Yeah, I balked too.

While I can’t dismiss her seemingly personal experience, I still do not believe that the majority of birth mothers feel “happy” upon relinquishment. I explained that it wasn’t a happy moment for me. And then I went on… as I usually do.

Out of all of the birth mothers and adoptive mothers with whom I have discussed THIS specific moment, not ONE has said that it was a happy moment for the birth mother. Later? When things and hormones and everything calm down? And promises are kept? And normalcy brings everyone together? Yes, that can be happy (though, also really, bittersweet). But that moment? Of letting go, of signing it away, of the lowest lows? Is not happy.

Of note: I did not have to sign papers in the hospital as I was released from the hospital before the required 72 hours before a mother can sign the Termination of Parental Rights in Pennsylvania. I signed at home. However, leaving the hospital without my daughter was incredibly hard. That letting go, the walking away, the dying inside. The only thing that even comes close to matching that moment of low was signing the papers with the attorney. Those two moments were not happy. They were incredibly hard, soul-sucking and reduced me to feeling nothing more than worthless.

Speaking specifically of that moment in the hospital — the hand off — I have blurry memories. I was panicked because my mom refused to come to the hospital so I was doing it with the help of my dad who was trying to be strong but was emotionally devastated as well. I remember Dee sitting in a chair across the room; she was wearing glasses. I remember the nurse, touching my arm. I remember the feeling that I had no control over the moment. It wasn’t that I wanted to change my mind; it was that I wanted everything to slow down. I wanted to breathe. I didn’t want the nurses to be pushing us out the door. I wanted to sit, to think, to talk. I wanted to look at my baby, quietly and without interruption. But things were going so fast and it hurt too bad to look at her, so I slipped into the mighty trick of astigmatism-caused blurred vision and melted away.

I was not happy when the nurse wheeled me down the hallway. I was not happy when my dad took my daughter from my arms. I was not happy when I got up and walked out of the hospital without a goodbye, cold December wind slicing through me, making me catch my breath which, having just had a baby, hurt. I was not happy as we pulled away, as my dad broke down in sobs.

The thing is, that while Dee was happy to have a baby sitting next to her in the car, she shared how bittersweet the moment was for her, how sad she was that I was obviously — and rightfully — heartbroken. I remember her words, which are not mine to share with you, and how amazed I was that she was able to convey that bittersweet moment, when she was placed between two emotions and forced to feel them both. She was happy and she was sad.

And so, I’ve been forced to think about this for the majority of the day. I don’t deny that in certain cases, a mother relinquishing her child might be able to feel happy. I know others who spoke of not quite happiness but instead a peace; they were at peace with their decision but they still felt a sadness. I know many others who felt an incredible, deafening, eye-blurring sadness — like me. Others were angry. There are many ways to feel, of course.

So, I decided to make a poll. I could have put emotion after emotion, but stopped after a short while. The last option is “unknown” if you can’t quite recall. I made a radio button poll so that you can only select one even though I know the majority of us felt a multitude of emotions. Please select the one you feel fits closest to what you felt, though I did write in an option for no one word can quite describe. (To be honest, I don’t know which button I’m going to press when I publish this post. We’ll see!) I would encourage you to explain your answer — if you feel so inclined. I’m sure some less than ethical people might try to skew the results of this poll, so — as with all things on the Internet — take it with a grain of salt. At the very least, I think discussing this would be a good thing.

Note: Everyone is welcome to participate in comment discussions. I would appreciate if only birth parents would answer the poll. I have no way of enforcing this, but you know, be fair.

And by the way? The attorney in the referenced post? Lacked compassion, an understanding of the moment she was experiencing and the ability to read people and emotions. End of discussion on whether or not we should “dis” her.

That’s when I met my nurse.

None of her features stand out to me. I know she was wearing scrubs but I cannot recall the color. These may seem like trivial details to you but it’s evidence that I was distracted by the birthing process and what came out of her mouth. While I have no fashion sense myself, I notice colors, things that people wear and other supposedly trivial things. I inherited that from my grandmother. I remember what I wore on the first day of school every single year, picture days, random memories when someone says, “Do you remember that one time?” I reply, “Yeah, you were wearing that one shirt!” It’s just how my brain works. I remember nothing about this woman.

Except for her words and the way in which they were delivered.

It doesn’t seem that innocuous. Now. Years later, it seems trivial, like the missing details of the color of her scrubs or her hair. But it had such an affect on me at the time.

