I never had those fears, maybe because I was older when I ended up having my kids. I was numb as a parent in the beginning, but that may just have been me. I remember observing, as many adoptees do, that my kids were the first people I ever met who were genetically related to me.
I remember when Callum, my eldest was born, and was so sick. The focus was immediately switched from me to him, as was right. But it was a shock to think that I was the one to make decisions, the one to have to take care of him. I was worried, and scared; I was relieved to have my amom by my side for those first three weeks. Although I was 34 years old, being a mom didn't feel natural to me. I loved my son, but he was sick and under bili lights and was suffering from a genetic blood disorder that I had given to him. I knew no one else with hereditary spherocytosis, no one had taken it seriously my entire life because I had been in good health, and I couldn't answer any questions the neonatologists had about the course of it in relatives other than myself. I felt like an alien. MDs asked me again and again, "Are you sure you have it? How do you know?" No one even believed me, until my son was born, so sick. And now looking back, my prenatal tests, when I had polyhydramnios (too much amniotic fluid), and it was of unknown etiology, the MDs said not to worry. The fetus "looked fine." Polyhydramnios is a sign of severe fetal anemia. No one listened to me. Makes me furious now, to think of it. Not that they would have done anything; there wasn't much to do, except to be more aware when he was born, YELLOW with jaundice, from all the red blood cells that were breaking down, had broken down, even in utero. But even then, no, he was "fine." Mother "says" she has HS. Never mind he wouldn't nurse. Was too ill. Couldn't maintain his body temperature. Never mind. He was a good weight. I cry to think of it.
I retreated into my shell when I became a parent, and my amom helped me deal with the transition, capably, as she always does. It shouldn't have been that hard. They should have listened to me! My biggest trigger is not being heard. And they didn't. Listen. It may have been PPD. I don't know. It wasn't diagnosed. I wasn't completely out for the count; I didn't lie in bed, I was taking care of him and me all right. I did end up doing better once I found a new mothers' support group, when he was 10 weeks old and established a community of women in the same boat. Support is very, very important.
Whenever I think about families, I think about pictures and portraits. I have always loved portraiture, and it was one of my subspecialties in my other life. I know I've mentioned this before. I believe this is partially related to my being adopted and my search for meaning in families in the vacuum of my own history.
I love puzzling out why certain aspects of a person were/are important, why lineage is indelibly tied to power. I am fascinated when thinking about people like William the Conqueror, a bastard, who took matters into his own hands when he was told he could not have power he wanted.
I adore certain works of art that are enigmatic. I am entranced by certain painters, like Van Dyck. Today I am in love with this image from 1625, the man in armor, standing alone. I "met" him in 2002, in Dresden. We don't know who he is; he may be an allegory. Sometimes I feel like an allegory, too.
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