonder if my number was saved to his phone or scribbled down on a piece of rogue paper floating atop a stack of papers on his desk.

I sensed on the first call that he was in his office with his door closed, perhaps leaning back on a leather swivel chair that his kids had once spun around and around and around in, as children would, like the chair that I now own, that was once Dad's office chair. It sits in my den, completely out of place, and rivaling Charity's chair. I call it Charity's because she loves it and nestles in it when she visits.

It's comforting to sit in, for reasons other than the obvious. It reminds me of Dad, of the way he would lean back with his fingers locked together over his chest, legs crossed, while telling one of his jokes. It reminds me of the way he would give me that same goofy grin, when I would roll my eyes, shaking my head, yet smiling. I miss his jokes now. I miss him and his advice, and dare I say, lack thereof.

I dropped the broom, and plopped down on the green couch. This couch has seen it all, and doesn't utter a word.

Hello Brooke. This is Wayne. Do you remember me? He said in a non threatening way, his voice so assuring though I sensed difficulty to follow.

Of course I do, Wayne. I called you first! Thank you for calling me back. How are you?

Well Brooke, I don't have good news. I really wish I did.

My heart dropped, and my breathing slowed. I knew what he was going to say, but I let him spit it out first.

When I spoke to my wife (Colette's older sister) about your call, she was very angry. She even mentioned the word harassment. She said that you had tried to contact Colette before, and that it was very upsetting to Colette, that she had been very worried about it. My wife mentioned taking legal action if you contacted her again. I'm so sorry Brooke.

Skipping through my mind were thoughts of desolation and anger. Who the hell does she think she is? What a bitch. Clearly, we are nothing alike- my aunt and I. I'm caring. She's obviously not.

My wife doesn't want to tell Colette that you reached out to me. She thinks it will bother her too much, that she is going through a lot right now. She doesn't think she could handle it. So she doesn't want to tell her that I spoke to you. I'm sorry Brooke. I know this is not what you wanted to hear. My wife was angry that the adoption agency helped you find her.

They didn't help me find her. I had search angels that did that. Did they not think that this day would ever come? 

Silence. On both ends.

Then came the water works. I let it all out.

It's harassment to want to know my birth mother? To want to know where I came from? I wrote to her, poured out my heart to her, and she never even had the common decency to respond. You mean she got my letters and just never responded? 

My mind was screaming, COWARD! Like a dog with her tail between her legs.

But you always feel sorry for that dog.  You don't know what that dog went through, Maybe she was beaten, neglected, unloved, left alone and hurt. The dog only bit in self defense for what the dog thought it needed to be defensive against. The dog had a lot of problems.

She could have at least just let me know that she wasn't interested instead of letting me think that she wasn't receiving my invitations. She was just leaving me with a sliver of hope. How could a mother be so cruel? I have a daughter, and I know what that love feels like, and I could never in a million years treat her like that. We must be VERY VERY different. 

No. No. No. She's such a nice lady Brooke.  You would like her so much. (Is he for real? I'm thinking.) They're such good Christians.

He said the term, "good Christians" a host of times, each time making me throw up in my mouth a little more.

I feel like I'm stuck in the middle, but I see both sides, he said with empathy. I wish I had better news for you Brooke.

After some more silence, interrupted by my sobs, I forced out through the enormous mass in my throat that I understood, and I can't blame him for anything. That I was sorry I even called him. I now regretted it.

I can't make her love me. I can't force myself on anyone. 

Love doesn't demand. Love is understanding, patient, kind. (I felt like a talking Bible.) I guess our timing isn't right. 

Here I was sitting alone in my house hearing what I had formerly perceived would have been one of the most painful revealings of my life, and instead I was starting to feel relieved. I felt a warmness that covered me, and I felt God whispering to me that it would be OK. That He loved me, and that was all I needed.

I was washed with the blood of Jesus.

In that exact moment of immense isolation, rejection, desperation, and sadness, I felt His warmth covering me. I felt His presence like never before. He whispered to me...

Don't worry. You are my child. I'm with you. 

I paused. I smiled, and I let Wayne do some talking.

Wayne has a comforting Southern drawl. His voice reminds me of someone I knew once, but can't pinpoint now.

He went on to gently lecture that Colette is not my family. I know that would come across callous, even cold to some. But I knew what he meant. And he was right. Colette is not my family. She didn't raise me. She just gave birth to me, and I should be grateful for that fact.