She came in the room to do some more nurse work and mentioned that she understood I was planning to place my baby for adoption. I stated that she was right. I was cautious in doing so. Mentioning adoption to various people over the course of my pregnancy had taught me that adoption was a volatile subject. Everyone had an opinion and absolutely no one had a problem hoisting those opinions and the weight of their personal baggage regarding that subject onto my already heavy shoulders. I remembering the inner cringe as I waited for this nurse’s opinion.

“I’m adopted. I love my adoptive parents more than anyone in the world. I don’t ever want to meet the woman who gave me away. You’re doing the right thing.”

I nodded.

And I shut down.

Her tone wasn’t loving. It was delivered in the short tone she used to bark most of her comments at me during her shift. I could tell, without a doubt, that she wanted as little to do with me as she wanted to do with her own birth mother. She placed us in the same category: unwanted, unworthy and undeserving of respect. I don’t think she ever once made eye contact with me though, after that point, I avoided looking up when she was in the room. Thankfully she was finished at seven o’clock that morning. Saved by the bell.

I was scared about my decision. At that point of carrying my daughter for 38 weeks and fighting since week 18 to keep her alive and well due to my kidney problems, I was as attached as I could possibly have been so someone I hadn’t quite met yet. I would have died if it meant that she would have been safe. And here was this woman nurse, piling her baggage on top of my fears, doubts and general misgivings.

We had been planning an open adoption. I had no desire for my daughter to ever not know who I was to her, that I had always loved her and always would. I was struggling enough with whether this was the right path to take. I felt alone and scared despite the presence of my mom, my best friend and eventually J and Dee in the room with me. I had been told nothing but glowing things about adoption from my facilitating agency. Now I doubted that I was supposed to have contact. And I felt judged by the nurse, as if I wasn’t good enough for my daughter to know at all. I began to question not whether or not I should place but if it was the right thing to stay in her life.

I still have flashes of anger that the nurse tainted my time in the hospital with her bit of overshare. Granted, there were worse moments of time in the hospital as the staff had no idea how to handle us or the concepts of open adoption. But this was the one that set the snowball of failure in motion. I hate that what she said still sticks in my mind to this day.  To a mother who is facing her biggest fear, the letting go of a child that she still has in her womb, the subtle coercive undertones of that statement all but did me in. Who was I to want to parent my child? Who was I to desire contact with her family? Who was I at all?

As I write all of this, I realize what I hate most about that whole situation is that I still carry some of those questions with me, all these many years later. Not only with regard to adoption and openness but with the parenting I do now. Who am I? Who am I to think that, with all of my faults, that I’m doing the Munchkin any good? Who am I to think that I’m doing right by these boys? Who am I at all? These doubts follow me in every aspect of my life, from writing to photography to keeping house to friendships. It’s not all of the nurse’s fault; many others voiced similar things throughout my pregnancy. Her words stick with me, however, as they were delivered at a traumatic moment in a sterilized environment. I can hear her voice bouncing off the walls and floor and echoing through my mind as I sat in bed, unaware I could walk and move and do whatever else I wanted during the laboring process… unaware that I could choose to do whatever I wanted with regard to parenting or placement. Not only did I feel trapped by my association with the facilitating agency, I felt that I had no other option.

Who was I?

I don’t know her name. I figure she is still working the OB floor at the hospital in which I delivered the most beautiful baby girl to grace this planet. I can only hope that even if she hasn’t found peace with her situation that she is, at the very least, refraining from leaving her issues at the bedside of mothers who are already scared and alone, whether they’re planning to parent or place. And I hope that someday I’m able to put these doubts of mine behind me.

Because I know who I am. Most days.

_

This is another in my series of people who touched my adoption story that really had nothing to do with it but stick out so very vividly in my mind. The first was The Woman Upstairs.

I first stopped at the store and picked up some presents. Why didn’t I already have them purchased? My best friend is a goofus face and didn’t find out the gender! So, I just started throwing things in my buggy. I wanted to buy one of everything for the new arrival. (And a few matching things for my youngest! Cute clothes for boys this season!)

Then I left the store for the Hospital.

And it hit me.

This was the hospital where I delivered the Munchkin. This was the hospital where said best friend stood by my side. And suddenly, I was awash with memories I haven’t had need nor desire to remember in almost five years. As I drove up the last hill to the hospital, I could barely breathe. And there it was. Nothing had changed but the name.

I parked. I realized as I walked into the hospital that I parked at the same angle from the front door as my Dad had the day that I let go of the Munchkin and walked, blinded by tears, out to his truck. As I began the walk down the very, very long hallway (as maternity is the farthest possible destination from the front door), I could see myself being wheeled in the opposite direction holding on to the Munchkin in her little white outfit. The nurse was talking. I felt numb but I kept walking towards the elevator.

