The Dead

I mentioned in an earlier post that I found a community of like-minded adoptees in 2008, who have been my mainstay through the tempests of the past year. I have also come to love many first mothers who have rallied around me through the worst of things with C, and convinced me the rejection has everything to do with C, not me. [Sidebar: I do hate it when people say, "It's not *you,* it's the situation." Well, the situation wouldn't exist if it weren't for me. I do buy that it comes from C being unwilling to tap into her long-vaulted emotions or to think of me differently than a random piece of flesh she left at the hospital 41 years ago.] Special first moms have been loving and generous and open and kind, and their kindness is backed up with actions, even when I say things that some first mothers might find painful.

One of these mothers is Lori. I love her more than I can say. We met on Facebook and exchanged our stories. She was patient and supportive of me, just listening. It turns out that Lori lives about half an hour away from where C grew up, and where most of C's family still lives. Last spring, Lori invited me to visit sometime and go to the towns where my ancestors are buried, with her by my side. This didn't seem like it would happen for a long time, but I was touched and honored by her offer.

I have been on medical leave from my job for a problem that resulted from my splenectomy. This past spring, the pain in my abdomen became excruciating. Tests showed nothing but the clot, and prevailing research says that clots don't hurt. This I don't understand, especially when my clot is almost 2cm long and blocks the main thoroughfare to my liver. But what do I know? I was put on high doses of narcotics, which I don't actually find all that nice because they numb me up and make me sleepy all the time. I saw different pain doctors and my hepatologist, started acupuncture, massage, and reiki. But it still sucked. Finally a smart doctor decided to run a series of genetic clotting tests on me; these tests should have been done when I walked into my first hematologist's office four years ago, with no medical history to speak of and an existing blood disorder. Nope, she didn't. Then I found out last December from A that he also had had a serious venous clot, out of the blue. I told my doctors this, but they still didn't act on it for six months. Not a bright lot. What *really* pissed me off was that C *knew* about A's clot but didn't say a word about it when the CI asked her for medical history. She also didn't tell me about my grandfather's Alzheimer's, or the alcoholism. Nice. Again, I was never a person to her, and certainly not family, so what good could this information do for me? It's infuriating to be such a nonentity to her, but there was nothing I could do about it.

So as it was, in July, I was off work. The annual Adoptee Rights protest is in the summer and coincides with conference of the National Council of State Legislatures. The idea is to get access to lawmakers and describe to them how adoptees are denied passports and treated like second-class citizens because we are not allowed to have copies of our original birth certificates (OBCs). For those of you reading who aren't in adoptoland, an adoptee gets an amended birth certificate after the adoption is finalized. This amended certificate testifies that the adoptee was born to the adoptive parents. The OBC is put into lockdown and no one, except those working in Vital Records, is allowed to access it. There are currently nine states that have allowed adoptees access to OBCs, but the other 41 deny petitions. I want to talk about this in more detail in another post, but I find this practice of secrecy and treating adoptees like potential rabid criminals to be unconstitutional. The usual argument against access is that first parents don't want to be found, but statistics show that a clear majority *do* want to be found. But even that is a red herring. It's a civil right that we're denied, and it makes no sense. Certificates do not equal search or reunion, and first parents were never guaranteed a right to privacy. That's an invention of the adoption industry that was used to entice women to surrender their babies. We have a right to know our original identities! End rant.

The protest this year was held in Louisville, Kentucky, and I decided to go and put my money where my mouth is. I was thrilled to be able meet so many people I already knew online, and to make many new friends, as well. Louisville is a two-hour drive from where C's family comes from. I wrote to Lori and asked her if she could do a reconnaissance mission and find my grandfather's grave before I arrived. She readily agreed, and fortuitously found it immediately upon entering the cemetery. She took a picture and sent it to me on her camera phone. I cried. It hurt to know that the only people in my first family who would accept me are the deceased ones; they can't reject me or send me away. I asked Lori if she'd be willing to take me there, and she graciously accepted.

Early on a very hot Saturday morning, I drove west from Louisville to the southwest corner of Indiana. I listened to Mary Gauthier's brilliant new album about her experiences being adopted, "The Foundling."
Hot tears slid down my cheeks as she sang, "Rock-a-bye, baby/Mama ain't coming back." I enjoyed the gloriously green landscape as the miles ticked down, happy to be in air conditioning since it was 97 degrees outside with God knows what humidity. I grew up in the Midwest, not all that far away from where I was driving; C traveled to the nearest big city, St. Louis, to have me and leave me behind. I arrived in the small town where my grandfather was buried and pulled into the parking lot where Lori was waiting for me. I looked at the sign by the highway, which rather taunted me.

As I parked, Lori stepped out of her car and ran to hug me. I was so happy to have her with me. She told me that she would do whatever I needed. I didn't want to let go of her. I cried. We got into her car, and I tried to compose myself. I asked to stop at the town florist (hoping there was one, because this was a very small town).

We passed a flotilla of churches, truly one on every corner, and found the florist. I walked in and almost started crying again when I realized this was where the flowers for my grandfather's funeral had most certainly come from. And that the woman behind the counter knew my family. I could have started some great gossip, but I figured it wouldn't do me any good. It was tempting, though. The florist asked if I wanted daisies or alstromeria or carnations. "No," I said, "A dozen long-stemmed red roses." She raised her eyebrows and went into the back cooler to get them. Lori stood by me at the counter as I tried to figure out what to write on the card that I planned to leave at the grave. Here's what I ended up with: "Dear Bill, I am sorry that secrets kept me from you for so long. I love you. Your Granddaughter" I am, by the way, the only granddaughter; it's a small family, and in my generation there's only my brother and two younger boy cousins. I paid for the flowers, mentioned that I was leaving them for my grandfather, and we left.

We drove down the street and around the corner to the cemetery, across from the grain elevator. Lori turned into the driveway, and there was the grave. I got out of the car and walked over to the headstone, kneeled, and started to talk to my grandfather. The words came thick and fast, like my tears. I touched his name on the cold stone, tracing every letter. I lay my head against the granite, wetting the surface and trying to soak him up. I was filled with sadness that I came too late, although I can't be sure he would have accepted me. A said once, though, that he felt that if our grandfather had still been alive, he would have put a stop to all the madness.

Lori sat with me, hugged me, and validated what I said and felt. I was with my guardian angel. We left the flowers and tied the note to the flower holder with ribbon. I hoped that someone would read it, but it seemed unlikely that it would last through all the rain to come. I also noticed that my grandfather's was the only grave without flowers. His two brothers and his parents had silk flowers, but there were none for him. It felt like he was waiting for me, although it's ridiculous to think so.

Lori took me to another cemetery where my grandmother's parents are buried, and I visited their graves, as well. It felt good to be with my family, although I am relegated to the margins, along with the dead.