Relinquished Memory

No one really remembers the day that they were born, so we rely on the recollections of our parents and family members. You are probably sick of hearing the stories, right? Your Mom describes how big she was with you, her terrible heartburn, the swelling in her ankles, her nausea when smelling seafood, her craving for Dove bars. Your father remembers the drive to the hospital, how it was the coldest day of the year, the traffic jam that almost prevented them from getting to the hospital in time. Your grandparents relay how perfect you were, your intelligence, your alertness, your similarity to your father, your mother’s temperament.

Well, if you are adopted, you are sunk, especially if you were born before open adoptions and shared information. Life started for me the day my parents got the call from Catholic Charities that there were twin baby girls waiting for them in Chicago. At least that is where my parents’ recollections begin. They describe picking us up at St. Vincent’s, the orphanage overseen by the Daughters of Charity at 721 N. LaSalle in Chicago. Our baby book begins with the two of us, 3 weeks old, in the arms of our ecstatic adopted parents.  Absent in my first Memory Book are photos of my twin and me fresh from the womb in the arms of our first mother; missing are snapshots of us cuddling in cribs at the women’s hospital where we were born on the south side of Chicago. I learned that it was torn down years ago, and is now a baseball diamond.

Adopted children fantasize not only about who their parents are and how much they love them, but about the day they were born and how it came to be that they were adopted.  That’s me. I had a rich fantasy life. I grew up wondering where did I came from, why was I adopted, who were my parents and when would they come back looking for me?

This fantasy was written, before I found my birth mother, and she could be questioned about its veracity:

The maternity nurse brought us to you because the transfer arrangements had just been made.  Two nurses from St. Vincent’s Orphanage were coming for us before noon the following day. We were going on to the next stage of our adoption journey.  Without you.

 

The nurse knew we were not supposed to be with you, but she brought us anyway.  She was a big, burly matron, a mother herself, who had assessed the cruelty of the impending surrender, the ensuing pain of separation and the forthcoming lifelong loss and sorrow.  She knew the desolation would never loosen its vise-like grip and so she brought us mewing like baby kittens into your room. You heard us coming, you listened to the rattle of the rolling bassinets being pushed and pulled down the sparkling linoleum floor of the endless hallway from the forbidden area of the nursery.

 

You stared at us. You were vigilant as our fists pummeled air, our little chests heaving with each tiny breath, our bodies squirming in the tight swaddling of our blankets.  We were a miracle, one that you had wrestled with and planned for and regretted and prayed about. Children of the short spark of passion, from a relationship gone awry. Now, the three of us were united in your maternity hospital room and you were laying eyes upon us for the first and last times of our lives.  You had not one second to spare. The starched, white-uniformed nurse, the one who dropped us on your doorstep unannounced, the one with the soul, would retrieve us imminently. She had broken stringent rules with this defiantly charitable act of presenting us to you. A weary gasp crept from your parched lips, you swallowed us with your tired, brown eyes and you etched this precious, savory moment to perpetual memory.

 

You gingerly picked up one of us, one of your newborn daughters, and positioned her immediately on your breast.  A sob seeped from the gash of your breaking heart and salty tears ran rivulets down your angular cheekbones. The other babe knew her twin had garnered your attentions and she began to stir with anger and determination to have her time with you as well.  You managed somehow to lift the remaining infant and position her where both twins could feel your heartbeat leaping like a fire on a windless beach. We stilled in your arms, settled by the life meaning rhythm we recognized from months in-utero. It would be the last time we knew one another. Just then, time stood still for us all as we drew needed strength, love and nourishment from this chance caress.

 

You heeded the heavy footsteps approaching in the corridor. You kissed our tiny brows and placed us facing up but next to one another, touching, in one of the cradles.  Your soft, tender lips knowingly positioned the expression of your love on the velvet sweet spot of our virgin foreheads. Then you turned us towards one another and we luxuriated in the scent of you on one another.  We settled. And then you blessed us. You pleaded with Him to bless us all the days of our lives and take care of us in the world He created. And He did.

Put a pin in the balloon. It turns out that my birth mother had been given twilight sleep and had no recall of the birthing process. Before going into labor, she had requested that she not be brought her child after labor and delivery. The nuns had encouraged this scenario, so her baby would be easier to relinquish.  My mother did not know until after our birth that she had delivered twins. So much for fantasy but at least I now have the privilege of knowing what happened on the day I was born. Part of me likes the fantasy better.