This weekend marks the five year anniversary of finding out the name of my birth father. It was a complicated process that started me on the path to reuniting with my paternal biological siblings. Here’s the gist of how it all went down.

Just over five years ago, sometime around the end of 2014, I was deep in a text conversation with my adoptee pal and search angel L (we met on MySpace if that tells you how far back we go!). We were talking about the complicated process of reunion, and the ups and downs in particular with my bio mother. L asked at some point if I had any desire to search for my paternal side. My response was an immediate and automatic “no”, as had always been my response (and truth be told, my feelings) prior to that. But L began to gently question my feelings as to why. I explained that ever since finding out my non-identifying info from the state of Wisconsin, the only information I ever had on my biological father was that he was, in short, not a great guy. According to the social worker’s notes in 1973-74, he was an abusive and alcoholic drifter. At best. According to an account given by my bio mother S to the social worker, he threw her down a flight of stairs the week before she gave birth to me. There was also some indication that he was suffering from PTSD due to his service in Vietnam. Frankly, he never seemed worth the effort to seek out. I don’t possess the skills of a medium, but I felt confident in saying that there was not a happy ending to be found at the end of that yellow brick road. I had already experienced that once with S, and again with her son/my bio sibling B (we are friends on social media and that’s it), and I really didn’t care to go through it for the third time.

But L had a good point. I remember her saying via text:

“So you’re just okay with never knowing about your paternal side? I mean, I wouldn’t be.” I let that sink in for a minute. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I only knew one side of things. And honestly, because my bio mother and I had never even discussed any of this, I really didn’t even know one full complete side. Just S’s version of what she had told the social worker. I would not describe my bio mother as the most honest person I’ve ever met, and she certainly wasn’t back in 1973. The social worker said she was always inconsistent with her stories. So, this whole time that I’d been believing my bio father was a monster was really me just believing her narrative of it. I guessed that I owed it to myself to find out the truth, if possible. What if he was still alive and things had turned out okay for him? What if I had siblings? I was almost 35 and time kept passing.

I had thought about looking for him in the past, but always dismissed it out of hand because of my feelings but also, just as crucially, I thought it would be impossible to find him. I had asked S once or twice about him in letters, but she never responded. All I ever asked was his name. I knew if I had that, I could use my social media network (carefully cultivated since obtaining my non ID info) to start a search for him. But I didn’t have a name. I had a probable first name/nickname of Jim. I knew he was a veteran – but what branch? Could I even assume he served out of Milwaukee, or Wisconsin for that matter? I could only guess at an estimated age; again, based on the fact he was in the service. I knew literally nothing else. I explained my frustrations to L, who suggested that I take a DNA test via Ancestry.com. DNA testing had just started to become extremely popular and affordable, so I thought about it. I had certainly seen many positive results and outcomes via social media.

So I poked around a bit online. I sent emails to a couple of different Veterans organizations in Wisconsin, which was basically a classified ad that read something like this:

Hoping you can help me! I am looking for my biological father. He lived in Milwaukee around this time, having been discharged from the military just prior. I am unsure what branch he served in. He would have been around age 25 in 1974, and I was told he had a ruddy complexion and a medium build (no shit this is the only identifying information that adoptees are given about their bio parents). Can you help me?

You can see why this approach was less than ideal. I did hear back from one website administrator who said he would pass it along. Not surprisingly, I didn’t hear anything further.

I reached out to my bio uncle, T, who is the brother to S. I am probably closer to him than anyone else on that side of the family. I told him that I was wanting to find out who my bio father was, and that I was considering doing a DNA test to get the process rolling. I explained that I had reached out to S a few times but she never replied. I confirmed with T that I had the name of “Jim” right, and he confirmed it for me. He even thought he may have met him once or twice, but he didn’t know his last name nor what branch he had served in. Uncle T offered to reach to S on my behalf, and I told him that if he thought it would work, I would be grateful for any help. I also told him that, while I was undertaking this search with what was hopefully his blessing, that it would be taken with or without support from my bio maternal side. Fortunately for us both, T supported me and wanted me to find out this missing part of my past. It was like a very, very long jigsaw puzzle that was taking me years to put together.

I sent away for my Ancestry DNA kit, which was around $50. In the meantime, I went to a Facebook group that I was a member of, called Search Squad. I had seen them work miracles, especially with adoptees and especially with those who had very little information to go on. Remember, I was looking for someone with no digital footprint and not even a full name or birthdate or place of birth. I had less than nothing to give them. So I posted a query in the forum, asking essentially the following:

How do I find someone when I don’t have their full name, and if they don’t have a digital footprint? Where do I start?

