Life Support

I am preparing to return to work after being on medical leave for nine months. I am excited and nervous, worried that I've forgotten too much, that I will be even worse at placing IVs, and that the crush of responsibility will wear me down in a matter of weeks. Being an RN means that I am the eyes and ears of the MD or midwife when they're out of the patient's room. I have to make quick judgment calls, ask for appropriate meds, and be alert and vigilant for 8 hours straight. I work in a high volume, high risk, high stress unit. Never a dull moment, which is both good in terms of learning and bad in terms of feeling like I am drowning. In my first month on the job I had a patient hemorrhage with an inverted uterus, a neonatal code, several fetal demises, and more than one emergency c-section. I am fortunate that I work with a team of exceptional nurses who support me; I am not completely alone, although there are shifts when we're understaffed and I might as well be. One such time there was no Advanced Life Support RN for the baby, and no resource RN at delivery. I had to dry off and assess the baby, do APGARs, and simultaneously get everything that the MD wanted for the patient (hang new IV bag, get sutures and lidocaine, etc.). THAT made me into a huge stress monkey. Too bad I don't have 10 arms.

Because my job often takes me to the OR, I have to be certified in Advanced Cardiac Life Support (ACLS), which is a fancy way of saying that I need to be prepared to run a code when someone goes into cardiac arrest. I have to recognize ECG rhythms, know which ones are shockable, which drugs to use when in what amounts, and how to delegate and check in with team members to make sure that my orders are being carried out as directed. It is pretty complicated, although there are algorithms to simplify things. I spent the better part of five days trying to remember heart medications and proper treatment for myocardial infarctions and stroke. I spent one day in a classroom going over the algorithms and being coached, and then on the second day, I had my big test, called a megacode.

I am a nervous person at the best of times. Polite people call me vigilant; less polite people call me jumpy. I am a perfectionist with a low startle threshold. I can forget to breathe. You can imagine what being in charge of a megacode did to me.

The tester usually began by asking where the team leader worked and what kind of job they did before coming up with a scenario. I was hoping that I would be asked, so that he could come up with some OB scenario in the OR or labor room involving bleeding out. That I can handle. But I wasn't asked, and my "patient" was a 38-year-old IV drug user, coming into the ER with heart palpitations and dehydration. I had my team put my patient on the heart monitor, checked the rhythm, and ordered an IV start and labs to check blood count, electrolytes, kidney function, liver function, and drug toxicology. The tester informed me that my RN was unable to start an IV, so I had to order an intraosseus (within the bone marrow) line. Then the tester asked me where I worked, and the paramedics and ER nurses chuckled because I had forgotten that toxicology screens have to be checked from urine. Oops. I didn't order a Foley catheter. Then I forgot to shock the patient immediately when he went into ventricular fibrillation. I guess I looked frazzled, because the instructor said, "It's okay. You're doing fine. Remember your algorithms."

I got back on track and passed. It was nerve-wracking, but having been in real codes that were less well handled, I feel as though I can contribute more meaningfully. I hope. Practice and faith in oneself really does matter. And in a real-life situation in the OR or labor room, I would NOT be running the code. Hooray for having three MDs in the OR and a code team to call!

Then I got to thinking about the algorithms. If you follow the boxes and answer questions, things are simplified. You know what to do when, if you constantly reassess the patient and make decisions based on that information. Very few people actually survive codes, but there is a best practice to be followed. That is reassuring.

It made me wish that there were some algorithm to follow when trying to sift through the complicated, clotted emotions that come along with adoption. There are theories (such as the primal wound, and modified Eriksonian crises), and there are examples (such as the interviews that B.J. Lifton published in her books) of other people's searches and reunions. But no adoptions are alike, no adoptees are exactly alike, no first mothers are the same. There is no algorithm for coping: we do the best we can, muddle through, and hope for the best. Sometimes I feel like I am performing CPR on myself, pounding on a chest in which the heart has stopped beating for lack of an emotional home. Sometimes I wish I could give myself epinephrine to give myself a better chance to reset my heart's nonperfusing rhythm.

Over the past few years, I've been given a lot of advice. "Say this, say that, never say that, don't contact, contact now, demand that, ask politely, give more time, show up on her doorstep," and so on. Problem is, there is no script to follow that works for everyone. We all have to write our own as we go. I remember someone telling me not to tell my fmom in a letter that I wanted anything less than her love, and that she had mine. Well, turns out that my fmom isn't the loving kind of person who wanted to hear such words. As she put it, "I feel nothing for you as a child of mine, but you are nice, and if I met you in the line at the grocery store we could have a nice talk. Let's work on a friendship like that." So I am a stranger--that's a given--of no more importance than someone met incidentally while running errands. I will take it, although it wasn't the reception I had hoped for. One step at a time, one step at a time.