And suddenly I was on the maternity floor. I could hear my heart beating. I walked past the nurses desk and remembered shuffling down the hall with my Mom on the one occasion that we walked to the nursery. I remember their pity-laden glances. I remember shooting daggers with my eyes at the one nurse who had been unkind. My slippers were pink and fuzzy. My slippers are always pink and fuzzy even though my new favorite color is green.

I had been hoping, the whole way down, that my best friend: a) wasn’t in the maternity room that I had been in and b) wasn’t on the same side of the hallway. I scored one point as she was two doors down from the room I had spent two days as someone’s mother but I lost in the end. Her room was on the same side of the hallway, and, to boot, it was set up in the same way. Bed on the left side of the room, chairs on the right side. The wallpaper was the same. The clock hung on the wall in the same place. The rocking chair was in the same place next to the bed. It was all so very, very strange.

Thankfully, I was able to concentrate on my best friend for awhile as she struggled with the help of the nurse to get the new baby to latch properly. I gave some helpful tips and helped adjust things as needed. I cleaned out some bottles after she pumped. I held the baby. We talked. She vented about some things as all mothers need to do after labor, delivery, hospital and family experiences. I oohed and ahhed over this new beautiful creature.

But, throughout the process, I kept making the mistake of sitting in the rocking chair next to the bed. Every time I did, all I could see was TheHusbandMan sitting in the same chair. I remember what he was wearing, head freshly shaven for an Army weekend which he had driven away from and had to return by morning. I can see him. So clearly. His heart just as broken as mine. The chair was like ice and fire at the same time. Every time I sat down, I felt physical pain. So very strange.

I didn’t stay too long. Anyone who has ever delivered a baby and then had to live in a small space for three days while people invade it and touch your child with grimy hands and ask uber-personal questions about your crotch and other parts knows when the welcome has worn out. As other family members showed up to visit the newly formed family, I hugged my best friend. I fought back tears for so many reasons.

I am so very happy for both her and her husband. They will be outstanding parents. She was born to be a mother. And watching her husband handle the baby like it was old hat was heart-warming; he’ll be a dad like my own husband, hands-on and loving with a touch of humor to boot. And tears for other reasons. It was so very strange to have roles reversed at that bed-side and situations totally changed and different. This was a joyous occasion as opposed to the one five years ago. My best friend was a mother and she got to keep her title but so very different was the hug goodbye five years ago. So very different.

As I left and walked down the hallway, instead of being wheeled out, I tried to leave the memories behind again. I tried to hang them on the coat rack near the front door. I tried to trap them in the front door. But as I headed towards my own truck, at the same angle from the front door as that walk years ago, they followed me. They’re haunting me today. And I don’t want to or need to deal with them right now. I need to be a mother to my children, a wife to my husband and a friend to my friend(s). I don’t need this. I don’t want this.

Who thinks that I can convince her to have future children at a different hospital? Or my sister-in-law-to-be to deliver future babies in Pittsburgh as opposed to that hospital? Or maybe I should just stay home.

I had no idea this would be such a challenge. I never have any idea what will smack me in the face, what will trigger me. I fly by the seat of my pants with this healing thing and sometimes I crash land in the trees, never fully making it to the ground, caught like a kite that got away from its owner’s hand on a windy day. I’m just trying to make my way through this messy journey of healing. Pardon me while I try to climb out of this tree. I didn’t know this would happen.

When I birthed BigBrother, there was little else to worry about at the time. People came and visited. People brought flowers. My Husband only left my side once to run home and grab a few things that we had forgotten since I was sent straight from the doctor’s office to the hospital for delivery due to my health issues. It was a thousand times better than Munchkin’s delivery which involved minimal visitors, judgmental hospital staff, no flowers and, you know, that whole physical relinquishment part. BigBrother’s birth was actually quite wonderful in comparison.

But this time? I’ve got all this anxiety.

Even though BigBrother was my second birth and delivery experience, I didn’t have a child at home to worry about as well. If this new little guy decides to come during the week, we’re really pressed for what to do with his older brother. I mean, we have plans but they aren’t “optimal.” (Read: they’re not what I want.) In fact, one set of plans (as we have many) involves my Husband leaving me at the hospital, alone, at night while he goes home to be with our older son.

Pardon me while I totally freak out.