I explained that I had my non-ID info, and I posted it (as was policy) so a search angel could be assigned to it. My “case” was quickly taken up and they told me that while I was waiting on my DNA results to come in, to search newspaper archives from Milwaukee around the time of my birth to see if I could find the legal notice of the TPR (termination of parental rights) hearing. So, I spent the early part of 2015 looking at daily editions of the Milwaukee Sentinel, which was the daily morning paper at the time, as well as the Milwaukee Journal, which was the daily evening paper. After a few weeks, I began to grow frustrated. While my historical nerd side got a kick out of reading the daily Watergate headlines, I was having trouble finding any family court legal notices. Occasionally, I would find a landlord eviction notice but not much else. No marriage licenses or divorce notices, and definitely nothing about birth notices or TPR hearings or adoption proceedings. I was stumped. I went back to my online group and told them I  must not be looking in the right place. This time, a search angel did a bit more digging and figure out that in the 70s, in Wisconsin, TPR notices were published – not in a daily newspaper, as would make sense, but in an obscure legal journal that was published month out of Madison. I was dumbfounded. A legal journal? How would anyone see such notices, to know when they needed to come to court? But this was how Wisconsin got around the pesky problem of notification. I learned through my non-ID that the state attempted to serve my bio father his TPR notice, but he couldn’t be found. Allegedly, according to court documents, they tried to serve him at a bar he frequented (seriously you cannot make this shit up). Only he wasn’t there. He had been evicted from the apartment he shared with my bio mother, although apparently an attempt was made there as well. Also allegedly, S ran into him on a corner and gave him the date and time of the proceedings. The problem was this: my bio mother had blown the first date – that’s right, she didn’t show – so court was rescheduled. When S ran into him and gave him the new date, he told her that he would be there and threatened that he wouldn’t sign over his rights. The new court date came and S voluntarily signed her legal rights to me away and gave me to my parents. But when I found out about the TPR information potentially never being given to him, it filled me with a greater resolve to find him. Maybe he never got the chance to show up for me. It was complicated to explain, but I was feeling empathy for this stranger called my father for the first time.

I asked Search Squad how to obtain a copy of the law journal. My search angel did some more research, and after about a week she got back to me. Essentially, what I had to do was ask for an inter-library loan between the Wisconsin Historical Society and my local library. I was to ask for a specific microfiche reel, which covered roughly five weeks worth of legal notices. Under no circumstances was I to mention that I was an adoptee. I had already figured out that this would cause closed to doors to remain closed or, in some cases, slam open doors shut. Best to just say I was doing genealogy research (again, a very hot and trendy topic) and politely make my request. My library agreed to do it, and the library worker said she would let me know when it arrived. A week later, it did. There were very specific guidelines – I had to view it in person, I could not check it out, and I had only a week to view it before they would send it back. So on a very snowy and cold Saturday in January, my husband and I packed up our kids and headed downtown. I had no idea how long it would take; my mind was imagining hours and hours of grinding research and that we might even have to come back. Fortunately, my husband worked in a library in college and was well versed in how to use a microfiche machine. My cheeks were hot as we asked the librarian to give us the film reel. I felt like I was wearing a huge scarlet A, like Hester, on my chest. A for adoptee. And that at any second, my secret mission was going to be compromised and they would throw us out before we could find out the precious information that we needed. I just didn’t see any other way for us to find out what his name was. It had to work.

But the librarian just smiled and handed us our film. I still felt like I was committing a crime, and in fact, maybe I was. My husband expertly threaded it onto the machine and began painstakingly scrolling, frame by frame, while I entertained our two young children in the boring research floor of the library. I could have taken them to the children’s area but I didn’t want to be that far away from where the action was happening. My heart was beating more quickly and I had butterflies in my stomach the whole time. After about an hour, I heard M say: “I got it”. I vividly remember dropping my phone on the floor, and running to look over his shoulder. I followed the path of his finger to the grainy but unmistakable frame:

We knew it would be in roughly chronological order, and of course we knew my birth date and my surname. But I don’t think I really dared to believe that we would find this proverbial needle in the haystack ever, much less in the course of an afternoon. I looked at M, and he looked at me.

“Get the fuck OUT OF HERE,” I said to him. It was a stage whisper because we were, after all, in the library. But it was there in black and white, the proof I had been looking for. A couple of things stood out right away – the first name wasn’t correct, and his middle initial was also listed incorrectly, although we didn’t know that at the time. We would find out later that these were typos. Were they deliberate? I can’t say, and at that moment it didn’t matter. The gold was the last name, which was every.thing. My life shifted in that moment, just as it had when I found out the name of my biological mother. I quickly, surreptitiously snapped several photos of the entire notice on my phone, worried somehow that it would disappear like a Polaroid in reverse. I knew that I would never get a chance to see this notice again, so it was crucial to preserve it another way. Before I even stood up straight, I had texted the info to L, who was grocery shopping somewhere in suburban DC. She promised to start researching that afternoon.

What happened over the course of the next six months was a meandering, complicated and ultimately happy journey – one that I am still on. But this weekend, I am holding these memories close in my heart, with profound gratitude for dear L and M – not to mention the volunteers and angels in my Facebook group. Technology is a game-changer for adoptees – and for people searching for their needles in haystacks, everywhere.

*Obviously, I cannot take credit for the genius title that is this blog. The credit is all due to our local hometown singer/songwriter Dan Fogelberg, who passed away several years ago. But he was born and raised in Peoria and arguably his most famous song was Same Auld Lang Syne, which was inspired by actual events that occurred about a mile from where I’m sitting in this coffee shop.

(photo credit: @danfogelbergmusic.com Facebook page)

The song is, essentially, about a boy running into his ex girlfriend when they are both home for the holidays. It’s a chance, random encounter but they decide to have a few drinks together and catch up. The part that kills me is, in the end, they go their separate ways and he’s left to walk home in the rain.