But in reality, it was God who gave birth to me. She was just the vessel He used, and I have to be grateful for her for having me, for taking the instructions to give birth, for not aborting me, for not doing what I have done.

I would have a 15 year old right now. She chose life, while I didn't. She was better than I was.

So can I be mad at her? She gave me a chance. She gave me options. She made sure that I was well taken care of, that I would be loved, and I have been.

My parents are my parents. Mom and Dad raised me. Mom and Dad took care of me. Mom and Dad loved me. It was they who gave me everything I needed to succeed in life. And I took it freely. Still do.

So essentially, biology means nothing. This is probably nothing new to many people. I have friends who have parents who still don't know what love is. I have friends' with siblings they can't trust, who they wouldn't ask for help. People all across the world have family members who abuse them, who mistreat them, who neglect them, who don't care enough, or even at all. I am blessed to have family that does care.

I've heard that rejection is God's best protection. And I'm fine with that.

Our timing wasn't right. And I'm fine with it.
She isn't ready for me. And I'm fine with it.
She might never be ready for me. I have nothing left to be, but fine with it.

My conversation with Wayne went on for about thirty minutes. He told me that his wife wasn't very understanding of his relationship with his adopted daughter. He said that his daughter had done some things to him, that in his wife's eyes,  were unforgivable. She couldn't understand why he continued to have a relationship with her, why he continued to love her. And what he said to me, was exactly what I expected any adoptive parent would say.

Brooke, I love my daughter. When I signed those papers to adopt her, I made a commitment to the agency, to God, and to my daughter to love her no matter what she does. I made that commitment to her, and I will not stop loving her because she does some things that I'm not pleased with. Just like our Father in Heaven still loves us when we screw things up, she knows that I will always love her, and I want her to think that for as long as we both live.

But my wife doesn't have the same opinion as me, he said sadly.

What he had just said to me resonated in the darkest places. I don't know if it's a special love that God gives out to people who are adopted and people who adopt, but I saw that man's heart clear as day right through the phone. I heard the love in his voice. I saw a love that people don't get to see very often, and we are lucky if we do. I felt it. And even if that was the only experience I will ever have with that family, I can say that I am proud to have known Wayne, even if for just an hour.

When we hung up, I did ask him if he could get the name of my birth father, and while the words were falling out of my mouth, with both contentment and disdain, I knew that my request would not be fulfilled by Colette. I told him that even if Colette had made the decision not to engage with me, that it should be the birth father's decision as to whether or not he would like to have a relationship with me. He said he would ask, but he felt that the answer would probably be no.

I am OK with that.

Occasionally, I have feelings of anxiousness mixed with curiosity about this situation. I have to take the thoughts that come to my mind captive. I interrogate them asking questions like: Who are you from? What good will this bring? What is your motivation?
I'm reminded of this passage from the Bible in 2 Corinthians 2:10.

We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

Taking our thoughts captive, and making them obedient to Christ is the best defense we could wish for. And it's right there. We have it in our possession, living inside of us.

Wayne told me that he would never get rid of my phone number, and offered up a future conversation any time if I wanted to talk.

I hope that this brings you closure, Brooke, was his last offering to me.

Thank you Wayne. I appreciate you. You have done more than most would have done if put in your shoes, and I see the goodness in you. Maybe we'll meet one day. Maybe we won't. Goodbye.

Goodbye Brooke. Take care.

We both hung up. Only this time, I waited for him to hang up first, and politely, I believe, he was waiting on me to hang up.

That was that.

I was still crying, but I knew that it wouldn't last forever. I was going to allow myself to feel sad for that day only. And I have kept my promise to myself.

Later that afternoon, I popped in to visit my close friend who knows my heart, and she sat on the front porch with me and we cried together.

That was that. The end of another sunny day, and there will be many more where that came from.

The First Call with Wayne

The day I called Wayne was not much different from today. The wind chime on my front porch was dancing with its beautiful melody, a stranger to consistency.  I had been to Home Depot that morning, left empty handed, and had ice cream for lunch in lieu of what "good" people eat- a tomato sandwich or soup or salad.

And just like today, the sun was marveling though it was not particularly hot outside, it's rays beat through the curtains as if making a mockery of them. I was sitting on the green couch as I am now.