I’m not scared of alone time with the new baby. No, that’s not the issue. I don’t want to be alone in the hospital. When I was admitted for preterm labor at twenty-six weeks during this pregnancy, TheHusbandMan had to go home to stay with BigBrother during the overnight hours. If it wasn’t for the sleep medication, I wouldn’t have been able to stay. I had a panic attack as soon as they started talking about an overnight stay, knowing that my Husband wasn’t going to be able to stay with me.

It’s not specifically my Husband that I want with me. Okay, that sounds weird! I do want him with me. But quite frankly, if he can’t be there, I’ll take a friendly janitor, posing as someone who loves and cares about me. Because being alone in the hospital, in relation to pregnancy or the actual delivery of a child, is very triggering for me. Memories and bad feelings come swirling back. Being alone in the hospital for multiple surgeries during Munchkin’s pregnancy and after her delivery have left me absolutely petrified of being alone in similar but different circumstances.

Do you know how quiet but simultaneously un-quiet a hospital is at night? I do. And I don’t like it. I don’t like being left alone with thoughts and memories. I want my Husband to sleep, uncomfortably, on the couch/bed next to mine. I want visitors non-stop. I want my baby in my room at all times. I don’t want to face those demons that come out in the quiet-but-not-so-quiet midnight hours.

And so, I’ll just sit around and panic about this particular issue, knowing that it wouldn’t be an issue if this little guy would come out today (as tomorrow is Veteran’s Day). However, he seems to have calmed down the uterus shaking since yesterday. Interesting.

I swear I have song lyrics left. I just got overwhelmed with emotion.

A Long December by Counting Crows.

Uh, yeah. This song was, prior to pregnancy and relinquishment, one of my favorites. It still ranks as a favorite but now it is smothered with emotion and sometimes I simply cannot listen to it. For those who don’t know, Munchkin was due on Christmas Eve. She was born eleven days early. It was a very, very long December. I had health issues with the pregnancy. The long process of birth. The hospital stay which felt like forever and nothing at the same time. Going home without a baby. The signing of the TPR, even though the first one was null and void due to an error on the(ir) attorney’s aprt. Packing up everything I owned. Moving to Ohio six days after delivering a baby, still with the stitches in my crotch. Christmas, without a baby to celebrate. And then, only then, did the month end.

Some lyrics for you.

The smell of hospitals in winter
and the feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters… but no pearls.

Have you smelled a hospital? In winter? It’s a lonely smell, even if you’re not lonely. Munchkin was born on a snowy night. Appropriate, as I’m a snow lover. The hospital in which I delivered places Mothers and babies on the bottom floor (a billion light years from the front door). I had the blinds cracked and watched the snow fall. Alone. As I wasn’t allowed to have my daughter that first night after she was born (in the afternoon). After everyone left, well, it was just me. And my tears. And the snow outside my window. It was a very lonely night.

Hospitals smell the same to me now. And especially heavy in winter. Which is unfortunate as I seem to deliver all of my babies in the late days of autumn or early days of winter. Walking into a hospital now, smelling the mixture of health and fear and death and cleanliness and germs… it sits so heavy on my soul. I get overwhelmed most every time I’m in a hospital. I try to avoid them. That’s hard when you’re pregnant and have complications, no?

I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower,
makes you talk a little lower about the things you could not show her.

Ah. The second (and last) night in the hospital. I was allowed to keep my daughter for awhile after everyone went back to warm, cozy homes and hotel rooms (J and D). We sat. Sometimes silently. But often with me talking to her. I explained things as best I could even though they didn’t make the most sense, even to me as I was saying them. She didn’t seem to mind. She listened. She stared at me. Very hard. So serious was her expression. I cried. She didn’t. I tried to explain the “things I could not show her” and how her new parents would do a better job. She kept the same expression.

The snow was still laying outside.

If you think that I could be forgiven… I wish you would.

This line cuts through me. Deeply. Someday, I’m going to have to answer, to my daughter, for decisions made. Whether or not x-person or y-agency or z-societal-pressure made me feel unable to parent, I’m still going to have to own up to what was done. To my daughter. And accept whatever emotion she has at face value. And while I’ll always give her the space to feel however she wants, my heart longs to hear the words, “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

I wonder if I’ll ever forgive myself.

Yes, it was a long December that year. In fact, most Decembers have been rather long since that time. As I sit here listening to this song, I wonder, sadly, if December will ever be able to hold all the joy it used to hold. I mean, I got married in December in part because we’re winter people, in part because we wanted a red/green wedding, in part because that’s when everything was available and in part because I wanted some reason to celebrate in the month of December again. While our anniversary is always a nice day, the rest of the month is simply hard.