The song is a bittersweet one, even more so when you realize that it actually happened and that Dan is no longer living. I love it, I listen to it in its entirety every time it comes on the radio, and I search for it during the holidays on Pandora. But it makes me cry more often than not, and that’s ok. Up until 6 months ago I really wasn’t nursing a broken heart – so I chalked up the emotions it evoked as really good storytelling and connecting with that familiar feeling of “what might have been”. We’ve all felt that. But we feel it, momentarily (or not) and then we move on.

But this year, of course, the song hit me differently. It was the first holiday season without my Dad. 2020 is the first full calendar year where I will live without him. And my heart is most definitely, completely, and utterly broken. “Auld Lang Syne” is the traditional Scottish song – with its origins in poetry – that’s sung as the baton passes from New Years’ Eve into New Year’s Day.

Here are the lyrics (English translation) from Wikipedia, from Robert Burns original poem:

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?

Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup!
and surely I’ll buy mine!
And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

Chorus

We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot

since auld lang syne.

We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine^†;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.

Chorus

And there’s a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.

As they said in the movie When Harry Met Sally, it’s about good friends. Apparently the phrase “auld lang syne” is the equivalent of “once upon a time”. While doing some research for this post, I learned that in many other countries, this song is sung at funerals. The Irish have a similar song for funerals and wakes, called “The Parting Glass”:

Good night, and joy be with you all.

Two days ago was Christmas. Yesterday was the six month anniversary (death-a-ver-sary?) of Dad leaving this realm. As expected, as all the grief blogs and books and people tell you, the days and weeks leading up to the holidays were tough. While I had spent a handful of Thanksgivings at my parents since moving out, I had not been for Christmas since 1998 – about one week before getting engaged. So it wasn’t so much the idea of not being home for Christmas. I hadn’t been home for that in many years. But it was the first Christmas where I would not have a cheerful phone conversation with him. Or any conversation. In fact, we have now passed the sad hallmark where I’ve gone the longest I have ever gone without hearing his voice. I think 3 months was the record before he passed. It’s more so all the little things that I remember about Christmas growing up, and how my parents made them so special. All the little things which make up the love that shapes who you are.

Last night I dreamed about Dad, for the first time since he passed. It was funny because I woke up to go to the bathroom, thinking about “just” the dream and not realizing that it was “DAD! OMG DAD CAME TO VISIT ME!” until I had gotten back into bed. My mom was in the dream, too. As per usual, the details faded almost immediately upon awaking but what I do remember was they were trying to give me directions to someplace. As I started to walk away, Dad called me back. He was wearing a suit and tie. I am very excited about and encouraged by the dream, and I hope this means he will come back often. I also wonder if my mom being there had some kind of special significance, as though perhaps she is getting ready to join him. (her cancer prognosis remains unclear at this time)

I have a friend who lost her dad just days ago, on Christmas Eve. Despite my own experience six months ago, I couldn’t think of anything useful to say to her. Death happens every day. But for the one who is left behind, the grieving process has a unique fingerprint for us all.

I have a friend who lost her husband about 15 months ago. She’s on an extended trip down south, her own personal “Here Comes the Sun” tour. I’ve learned a lot from her about grace and dealing with grief, as well as knowing how to show up for those who are grieving. I need to plan my own tour, hopefully before my kids graduate from high school.

I have two cousins who lost their mom, my aunt and my dad’s baby sister, seven years ago. I have two other cousins who lost their dad (my dad’s brother in law) nine years ago. I am not alone, and yet I am.

May 2020 bring more sun, fewer shadows for us all.

Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh on Pexels.com

“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days…since you took your love away.” – Prince/Sinéad O’Connor

It’s been 36 days…and it feels like sooooo much longer. There are many aspects to the death of a loved one that you don’t really “get” until you’ve experienced it. While the past 4 and a half weeks have certainly had their share of tears and moments of despair, I am struggling with not having really properly grieved, yet. Even as I type that, I don’t know what the definition of “properly” means. Do any of us? All I know is that I have stolen moments, here and there, when I can stare off into space or play music that makes me cry. Those are my only aware moments to grieve.

Because all around me, of course, life goes on. In the beginning, one is consumed with the busy work of preparing for the funeral. Simultaneously, almost cruelly, you are consumed with the business of death – phone calls, paperwork, visits to banks and lawyers. Then the family and friends arrive and it’s such a welcome respite. Then, too soon and not soon enough, you return to the place you call home and fall back into your primary role(s). For me, that is wife and mother. School (freshman and sixth grade!) starts in less than two weeks…I am going back to work…and my mom is still dying from cancer.

I have started planning a memorial tattoo to honor my dad. He would hate it (LOL) but I’m doing it anyhow. At least I hope he can appreciate the sentiment when all is said and done.

I was in Sedona, Arizona last month on vacation. While I was there, I booked a visit with a medium. It is something I had been wanting to do for years, but with Dad’s death (despite the fact it had only happened 3.5 weeks prior) I just felt the timing was right. Interestingly, Sedona is considered the metaphysical capital of the United States. According to Sedonaredrocktours.com:

“Sedona spiritual vortexes are powerful and transformational energy centers that are located at specific sites throughout Sedona, Arizona. Vortexes are the intersections of natural electromagnetic earth energy, also known as ley lines.