Then I sink back into this terrible sense of feeling alone. I have an amazing family, loving friends, and I belong in many ways. I don't belong in my nfamily, at least not yet, and probably never in the way I'd like. How is it that I slipped down a rabbit hole and ended up here, where I can't enjoy what I do have?

Although I become annoyed by people who are so scientific that they cannot begin to understand or process human emotions, I do wish I could pull a card out of my pocket with an algorithm that outlined life support for me in more concrete terms than taking antidepressants, thinking happy thoughts, doing things that bring me joy, and surrounding myself with loved ones. It's these things, oddly, that often reinforce how alone I feel.

In ACLS, there are some rhythms that are shockable, and some that aren't. Can't shock dead, they say. They may shock a flat line on TV, but it doesn't restart the heart. There has to be the right combination of electrical activity, oxygen, circulation, and chemicals for that heart to pump.

Right now, I am not in a shockable rhythm.

ABC. Airway, Breathing, Circulation. Airway, Breathing, Circulation. It can keep you alive, but to what end? What is life vs. quality of life? Oh yeah, there's no algorithm for that one, either.

Speechless

I am not one usually to run out of words. I have been known to be quiet and withdrawn, but the events of the past two days have truly knocked me sideways.

I have been deeply depressed. This is not news. I have been fighting my health problems and feeling suicidal for over six months. I have been suicidal before, but I usually stuffed my feelings down and made it through by making myself numb. I have lived most of my life appearing cheerful, but feeling like a zombie inside.

On Monday night, I finally decided that if I was going to die, I should tell my brother how very angry I was with him. So I sent him a text that basically said that I was sorry I was born and caused such misery to everyone in my nfamily, but that I had expected more from him. Thanks, but no thanks. He won no prizes for being a gentleman.

Shortly after I sent my text, his wife called me. She had refused to answer an e-mail I had sent her last September, and she had left me high and dry after my visit with her in April, after she moved in with my nmother. I picked up, and she asked if I was okay. I said no, I wasn't. She then said that A (my brother) would call me when he could get out of the lab. I said fine, and then told her that I had been horrendously betrayed, that I didn't trust her, and that basically there was nothing left to say. I hung up.

A called a bit later. He asked if I was okay. I said no. I also told him that I was really angry that he hadn't answered my e-mail in October, or bothered to tell me that he had made it home safely from his tour. He said that he was tired of being in the middle (as if *I* put him there!) and that no one in the family was going to have a relationship with me until C and I worked it out. He had told my cousin to stop communicating with me; I had suspected as much when my cousin stopped responding to my texts and messages. The straightjacket of such an arrangement insisting on complete family harmony made no sense to me on multiple levels: I wasn't doing any of the obstructing, and why can't adults have relationships with other adults without the blessing of everyone on the planet? I brought up how honoring thy father and mother doesn't mean committing murder; where do you draw the line? He asked for some time to think, then said he'd call me back. I answered very sarcastically, "When? Six months? A year from now?" He told me he'd call me the next day, and call our mother that night.

I felt sad beyond measure yet again. I really had done nothing but be born into this family of people I couldn't begin to understand. I wasn't asking for anything more than friendship and respect. I cried, lay in the fetal position, felt more alone than ever, and wondered what in the hell I had done to deserve such treatment. And sadly, this kind of thing is not foreign to me, in love relationships, friendships, and otherwise. You'd think I could find a pattern in myself and fix it, and I've tried, but there is no way I could have created this situation with my nfamily. If anything, my problem is being stubborn and not letting go, but I think I hold onto things for a reason.

So I got the kids ready for bed, took a Xanax to help me sleep, and woke up at midnight with my body and emotions in a knot. I checked my phone and noticed that C had called me. Great, I thought. I am going to get reamed again for contacting someone or upsetting A.

The next morning, I was getting the kids ready for school and saw that C had called again. I couldn't pick up because I was too busy tracking down shoes and jackets and homework and trying to get Tobey to brush his hair. I had an appointment right after I dropped off the kids, and hashed it over on the phone with a friend who is trying to get over a breakup. He advised me to do as he is trying to do, simply to walk away. But I couldn't, I just couldn't.