I didn't expect to hear from Wayne so soon. I didn't expect to hear from him at all.

Resume the conversation.

I told him of my birth to Colette, the shoddy records I was given, and later adoption. It went like this.

How do you know that Colette is your birth mother? Are you positive?

With the help of some "search angels" as they are fondly coined by the adoption community, and the paperwork that I was given by the Children's Home Society, the agency that handled the adoption, we worked for many hours to find her. The angels worked tirelessly and for free. And I enlisted my friends who wanted to help, and ultimately, Debi found her. The angels are the ones who do the search and all for free. The are somehow tied to adoption, and feel called to help adoptees and birth mothers find their loved ones.

If you recall, I didn't want to say the name of the person who gave us her name. Mainly because I told her I would not. But in light of her non-response to me or others who have reached out to her on my behalf, I don't see that I need to keep it a secret any more. The cat is out of the bag. Meow.

Debi was calling people who went to her elementary school, and happened to call one of her childhood friends who had known about the pregnancy. She had told her later in life on a beach trip they took together. Little did she know, I'd come looking. Little did she know she would be a recipient of a phone call from Debi asking her questions like, "Did you go to elementary school with a girl who had an older sister who was a physical therapist, who is 8 years older, and has a brother who is 9 years older, who is in sales? Her mother was a homemaker and her father worked for a large manufacturing company." We later found out the company was Dupont.

Little did she know that giving Debi her name would have caused all of this. I have to thank Nancy. She thought she was doing the right thing, God bless her. She worked for an adoption agency herself, and couldn't fathom going her whole life without knowing her offspring. So out of love for humanity, she gave us her name- first and last, maiden and married. Nancy didn't know what she was doing. She hadn't thought it all out. She probably regrets it now, judging by her avoidance of me at all costs. Years now. She refuses any contact. I'm sure it was prompted by an angry Colette. Either way, what's done is done.

Back to the conversation at hand.

I've written to Colette a few times, and emailed once or twice, but then she resigned from her  job. (I had heard from Nancy that her job was very stressful, but I didn't mention that to Wayne. Might appear too much for the first phone call.) She's never written me back, Wayne, and I'm just calling to confirm that I have the correct address as, ______________. I've been worried that maybe she didn't get my letters, or that someone had intercepted them. A mind makes up scenarios when it doesn't have definite answers. 

Well Brooke, I just don't know if she's received them or not. She's trying to downsize right now, and I'm helping her to sell her house. I don't know the exact address off hand (bullshit), but I see her about every week. She's been going through a lot personally over the past few years. She's newly single. (I appreciate that description. It's less harsh than divorced- which signifies with a lifetime of shame until one is remarried, if one is still inclined to try again.)

Is she in good health? I muttered quickly, as if to make up my own mind that it was my fault if she wasn't.

Yes. She's healthy. No issues there.

It would be helpful for me to have health information from her, so that I could take any preventative measures I could. It would be helpful for my daughter, Sarah. She is 7. She's in good health too, but just to be safe. It's good to know any family history.

Oh, you have a daughter? That's great.

(Totally escaping the question of family medical history. In my mind he was making light of the need for family medical history- even though the medical community finds it incredibly valuable- hence they ask for it at every junction it seems.)

She's a trip with blond hair. I heard that my birth father had blond hair, which reminds me. I'd like to know who he is. I think it's only fair, for whatever fairness stands for.

Well, I'm not sure if I even knew about this. I may have been told about this a long time ago, but it's been so long, that I'm not sure now. I've been married to my wife (he didn't say your aunt) for a long time. (He didn't give me an exact number however.)

Awkward silence.

Wayne, I don't know if you know what it's like to grow up not knowing a single person who looks like you, sounds like you, has the same mannerisms as you. It hasn't been easy. I struggled with identity growing up, and I would say, I still struggle. I was nothing like my parents and often felt like they didn't understand me because we weren't biologically related. I love them. Please don't get it wrong. They are my parents who raised me and loved me no matter what.

I have a wonderful family who loves me unconditionally. I had all the opportunities that Colette wanted me to have- a stable two-parent family, a college education, and love. (All of this said with tears strolling down my face and a lump in my throat, while plopped down on a lawn chair in my driveway, while plucking leaves off a nearby overgrown bush like a child would be doing if she had gotten in trouble on the playground. My prior pacing had gotten me riled up. I figured I had better sit down and calm myself.)