Ley lines can intersect in different ways, creating different types of energy vortexes. The three most common types of vortexes are magnetic, electrical and balanced vortexes.”

You either believe in this sort of thing or you don’t, and I fall into the former. So I did some research ahead of time and chose a medium at mysticalbazaar.com, the lovely Jewell. We met for 30 minutes, in which time she believes (as do I) that my spirit guides were present. We determined it to be my grandmother (mom’s mom), which I have always felt since the day she died in 1987, and my dad, which was not surprising in the least. While my grandmother remained fairly quiet during this session, my Dad had more to say. He seemed confused, and a bit stuck in transit if you will. At the beginning of our session, Jewell said he was a dark figure but by the end, he had grown more light and comfortable. He had found “the gang”, he said, which I asked and assumed were his parents and sister and brother in law, who had all preceded him in death. He mentioned his memorial! The last thing he said to me/Jewell before we closed our session was to drive carefully. He made the “driving/steering wheel” motion. Of course, we had driven to the Grand Canyon and my dad (since the day I received my license) always worried about me driving, especially on long road trips. I one thousand percent believe the soul lives on after death, and that there is some sort of afterlife. And now I feel even more assured that my grandmother is on one shoulder and my Dad is on the other.

Back to re-entry. It is rough. I had decided, before the end of the school year a few months ago, that due to my parents’ ongoing health issues I would take a year off from work. Mostly so I could be available to run down there if I needed to. If an emergency arose. It was a very difficult decision to make, but I had finally come to peace with it – especially after Dad died and I realized my mom might need more of my presence. But unexpectedly this week, I received a text from a former boss of mine asking if I would be interested in a position with her. And I was. I am. Working there made me really happy and fulfilled, and I feel like I could use all the happiness and fulfillment I can get right now. So I will likely accept the position if it is offered. But that means figuring out ways to work, mom, wife, write, and self care all at the same time. It is a constant struggle for me. I am a more of “one thing at a time” kind of person but of course, as a mom/wife, you can never really put that into practice. It is all of the things, all of the time. I worry that going back to work might be self-sabotage to other things I had promised myself and my family: taking care of me, first and foremost. But there is a big part of me that has always believed that working IS taking care of me. I feel happier when doing so because I have a more clear schedule and purpose for the day. Writing is a tricky habit/hobby and even trickier to make as a way of life because I lack focus, self-control, and discipline. No matter how often my husband or others say “if you didn’t work you could just write all day!” I know it will never happen. I cannot commit to even one hour a day. I want to write for a living. I want to lose 150 pounds (I’ve lost 75 before so I know it is possible). I want to be a more present wife and mother. I want to grieve. But I also want to work. I don’t know how to be productive if not working. Does that make sense? Not to many people, apparently.

Oh, before I forget. The Grand Canyon! We spent two days there last month and it was magical. I had never been to the Southwest before, and it truly is magic. There was a spot on the eastern entrance of the park where we watched the sunset, and for the first time in many months, I felt true peace and serenity. I highly recommend it if you have never been. Not many things can take your breath away these days.

Sorry for the stream-of-consciousness writing style in these last couple of posts. It’s an extreme effort just to get the words down.

One month without Dad. The rest of my life to go.

Disclaimer: I will not win a Pulitzer or publishing deal from this post. I am going to try to not edit it extensively because I want it to be its most authentic. So apologies in advance for the stream of consciousnesses writing that’s about to follow.

I lost my Dad, somewhat (more on that in a bit) suddenly, nearly 3 weeks ago.

Funny phrasing, saying “lost” to mean “they died” I literally lost him two summers ago when we were in San Diego at my nephew’s boot camp graduation. Our whole party went to the bathroom and when we came out, he was nowhere to be found. We found him eventually, that day. He will not be waiting for me at the car, as he was that day.

I, myself, am now equally lost.

I know everyone thinks they have the best Dad, and everyone is right. Including me. He was the best.

He was not perfect. He was impatient and a hard-ass when I was growing up. He was a “needler” and “shit-stirrer” when I grew up.

He was the reason I ever gained an interest in politics. When I was in high school, we would watch political shows on CNN before the family went out to dinner every Saturday night. We connected politically and roared with delight while watching the satirical skits on Saturday Night Live together, post-dinner dates.

My dad taught me the immeasurable value of a work ethic. We always had chores growing up, and the day I turned 16 I was expected to become a tax-paying, contributing member of the family (or at least my own bank account). And so, I did, and I have worked (mostly) ever since. My work ethic is one of the traits I pride myself on the most because it reminds me of him.

My dad loved music and travel – two traits I inherited from him. Two of my best memories with him are the year we went to Jazz Fest in New Orleans and saw both the Neville Brothers (his fave) and Ani DiFranco (mine). And then the year we went to Italy, and it was the first (and only) time I saw him get drunk. He was telling a story and dropped the F-bomb, and it’s the greatest memory because my dad until the day he died would chastise me for saying “shit” or “damn”.