I got home, arranged myself with Kleenex, a warm blanket, the dog, and the phone, and then called C. She picked up immediately and began to ask what was wrong, why I felt so bad, and what could be done to change it. I told her that I'd been unhappy pretty much all of my life, stumbling through it, never valuing myself. I asked her the three questions I'd forgotten to ask last time: Did she hold me? No. Did she name me? No. Did she listen to Edith Piaf while pregnant with me? No. We talked about how she was drugged for my delivery and doesn't remember anything of it. She was horrified to learn that I'd been in the NICU without a primary caretaker for six weeks; she'd been promised I'd go home with a family right away. She was angry to learn that the agency had lied to my parents about her prenatal care and about my father. She told me about hiding her pregnancy so successfully that she did her whole semester of student teaching and no one noticed. She told me about the day she screwed up the courage to tell her parents that she was pregnant with me.

Our conversation flowed for over an hour. She wanted to know about my parents, my childhood, my experiences. We joked about how we both suck at housework and would rather read books. How we're stubborn and good liars. We compared medications for depression, she asked about my boys, and we talked about how marriage is really hard. I told her that I'd left flowers for her father, and she was happy that I had done so. I asked why he had no flowers while the other family members in the cemetery did, and she said that she kept meaning to do it on her visits, but never got around to it.

At one point she said, "This is a nice conversation. Look, we can talk without yelling at each other!" I agreed. She said that she didn't feel like my mom, but that she would be interested in pursuing a friendship. She encouraged me to call her if I felt sad. I really *want* to talk to her. We do have a lot in common. It was so odd but wonderful to have shoved all the garbage off the table and to be able to interact just as people.

She told me that she had told A that she had no problems with our relationship, but that he insisted on this whole family reconciliation thing. She told me that she'd call him to clarify, and she told me to text my cousin saying that I'd spoken with Aunt C and that she was absolutely fine with him getting to know me. My cousin texted back and said, "Thank God! What a load off." C explained that my aunt and uncle want to approach me, but aren't quite ready yet. I think it's a relief for C now that everyone in the family knows. We can move ahead, take things slowly, and be friends--I hope. I never thought I would be able to say that. It feels wonderful.

A and I are figuring things out. I was so angry, angrier than I had originally thought I was. All those months I fretted about having him back in my life and wondering what I'd done--while knowing I had done nothing except exist. The enormity of his betrayal ripped me to shreds. It will take a long time for me to be able to trust him again, although I really want to get there. I asked him if he'd come visit me so that we can spend time together and reestablish our footing. He agreed, and will hopefully get up this way the weekend after next. My boys are thrilled: Callum said, "I think Uncle A owes me an apology, but then I want to hug him." Tobey just said, "I can't wait to meet him and show him all my Lego. And thank him for Alfie [the Elf on the Shelf A gave the kids last year]."

A assured me that he feels terrible for what he did, and that all of what happened was because of the situation, not because of me. Sound familiar? Oh yes, the situation that *is* me and for which I get punished, over and over and over and over....

But mostly I can't wait to hug him and cry and be happy that he's home safe and sound from Afghanistan. I also told him that he's too Southern and military and has to stop saying, "Yes, ma'am," to me unless he's teasing me as my little brother. I am too young to be "Ma'am."

So things are better, I guess, although I can't decide if this is actually my life or I woke up as someone else yesterday.

Better to know?

Many people have asked me over the past year and a half if I regret searching and finding my first family, especially because of the cold reception and the painful repeated rejections I have suffered.

No.

I cannot regret seeing myself in the faces of others for the first time. Learning about my family's history, where I came from, and getting additional medical history. Seeing that I have gestures just like my first mom's. Hearing her voice for the first time. Meeting my brother and his family. Feeling that the child inside me finally had found her long-lost place of refuge and recognition from the people she was connected to.

Yes.

I have sunk to some of the darkest depths emotionally that I've ever experienced. I opened myself up to pain and emotional distress in ways I'd never thought possible. I didn't think any living people could hurt me as badly as my first family did, and I've been through some really ugly breakups in my life. The rejections were visceral and bloody, and took me to places inside myself I hope never to see again.

I don't think that anyone should have to go through what I did. I think that people in reunions, even though said reunions might have taken a while to come about, cannot understand how horribly scarring it is to be treated as a personal belonging. There is a pain in being told that your mother wished she'd aborted you that I wish existed only in a Lifetime movie.