Well actually, Brooke, I do know what it's like. 

My daughter is adopted. 

(I thought I had heard it all until now. Bells went off in my head.)

My first wife and I couldn't have children, so we decided to adopt, and she recently found her birth mother, and I helped facilitate the introduction. She came to me and asked me if I would be OK with her searching and we did it together. I knew how important it was for her, and I wanted to help her. We went through the agency and they were reunited, but we did everything by the book, the way the agency had instructed. We recognized the birth mothers' privacy was a concern, and we didn't want to jeopardize that. (How selfless. Although I think they just couldn't find her on their own is the real truth. They needed a Debi.) She still has a relationship with her. I don't think they see each other often, but they speak on the phone frequently.

Wow. What was that like? Her birth mother wanted to meet her?

Yes. It was nice. It helped to relieve my daughter of a lot of questions she had.

(Silence. My heart pounced with excitement. Had he just told me that? What are the odds?)

My first wife and I divorced, and I wasn't sure that I even wanted to remarry, but then I thought that I didn't want to grow old alone, and I when I began dating again, I wanted to make sure that the next woman I was with would be from a really good family. It was very important to me to find someone from a good upbringing, and I met my second wife, Colette's sister.

You come from a very good family Brooke. You couldn't have asked for a better family. They are good Christian people. Your grandparents were amazing people. They are both deceased, your grandmother died a few years ago. You grandfather died in the eighties of an accidental poisoning. (I knew that. He drank radiator fluid "accidentally". You know it's the color of Mountain Dew, and I heard it was in a Mountain Dew bottle or something like that. Obviously, I'm not sure of the exact story, but that's what Nancy told me had happened.) Your mother is a very nice woman. She had a great career, financially stable, has a family. She is now retired.

Yes, I heard that she has two sons both beginning with a Br, like Brooke. 

Oh? Interesting. (probably puzzled by the fact that I knew so much personal information.)

My adoptive grandparents have a lot in common with Colette's parents. My adopted paternal grandparents loved playing bridge, and my granddaddy was an instructor. He died in the eighties of cancer. My grandmother died when I was only 6. I can't remember too much of her, although I am told  by many what a wonderful and brilliant woman she was, that she could make almost anything with her hands, was very crafty, and graduated top of her class at Salem College here in North Carolina.  I think it still is. She was also in the Granddaughters of the Revolution, (but I think it was Confederacy, and I was just too embarrassed to say that for obvious political reasons). I heard that Colette's mother was in some type of organization like that- Order of the Eastern Star or something similar.

How did you know that?

I read it in her obituary. Most information is pretty simple to find with the help of the Internet. (I was feeling like a stalker at this point. He would probably agree.) There are a lot of similarities in our families. My adoptive and biological parents both went to Chapel Hill, where they met I'm told, and we are big Heels fans. Both my aunt and uncle went there as well. My uncle is a doctor, and I understand that your wife is a PT. I know that Colette and her brother and sister all attended college there. And that she worked in the medical office as a secretary to the Medical Director which wold explain my father being a dentist. Although, it would make better sense if my birth father was in medical school. 

The story that I was told was that my birth father and Colette were college sweethearts and that he was in his second year of dental school. She didn't tell him of her pregnancy, and she went away to a Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers in Charlotte, which is where I was born, to have the baby. I live in Charlotte still, having lived elsewhere though, I just always returned home. Her sister knew about the pregnancy, and there was some talk of her adopting me, but that clearly didn't work out. She visited her while she was at the home. Her parents supposedly wanted her to keep me, but she refused. But they did visit her in the home I was told. 

Wayne, you know that this information could have all been fabricated given the nature of closed adoption. It's prone to deception, even error perhaps, but that's what I was told by the adoption agency in my typed up birth papers, that adoptees are afforded if they are lucky.

Brooke, do you have brothers and sisters?

I had a younger brother who died when he was only 20. He was adopted too as a baby. He was 3.5 years younger than me. 

What about your parents?

My father died 5 years ago of a heart attack. They both  died in the same house, both of heart attacks, both untimely. God's ways are higher. So I don't try to understand why things happen the way they do.

I'm so sorry to hear that. Your brother was so young. How old was your father?