My dad, along with my mom, chose me as their child and he always made me feel no different than if I had been born from them. My cousin Angie recently told me we had an endless, unbreakable bond. It was true. My dad and I had always been buddies, always been close. I never had a connection with my mom, plain and simple. My dad was the one who took me on his errands, specifically asking me to join him because we both enjoyed the time together. Honestly, some of my best memories are riding to the liquor store (I still love the smell of them), the bank (getting dum dum suckers in the drive-through), and going to the tobacco shop on Sundays. I would walk around, popping the vacuum-sealed lids off the abundant glass jars, inhaling the exotic scents. There would be a platter of warm sweet rolls and a pot of coffee, and a long polished bar where old men with beards would sit. My dad had a love of automobiles and growing up in a big city, there was at least a couple of car shows a year downtown. He would always take me. I would be bored as shit but thrilled that he would ask me to spend time with him. Even as a kid, I got that and it clearly made an impression on me.

My dad was the one who took us to fireworks, parades, and ballgames. My dad is the one who taught me to drive, and how to wash a car and change a flat. Still can’t do the last one (sorry Pops). My dad taught me to balance a checkbook and the importance of “paying yourself first”. My dad was the one who moved me into my dorm, stuck 60 bucks into my hand, and told me to call them the next day…and my dad was the one who visited me at college and not only saw every show I was in, but every show that my best friend was in, as well. My dad is the one who moved me across the country four times. My dad is the one who did my taxes every year, cheerfully because he was an accountant and that was his jam. My dad was my biggest cheerleader.

I said at the beginning that his death was somewhat sudden. He had a planned total knee replacement at the beginning of June, which I was there for. I was with him and my mom the entire month, with plans to get him back home out of rehab before I left. That was the plan.

You know what they say about making plans.

But after his successful knee surgery, he was having trouble breathing, eating and using the bathroom. It was determined that his hiatal hernia was causing the issues and that it needed to be fixed via laparoscopic surgery. So he had the second surgery done 5 days after the first. It, too, was deemed successful. He was moved to a skilled nursing facility (read: nursing home) for rehab, after doing a few days of rehab at the hospital. Long story short, he did not recover from that second surgery. In my opinion, it was a rapid decline from that point.

The day before he died, I saw him twice. I woke up that morning to a series of missed calls and one frantic voicemail from 1:30am (my phone is always on silent, especially overnight). My dad was never a person prone to panic. But the voicemail was asking for me to bring his Tylenol because he was in extreme pain and “they” wouldn’t give him pain meds. So at 7am, when I got the notifications, I called him and he was still adamant that I bring him the Tylenol. I drove it up there around 8, and he was still annoyed but calmer. We had a brief but intense discussion in which we agreed I would call to try and get his pain meds changed. He didn’t want to wait until the follow-up appointment on Thursday. I left him, and called the surgeon’s office and explained the situation. Dad had been experiencing a lot of intense pain following his hernia surgery, and the surgeon was aware of it and said it was common and could last a few months. I explained to them that the pain was happening more frequently and now was affecting his PT, so could we please do something stronger? They said they’d call me back.

I went back to visit Dad in the afternoon and immediately I could tell, something was off. He seemed doped up, but not quite. Just…calm and quiet. More so that in previous visits. I asked how his pain had been and he said it was better. Then I asked if he was able to do his PT and he said no, which annoyed me. When I asked him why not, he took a deep breath and said he just wasn’t feeling up to it. Although somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet alarm bell went off, outwardly I just chalked it up to lack of sleep. I said I was continuing to follow up with the surgeon and maybe we could try at home rehab, so at least he’d be more comfortable. And he agreed to that. When I left him, around 5pm, we had a plan to start the at-home rehab transfer the following day. I told him I would see him in the morning, as was our custom by that point (two visits a day usually, occasionally one more or one fewer). I did not say I love you before I left. Only see you later.

I learned several years ago that the only good news that comes in the middle of the night is Oscar nominations. The phone call came at 4:34 the next morning, a Wednesday. Instantly awake, I could hear my mom’s end of the conversation: an “oh no” followed by “Good Shepherd”. Thank God, I thought to myself, he’s still alive and she’s just telling them where to take him. I think part of me believed that maybe he was just having trouble breathing or had asked to be taken to the hospital because of his pain. My mom hung up, and I laid there in the still dark bedroom for what seemed like forever but was probably only a few minutes. Why wasn’t she yelling for me? Finally, I heard her shuffle her way to the front of the house and when I called down to her, she told me he was found unresponsive and that the EMTs were working on him. As a natural, in-shock reaction I said I would jump in the shower. Then I realized that wasn’t the best course of action, and we agreed to get dressed and leave immediately. I called my brother and minutes after hanging up with him, the nursing home called back and said he didn’t make it. When my mom told me this, I said: “You’re kidding”. Because of course, it had to be some horrible mistake. At what point does an EMT stop resuscitate attempts on an 80-year-old in poor health? Couldn’t they keep trying until we got there? The answer, apparently, was no. So my mom and I made our way to the nursing home in the breaking dawn, already sticky with humidity. We met the coroner (strange to type those words, even stranger than saying it out loud) who informed us he believed it was heart failure. Dad was tucked neatly into his bed and looked like he was sleeping. I removed his glasses from his face and gathered his things.

I wished I had told my mom that I needed a minute alone with him, but I didn’t. I wish I had taken a picture of our hands together, but I didn’t. (I did later on before the funeral, but it looks horrible and fake. I am not deleting the photo for now, though) I wish. I wish. I wish.