And yet I have hope. I am stubborn. I don't give up easily. I want so very much to believe that the goodness in me comes from somewhere in my first mom's family. I don't want always to be the afterthought, the exile, the rejected one.

I kept going, and have formed a new connection with someone else in my first family, who--beyond my wildest dreams--treats me with love and respect. I don't want to jinx anything, but I am impressed and filled with pride to be related to this person. I see the goodness of myself in him. I am cautious and not one to abandon my fear easily, but the past few weeks have shown me that there are people who do not choose to be blind or judgmental.

I am a loyal friend and family member, and I feel in my heart that I have met my match.

I read several blogs of adoptees who are issue free and happy, without reservation, about their life and situations. Sometimes I am envious. I ask myself if I would rather have their certainty and security than my darkness and turmoil. It's tempting sometimes, but I have decided I wouldn't. Part of my pain comes from my intelligence and willingness to probe deeply into myself; in my life, I would have to be pretty superficial to claim that all was well. I wouldn't trade my mental illness and emotional intensity for a life lived in Stepford pastels. Unless I had enough Valium, that is. And even then, probably not. I would always take the red pill of knowledge. I can't imagine being blind. I am not my first mother.

Reunion, Part II

Several weeks went by before I dared contact my brother. I wanted to give him space, but my nerves were frayed by the stress of waiting. I knew that this was all new to him, but I'd been living uneasily with it for my whole life. 


I sent off a tentative e-mail to T and received this in response:


Hi K,

We did discuss the situation with C while we were visiting. She told us she gave you up for adoption, there was more to the story than the documents you sent me revealed as far as things being consensual. At this time she does not want any contact with you and would appreciate you respecting her decision. As far as A is concerned, he is still trying to decide what to do. He doesn't want to upset his mother and he has some other stressful things going on right now. I'm sure he will contact you when he is ready and let you know how he feels about the situation. A's father is not aware of any of this and C and A would like to keep it that way for now, I hope you understand. If you have other questions, please email me and I will help as much as I can, but I don't want to ruin my relationship with them either.

T


I wrote a respectful reply, but then felt increasing frustration and anger that my story and identity were being judged and held hostage. How was it that T now knew more about my birth than I did, myself? I sent another appeal:


Dear T,

I have been thinking for a few days about what is most important for me to know. Frankly, I don't think I could enumerate everything in an e-mail or in a telephone conversation. I want to know things about gestures I have, see pictures of C and her family, and hear about the personalities and histories of different members of my family.

I realize that neither A nor C feels able or comfortable providing this information to me, but I do feel that you and I have made a connection and you, better than anyone, can empathize with my difficult position. Likewise, I understand how much you want to support them, and I would not want to jeopardize your relationship with them.

Here is a proposal: if I visit my parents' home in the San Diego area one weekend early in December, would you be willing to meet with me over coffee, just for an hour or two? You could choose a location comfortable for you, and if you want to include A and/or C, that's fine. Or if you want to keep it between us, that is fine, too. I know that this puts you in an extremely awkward position, but there is truly no one else I can ask. I sincerely doubt that J [my grandmother] or B [my uncle] would be open to speaking to me, nor would C want me to contact them. I just can't see myself waiting another 40 years to learn things about myself that nonadopted people know as a matter of course; what A and C prefer is of course in my mind, but I will not sacrifice myself and my desire to know the truth in order to protect them.

To be honest, I cried for several hours after learning that you know more about the infant I was than I know myself. I am a person with feelings, not a clean slate without a past or natural family. This is a painful fact for everyone involved, including myself. I understand that it would be easier on A and C for me just to walk away, but I can't.

Once again, I understand that this is an extremely volatile situation, and that you are in a tenuous position. But I am imploring you, as you have been nothing but kind and respectful of how difficult this is for me. I hope that you won't immediately say no. Please take some time to consider this and the immense difference it would make in filling a dark hole I've been living with every day for 40 years. It's just not a hole I can fill by myself. Believe me, I've tried.

Best regards,
K


A few hours later, I received an e-mail from A:


K,

Sorry it has taken so long to return your e-mail and phone call. I have had a couple of very busy weeks at work and have not had much free time.

We had a nice trip and visit, thank you for asking. After approaching my mother she acknowledged your birth but I do not think she is ready for contact with you at this time. However, I am not against such contact and hope you and your family are well.