He was only 67. And he was a health nut. He would have been the last person that I would think would have died young. I think losing my brother did something to him. He was never the same after we lost Wilson. 

That is young. How sad.

But you know, Brooke, that the people who raised you are your true family. Colette is not your family. She had no part in raising you. She just gave birth to you, and tried to give you a better life.

I'm aware of that, but it still doesn't quiet the storm inside. I don't think that God would put these questions in my heart only to leave me unfulfilled. I don't think that He would have put me on this call right now unless He had a plan. (More tears.)

I understand. Brooke, I have someone in my office waiting on me so I need to go. Would it be OK with you if I spoke to my wife about this?

Sure. 

Occasionally Colette and I have a gin and tonic and talk about life, so I'll make sure that we are not having a libation when we have this discussion. I'll need to discuss it with my wife to make sure that we decide on the appropriate time and approach. I will not lose your number, but don't expect a phone call back from me for at least three weeks.

(Managing my expectation, which I understand completely, as I do it professionally with candidates.)

We are going to have to take in consideration what is best for all the parties involved. Do you understand what I mean?

Of course. I get it. I can't force anyone to love me, but I can give someone the opportunity to love me. My birth father might not have known about me, he might know now, but either way, I want to know who he is. Even if Colette doesn't want anything to do with me, it should be the birth father's decision whether or not he wishes to have a relationship with me. Not hers. It's only fair that he get  to decide. And she is the only one with that information. And your wife. She knows who the birth father is. 

I understand where you are coming from. I'll be in touch with you as I know more. Good luck Brooke.

We both hung up. I didn't expect to hear back from him, but I was hopeful. If anyone was to get inside Colette's heart, I knew it would be Wayne. Especially after his daughter had just met her birth mother. Surely Colette had been there to hear the story of her own niece's reunion. Maybe she hadn't. I don't know. Just like I don't know anything, but what I piece together. I have only bits and pieces of the story and over time the paper has been eaten by hungry mice, torn apart, and shredded. Leaving me with gaping holes. And I become the detective. Sherlock Brooke. Oh what tangled webs we weave...

Time went by and I waited patiently.

Some days I was eager. Others I completely forgot all this was brewing worlds away- only 2 hours down I-85, maintaining hope that Wayne would come back to me with a story that I hadn't imagined. That he would tell me that he had convinced this stranger/mother to meet me. That his daughter's story was enough to sell her on the idea. That she was resigning her anonymity and was finally ready.

Exactly three weeks to the day, just like he had said, Wayne called me on another sunny day. I was home cleaning the house. I picked up the phone and this is what he said...

To be continued...

Something came over me

I was sitting on my couch yesterday afternoon, friends on both sides of me, one with his hand on my knee, occasionally giving me the it's ok pat, an extremely nice gesture considering we had known eachother for less than 24 hours. We were reading one of the letters to my birthmom that I had online, but hadn't mailed.
Something struck me this time. For some reason, I couldn't read it aloud without my throat cracking, and tears welling in my eyes. I was overcome with emotion that I hadn't previously felt. It felt like something was crushing my heart capillary by capillary. It was somewhat reminiscent of what it feels like talking about my Dad now. He suddenly died two years ago of a heart attack while watching a movie with my Mom at home on the couch. It's hard for me to talk about without being flooded with emotion.
When Dad died initially I wasn't like what most people would imagine someone would be having lost a loving parent and at only 33 years young. I was not torn up and distraught, crying myself to sleep on my favorite childhood "lovie", nor withdrawn from society, and quietly drinking myself into oblivion. I have never been accused of being quiet in any way, shape or form.
I was somehow the strong one when Dad died.
I had to be. My mom, who is always the strong one had fallen short of her well-reknown motherly distinction. She is not a crier- never has been, never will be I suppose, at least not in front of me, nor anyone else for that matter. I may be able to count the number of times I've seen her cry on one hand. That's not to say that she doesn't cry. She just doesn't do it as often as most people who sit down to pee do.
And who knows how people handle pain without shedding tears? I can't understand it. Tears are a natural reaction to pain. Aren't they? Physically or emotionally, and they are in cahoots, it is evident one way or another that you experience pain.  It is true that when you have deep emotional trauma, better known as depression, you feel physical pain.
Am I going through a stage? This might be something I could consult a phychiatrist on, or even better, WebMD- that would be the cheaper route. I'm not sure it would be better though.