My dad’s legacy is me, and my brother, and the children we are raising. Every single good thing that I am, is because of my Dad and the lessons he taught me. I know how lucky I am because, after his near-fatal stroke 8 years ago, there were no unfinished conversations between us. He knew how much I meant to him, and vice versa. He lived an extremely full, long, and happy life. I was gifted with 8 extra years with him, and 45 years total. How very lucky I am. And all of these things should make me feel better. But they really don’t. My heart and soul have a huge void that will never heal. I haven’t even fully wrapped my brain around the fact that he’s just gone.

I’ve lost my true North, and I will never be the same.

“And the best part of a bad day is knowing it’s okay

The color of everything changes

The sky rearranges its shade

and your smile doesn’t fade into a phone call, and one bad decision we made.” – Counting Crows

As alluded to in my previous post, my bio brother and I had a meaningful text conversation last week. It seems a little strange to say that texts can be meaningful, but we all know that words hold a tremendous amount of power. The manner in which they are delivered is less important. Of course, you cannot “hear” tone in a text but sometimes, you don’t need to. The words are enough.

I won’t share verbatim what he said here, because the nature of it was private. But suffice to say he said things that all adoptees long to hear in their searches.

“You are family.”

“I am so glad you found us.”

“I feel so connected to you.” The truth of the matter is, I feel more connected to my bio brother than almost any other relative I have (my cousin N comes in a very close second, and we are not bio related). The first time I met him and my sister, I felt instantly as though I had known them my entire life. It is a strange feeling to explain, if you have never felt it. I explained it to my brother this way: we all have soulmates (emphasis on the plural) in our lives. I don’t believe they are limited to just our “significant other”. They can be friends or family members, too. N and his wife are my people, plain and simple. He is creative and goofy like I am, and we have the same taste in music and the arts. Even our mannerisms and the way we speak is similar (which freaks me out a bit, to be honest!). I try not to dwell too much on the pangs of lost time. There is so much of it, and the sadness of “what ifs” can be overwhelming. I try instead to focus on the future, and the fact that our families are a part of each other’s. Still, I can’t help but wonder what growing up with him and A would have been like. What stories we would have to tell.

Time to write some new ones.

“I could go crazy on a night like tonight, the summer’s beginning to give up her fight. And every thought’s a possibility…the voices are heard, but nothing is seen. Why do you spend this time with me? May be an equal mystery.” – The Indigo Girls

Last night, I was headed up to bed when I walked by our family bulletin board (one of three, don’t judge!) when I noticed the juxtaposition of three different announcements, from three different families.  Two were high school graduation announcements, and one was a wedding thank you photo. The common denominator was me. Inspired, I snapped a quick photo on my phone.

I intended to write a different blog post (maybe two, rather ambitious considering we are leaving the country in a few days) this week, one about my brother, and that one is still forthcoming. For whatever reason, it kept getting put off and then I noticed the three announcements last night and that rare moment of lightning striking, shouting: “You must write about this NOW” occurred. So, here we are.

I posted the photo to Instragram and wrote that most people have one family, the one they are born into and raised by. Up until 2003, that was my story as well. And up until 2015, I had just two families. I hate the overwrought term “blessed” but I will say I feel very lucky indeed to have three families that love me, whom I love back. I love all three trees in their own, and different, ways. It is impossible for me to love the brother I grew up with and the brother I met only three years ago in the same way. Yet, I love them both. I would be devastated if anything were to happen to them or their families.

I am acutely aware of how rare this is in Adoption-Land. I told my bio brother N just this week that our story was a fairy tale, as far as adoptees are concerned. I will never, ever take any of my families for granted. All sides represented in my home, and in my heart.

Mother’s Day 2018. This year, happily, I did NOT forget to call my mom and I even remembered to send a basket of succulents (her favorite kind of plant) to her (see blog from one year ago today!). I’ll be celebrating myself a bit later when a friend and I take our daughters to see Mamma Mia at a local theatrical production (hence the blog title!).

As usual, however, it is a day of melancholy for me (and so many others). Being apart from family is very difficult on every holiday that passes. It has become our normal, but logging on to social media and seeing 500-ish friends posting about spending time with their moms still makes me sad. I know that I have friends, too, whose moms live in the same town as they do and yet for whatever reason, they aren’t a part of their lives. I am aware things could be worse. But I’m also a big believer in relativity; namely, what’s miserable to me is my misery. I own it, which is to say it is no better or no worse than anyone else’s. It’s just mine.

You may recall that when I last blogged, my biological grandpa had just passed away. Since that time, I have attended the funeral amidst much apprehension on my part on how it would go. Specifically, how things would go between me and S, my biological mother. You will be pleasantly surprised, reader, that things couldn’t really have gone any better. Considering it was a highly emotionally charged event, with the possibility for catastrophe ever present. Not only was there no catastrophe, there was somewhat of a miracle.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home, I sat for a few moments before getting out of my car. I wasn’t early for the wake like I had planned on being, and I really didn’t want to walk in alone. Soon that worry disappeared, when my cousin Carole poked her head in my car window. She was the perfect person to walk in with me, and I immediately felt better. Still, when we walked in the hall was already filled with people, most of whom were strangers to me. A handful I had met once or twice, and even fewer could I say that I really “knew”. My Uncle T interrupted the conversation he was having to welcome me with a warm hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I recognized my biological mother chatting with people. I didn’t know if she had seen me, yet. Just a few moments passed and I decided to stop prolonging the inevitable, and I went up to her. She opened her arms to be and we embraced, with the same warmth as my uncle and I had shared a few minutes before. She thanked me for coming, and expressed how glad she was that her Dad/my Grandpa was no longer suffering. I told her that I, too, was thankful on both points.