I will try and call this weekend sometime.

Thanks.
A

When he did call that weekend, he explained that he was being deployed to Afghanistan in February as physician to a battallion of Marines. A was clearly under incredible stress. He did, however, tell me that he very much wanted to meet me before his deployment. We made plans for me to visit him at his home in San Diego. After C's cold response, I was pleasantly surprised that he was treating me like someone who mattered deeply to him, and had made the point of inviting me to come as soon as possible. I tried to hold back my feelings and stop myself from caring too much, too soon, but it was a difficult battle. A seemed so much like me in the way he respected and treated me. I have rarely met anyone so warm and forthcoming. 

On the appointed day in December, I drove to A's house. I was sweaty and shaking, fearful that he wouldn't like me and that this would be my one and only chance ever to learn anything about my first family. When I arrived, he was outside barbecuing while talking on the phone. I heard him say, "Gotta go, Mom, Kara's here." I felt a chill, knowing that C was on the line. He hung up, then walked up to me, hugged me, and called me "Sister." It was one of the most profound and affirming moments of my life; he smelled and felt so familiar, and it was magical to be in the arms of my flesh and blood. 

Inside the house A showed me pictures of my family: it was strange for the first time to see myself in the people in photographs on the walls. I said to A, "I think I look a lot like our grandfather," and he agreed heartily: "Heck yes, you do!" I noticed that in many photographs C would stand with her weight on her left leg and her right leg sticking out at an angle, like Degas' statues of the little dancer. I do exactly the same thing, and my amom and others have tripped over my right leg for years. I thought it was a singular quirk of mine, but it turns out to be yet another way in which I am part of C. 

A and I drank (a lot), ate a wonderful dinner, and talked for hours. I discovered that my brother and I share so much in terms of our personalities and interest. I told him about the process of searching, my disappointments and successes in life, and how much his acceptance meant to me. He was empathetic and said that while he couldn't imagine what it felt like for me, he thought it must have been incredibly hard. I wept. He held me. I felt comfortable and relaxed with him in a way I've rarely felt with anyone else. We decided not to waste any more time without each other; there were 35 years gone, but the future together lay ahead. 

I cried when I later found out that he was initially equally nervous and worried that I wouldn't like him. It never occurred to me that he might be afraid that I'd reject him. 

The next morning he asked if my aparents would be willing to drive my elder son over, so that he could meet his nephew. They agreed. It was a little bit awkward having them together with A, but I was glad for them to meet. Callum, my son, played with A's son, W. They had a blast running and chasing and riding bikes. A and I talked about how much fun it would be to go camping all together. A hosted a football-watching party that morning, and one of his residents  (A's an attending at the Naval Hospital) was over with his girlfriend. While chatting, I asked how the resident had met A. The guest told me, and then asked me the same. I sighed, smiled, and said, "That's an interesting question." I didn't want to put A in an uncomfortable spot, so I deferred to his lead. A said, "Well, you know, this is my sister. I just met her yesterday." The story came out, A was beaming, and I couldn't have been more proud. He acknowledged me; it was clear that he thought of me as family. 

Our relationship blossomed over the next months, through his being deployed to Afghanistan. He called me twice in the week before he left, saying that one goodbye phone call wasn't enough. He said he loved me. He explained how our relationship put him in a difficult position with our mother, and he didn't know how he would explain me and my family to people when W talked about his cousins. He reassured me, however, that it was his problem, not mine, and that he was in this for the long haul. He told me how much he wished he'd had me around in childhood to protect him from bullies because he was a nerd. It warmed me deeply to feel needed and wanted. 

After he left for Camp Leatherneck, I wrote letters, sent packages, and anticipated and loved getting letters from him. He didn't let me down. I archived every scrap of paper he sent me. I learned that if he died, he had told his wife that he wanted me at his funeral. I cried to feel important to him in a way I hadn't had the courage to hope for. 

Reunion, Part I

The day after I sent the message to my brother, A, on Facebook, I received an e-mail from his wife. 

Hi K,

You have sent a few emails to my husband A about possibly being his half-sister.  We have both spoken to C [my fmom] about this and she denies having another child.  Maybe she just doesn’t want to admit it or she is not your birth mother.  Either way, I would like to know a little more about you.  How did you find out about A?  Do you have a picture of yourself you could share with us?  I know you saw our family photo on facebook, does A look anything like you (he looks a lot like his father)?  A is really bothered by this whole thing and is not sure what to believe so I am trying to find some more information for him.  Thanks and I hope to hear from you soon.