Now here’s where the kind-of miracle occurred. My second cousin was close by, and S introduced me to her. I was fairly certain I had met her once before, but it would have been over ten years earlier when she was a child. So we shook hands as though meeting for the first time. Then S leaned towards my cousin and said: “This is my daughter.” Outwardly, I continued to smile and nod as though this was the most normal thing she could have possibly said. Inwardly, I freaked out a bit. She introduced me that way to at least one other person (perhaps my cousin’s sister; I wish I could recall). But my other cousin (I have a LOT), C, was standing there when S made the introduction. The moment was not lost on her (C is an old soul, and we are so alike in many ways. I felt an instant kinship with her when we re-met as adults). C then proceeds to tell her Dad, my Uncle B, what had just happened. Uncle B was understandably in shock. B and my Aunt C had been instrumental in the early days of my reunion, and tried very hard to welcome me into the family. They tried even harder to get S to “come around” but it was difficult. I have never forgotten their kindness and love that they showed me. Uncle B seemed so excited. I was cautious. I hesitate to even write “cautiously optimistic” because, as so often with adoptees, you just have no idea what the future holds. It was very sweet to see him so happy, though…especially at such a sad occasion.

The wake went just fine, if a bit surreal. When we all went outside for a 21 gun salute from the VFW, I was brought “up front to be with the family”, which was very nice. I had a few aunts in front of me and several family members directly behind me who were openly sobbing, and that was the first and only time I got emotional. It was a strange dichotomy to be witnessing other’s grief in saying goodbye to a father figure they had known for 30-40-50-70 years, while at the same time being a granddaughter who didn’t have many memories with him at all and only being a memory in his life for 12-13 years. But I heard more than once about how proud he was of me and how much he loved me. And that makes me teary, even now. After the service we moved to a pub (in true Irish fashion; it was, after all, a wake) and spend the afternoon toasting his memory. I didn’t spend a lot more time with my biological mother that day, although I wanted to. Somehow our timing is never quite right. Still, I was encouraged by her words and the kindness of so many others that day. I do feel as though I belong to that family, in whatever strange shape that may take.

But there will be no phone call or visit today to my biological mother, which is okay. I came away from that weekend with the resolve to make it back to that small northern town more often, because all of my maternal biological side lives there. I need to bring my kids, too, so they learn all about the Irish side and can make their own memories. In 5 weeks we will head to Ireland to being that process.

Mother’s Day can be complicated for me. But I am more at peace this year than I have been in a long time. Slainte.

First, do not adjust your computer screen! Yes, I have blogged THREE TIMES in the last 30 days! I know, I know! I hope it isn’t a sign of the end times!

I turned double 4s (as a friend told me) today. Officially into my mid-40s, and well into middle age. Yikes!

It has been a quiet, rather melancholy day. I typically don’t make a big deal of the day unless it’s a milestone, like 21 – 30 – and 40 all were. But in the past few years, I have always been working on my birthday and it was well celebrated. This year, I was by myself at home. Everyone in my family is gone at activities tonight, so we celebrated early on Sunday. There’s still some cake left, LOL. My husband and I met for lunch but the day mostly was overshadowed, as most “big days” are, with wistfulness and melancholy. Not sadness, exactly. It’s too weird to be sad on your birthday, right? Melancholy sounds much more romantic.

It is so interesting to me to think about the fact that, forty four years ago today, I was born into two families. Neither of which would know about me for quite some time (save, of course, for my biological mother. But she and the social worker, and my bio father, were literally the only ones who knew of my existence). I was born in the dead of winter and my adoption was finalized in the middle of June. I wouldn’t come back into the biological side of my family for over 30 years.

That is a lot of time. A lifetime, for some. I often think about the different path I might have had, if S had kept me. Mind you, I do not think she would have been a good mother, or even capable. But getting to know the rest of my biological family over the last 14 years, I have decided that somehow, some way, I would have been taken care of. There were a lot of family in the town where she was from, and I have to believe that the village would have raised me. Of course, I would be a completely different person. Better or worse? Who can say? But I like to think I would have turned out okay. I have a bio relative who is a poet and a writer, and another who is a musician. I like to think that my artistic side would have been nurtured by them.

I do think about S, my bio mother, on this day. It is impossible not to. S has always maintained that she suffered from PTSD (it is a long, private, sad story) and does not remember being pregnant with me, having me, or giving me up for adoption. Suffice to say that she suffered some intense trauma in her life, and particularly around the time of my conception. I’m a former military wife, so I understand that PTSD is a real thing. However, I am also a natural mother of two children, and it is difficult (to say the least) for me to imagine being able to block out 10-12 months of one’s life, particularly when those 10-12 months included birthing a human. But as I said, S had a very difficult life and I try very hard not to judge her. So, in part because she cannot admit this time of her past, she and I (despite having been in reunion for years) have never talked about it. The pregnancy, my father, the birth – none of it. She is growing old and I do not hold out hope that she will ever be “ready” to talk about it. It is okay. I wasn’t okay with it for a long time, but the older I get, the more at peace I am. I found a treasure trove when I discovered my bio family – it simply doesn’t include her. I want to make clear that this is by her doing, and her alone. I used to work a lot harder at having a relationship with her, but it was pretty clear early on that was something she did not want. She will never be ready, it seems. I had to move on and nurture the other relationships I have in the family, and they go a long way to fill that never ending hole. I have  chose to be happy with the love and support I have received and continue to receive from literally every other member of my bio family. My bio mother was one of eight kids, so there is plenty of love to go around.

And yet.

“Big days” are always a double edged sword for adoptees (Jen Hatmaker has a great article on it). My birthday never really used to bother me the way other holidays did, but this year was different. I am sad melancholy that I spent it alone, for the most part. I live at least a day’s drive from my parents and in laws, and it just sucks. The closest extended family I have is three hours away. I saw some of them just a couple of weeks ago, but it was’t enough. It never is. Ah there’s the old adoptee mantra – nothing is ever enough. We will never be satisfied with the amount of love we have. We need to be surrounded by it and reassured, constantly. Not only in familial relationships but in all relationships – friends, and even co workers. There’s a theory (and book) in Adoptee-land called the Primal Wound, which essentially believes that a baby and their biological mother suffer an intense, never-heal-able wound once the baby raised by someone else. The baby (adoptee) then goes on to suffer damage in future relationships because of this wound. I am not sure I subscribe to this theory in terms of how I feel about the lack of relationship with my bio mother, but certainly this wound seems to permeate how I perceive my relationship with others, and the never ending need for “more”. It’s almost like, with S, too much time has passed and it just will never change. And I am choose to be okay with that. But even before I sought out my bio family, I would feel things on different levels than other people when it came to relationships. Friendships, romantic relationships, etc. were all on a very intense level, very quickly. When those friendships or relationships ended organically, it was soul crushing to me. I really believe it’s due (in part at least) because I’m adopted. I don’t know, maybe on some level my “inner baby” thinks I will be abandoned again. Which is weird to think, let alone put down on paper, because I never felt “abandoned” as an adoptee. And still don’t. But clearly, somewhere my soul is still grieving.

Which begs the question…will I ever be satisfied? Here I am, 44 years into this life and…I still don’t know. All I can do is try to continue to honor and build the relationships from both families, both of whom mean literally the world to me. I would not be the person I am today had I not been adopted into the S family, and I would not be here at all were it not for the O family.

So I will continue to try and sort this all out via my writing. #cheaperthantherapy

Yesterday morning, my biological grandfather passed away. He was 91, and would have celebrated another birthday in April.

Grandpa J led the most colorful life of nearly anyone I have ever known. He was a World War II vet, serving in the Navy. He was also a locally famous stock car/drag race car driver. He was the father of many children, grandfather of many grandchildren and even a few great grandchildren, including my own. I recall that when they were very little, he would always send them a little toy at Christmas.

Grandpa J was the first biological relative to call me on the telephone. When I answered it, his first words to me were “This is your grandpa, J.” I remember feeling at that moment, as if all of my other grandparents were laying a hand on my shoulder and blessing this new relationship that I was beginning, not just with him but with all of my biological family. Like many kids, I revered all of my grandparents. Sadly, I had lost all of them by the time I was 22 but I cherish the memories I have of them. It was incredibly moving, and fitting, to me that my first phone contact with a biological relative was with him.

I only was able to spend time with him on three occasions, the last one being two and a half years ago. Even then, Alzheimer’s had robbed him of so much, including his ability to speak. He did speak occasional words, but none that day (the below photo is a selfie we took on that day. I actually love this photo). But what I remember about my grandpa was him telling me that he would pray the Rosary over my and my husband’s photo, which was next to his chair. I remember the small trinkets he sent for our kids, which I knew were sent with pure love. I remember his shaky scrawl on a Christmas card which arrived every year without fail. I remember his swagger, even as an old man, when he walked into the room. I laughed with delight at the stories I have heard over the years about his shenanigans.

I also really appreciated how he tried to bridge the gap between his daughter/my biological mother, S, and I. He never quite made it happen, but he tried. Sometimes, that is the best you can hope for and sometimes, that is what really matters. I am having some (okay, a lot) of anxiety regarding seeing S next week under these circumstances. I have only seen her twice before, and the last time was in 2010. I never wanted “the next time” to be at her father’s funeral, but it looks like it is going to be. The thought crossed my mind this afternoon that, perhaps, she won’t want me there. I honestly don’t know what I will do or say if that happens. It is hard to explain, but I feel very strongly that I need to be there to say goodbye. Traditions are important to adoptees. At least, they are to me. And even more than that, I feel that I belong there.

Grandpa J was not a perfect man. Far from it, some may say. But I loved him. And without him, there would be no me. I was so fortunate to have had in my life for the past fifteen years. I know he’ll be leading the parties up in Heaven now, and saving a seat for me.

Raise a glass of whisky to J, a true Irish boy.