T

Here are our subsequent exchanges:

Dear T,

First of all, many, many thanks for being willing to talk with me. I understand that this is all very strange to you and A, and must seem that it comes out of the blue. I deeply regret causing A and C any discomfort, but this is something terribly important to me. I have been been searching for my family for 12 years, and my adoptive parents are aware and supportive of my search.

I was adopted in Missouri through an agency. If an adoptee searches through formal channels in Missouri, a confidential intermediary system is used. I went through this system; the intermediary twice approached C: once in 2000 and once in 2008. Both times, she was willing to provide limited medical information but nothing else. I did find out that I had a brother, five years younger than I am. This summer with the help of other searchers, I was able to find a match between my information, which included my name "Baby Girl Newman," and the family of W.N. Newman. I am attaching copies of my non-identifying information for you to read; they include a sketch of a family tree because of the spherocytosis. As I mentioned in my first e-mail to A, I have hereditary spherocytosis, which is an added layer of concern (my elder son has it, too) but also of identification. I found out about A from W.N. Newman's obituary, which mentioned C.

I would say that I resemble A in some ways, although this clearly subjective. I am attaching pictures of me and my family so that you can make your own judgments. We have two young boys and very few pics of us as a family, I'm afraid. I've made my profile on Facebook public so you will have access to those pictures, too. I also found some photographs of W.N. Newman, taken in 1954, online at ancestry.com, and I think I look like him, as well.

I would guess that C is still suffering from the aftereffects of having a baby out of wedlock, which must have been incredibly traumatic. It is easier to forget and deny than live with some truths. I have a friend, another adoptee, also born in 1969, whose birthmother took three years to come to terms with my friend's request for contact. C may never agree to meet me, and I must accept this as a possible outcome. But I am hopeful that she will change her mind and that there are other relatives of mine who might be more open to knowing me. I would love to have contact with A, if and when he is able. Please do not hesitate to ask me for anything, more information, whatever is desired. I would of course agree to a DNA test, if that is something A wants.

Once again, T, I cannot thank you enough for taking the time to contact me. It means the world to me that you are willing to go out on a limb and talk to a stranger. I know this must be very difficult for you, as well.

I am available to talk by e-mail or phone, as you desire. 

With great respect,

K

Hi K,

I shared this information with A last night and he is struggling with what to do next. There are a few details listed in the report you sent that do not exactly match the family history as we know it. I think the best thing to do is give him some time to absorb all that he has learned and decide how to proceed. I do believe he will contact you at some point because he has a hard time letting things go unresolved. I also find myself in a difficult position Because I do not want to cause ripples in our family, but you seem like an honest person just trying to find answers so I will do what I can to help. If he decides not to contact you, I will let you know. 

Sincerely,

T

A few weeks later, It was a typical, chaotic Sunday evening in my home. My two sons were distracted from dinner by a thousand things, the dog was pacing around the table hoping for handouts, and I was anticipating the nearing hour of bedtime with unconcealed joy. The phone rang. I jumped up, saw an unfamiliar number, felt my heart catch, and whispered, "Hello?"

The honeyed Southern drawl at the other end said "Hello" back. Then, "Is this K? Have I caught you at a bad time?" I knew immediately it was my brother, and my mind began to spin. I signaled to my husband to take over the circus at the table, reassured my brother that it wasn't a bad time, and escaped to a quiet corner. I was hoping that this call signaled his willingness to get to know me. 

We stumbled through niceties and coincidences. He is a physician, I am a nurse; we both have additional advanced degrees; we both are supernerds. It turned out that one of my closest friends from St. Louis was the sister of one of A's college friends in Mississippi. A told me that he thought that the dark, complicated story involving my birth would make a good novel. I felt frightened and hopeful and ecstatic, all at once. I couldn't be sure this was real. I wanted to know everything about him, and ask every question possible, in five minutes. My voice quavered and revealed my nervousness. I admired A for the courage it took to reach out to this sister-stranger, and for his apparent calm. 

My brother brought the conversation back to the reason for his call: "I have to talk to my mom about this. I have to make sense of it. I want to talk to her in person. I am going to be visiting her in a few weeks. I'll let you know what I think after I get back." We said goodbye.

I was more excited than I think I've ever been, but it was back to waiting. Waiting. Waiting. It could be weeks. The answer might be no. I was too afraid to think of it.