Will that end? I don’t think so. The hard parts have changed. For example, now it’s not so much just about the loss itself, the physical separation of mother and child. No. Now I get to watch BigBrother open presents on Christmas morning and I get to feel new pangs of loss. I don’t think this ends. I think it just changes.

I think it just changes.

As she was inserting my IV, which, by the way, she did so well that it didn’t hurt at all, she was asking me questions. Of course, we had already done my health history. She was fully aware that there were two previous live born children. And so she asks (and the rest of the conversation follows):

Nurse: How old are your other children?
Munchkin’sFirstMom: *stumbles for a second* BigBrother will be two next month. Munchkin will turn four in December.
Nurse: Oh, so she’ll be your big helper!
Munchkin’sFirstMom: Well, she was placed for adoption at birth.
Nurse: *doesn’t miss a beat* That had to be very hard. One of the hardest things I can imagine, really. *continues to stab my arm gently and continues* Do you have contact at all?
Munchkin’sFirstMom: Actually, yes. We have visits and so on.

And then we launched into a discussion about the extent of our contact, where J and D live and driving across the state of Pennsylvania. She never flinched. Granted, being on L&D for thirty years, I would assume that she’s seen a few things in her time. To even know to ask about contact shows that she at least has an iota of understanding about recent adoptions. Do not balk at the topic shows that she has some respect or at least common decency not to let personal opinion interfere with work. But she didn’t treat me differently from that point on. I was still her patient. She was just as fun-loving as before.

Previous nurses have dropped the subject of my daughter as soon as the word adoption was mentioned. Others stumbled over themselves trying to back-pedal the conversation. Others suddenly had a lack of interest in my care. Not this lady.

I wonder what the chances are of getting her when I go into official labor. Slim, I assume.

But oh, oh, did I try to be brave. I only cried in the privacy of my room or with TheHusbandMan. I attempted to do things like have a normal Christmas with family members. I put on a smile during these social outings, smiling politely when people commented on how quickly my body had bounced back. They didn’t see the stretch marks hidden underneath winter clothes; permanent reminders to everything that I had lost.

I do, however, remember hitting my own breaking point. I don’t remember the actual trigger. I don’t remember the actual length of time. (However, I would assume it was within three months of her birth because it was before I was working.) I hit a wall. I couldn’t function anymore. I hadn’t been leaving our apartment. I hadn’t been showering. Or eating. And it all just came to a head. I ended up doing something that I’m not proud of and feel rather sheepish in admitting. But hey, I’ve written a lot of personal stuff here and those who are going to judge me are going to judge me no matter what I write. So, what the heck. I ended up resorting to an old (poor) coping technique and cutting my arms. Thankfully, TheHusbandMan was a nosy one, even then, and intervened. While I did not seek professional help, TheHusbandMan and I began taking long walks during which we talked about the issues that were bothering me.

Looking back, I feel some anger mixed with my confusion. What, exactly, fell under the heading of normal postpartum emotional fluctuation? What fell under the heading of normal adoption grief and loss? And what fell under the heading of “too far” or “too much?” What should have been a red flag? Should my denial of emotion, shown by the brave face I was putting on for family and friends, been a sign of things to come? Or do all birth mothers go through some sort of denial phase? I can’t answer any of these questions. Why? That’s where the anger comes in. I can’t answer any of these questions about what was normal and what was too much and when it crossed the line… because I wasn’t counseled in anything involving postpartum mood disorders, normal postpartum fluctuations or anything about adoption grief and loss. Okay, I lied. I was told, “You’ll be sad for awhile but then you’ll “move on.”" What good did that do me? Shouldn’t I have been given information? By someone? The agency? My doctors?

Shouldn’t someone have said, “These are the warning signs for something more than normal. Please call if you are experiencing anything.” Instead, my agency dropped off the planet as soon as I signed the Termination of Parental Rights. Having called on a weekly basis and twice while I was in the hospital, I was shocked by their sudden lack of interest. The only thing my doctor at the hospital discussed with me was birth control. (You know, because all mothers who relinquish are whores!) I was left to figure it all out of myself. I didn’t do a good job.

And so, I share this story, however, embarrassing it is to out myself, so that other birth mothers might know some things, might know more than I did when I went into the whole experience, blind and naive. Today, on the BlogHer Blog Act for Mothers Act Blog Day, I share this story so that mothers who are considering relinquishment might have a resource. I didn’t have any clue what to expect. I didn’t know anyone who had placed. I didn’t have the internet at that time. I had an agency who didn’t care a lick about me once the child was placed. I had a doctor that didn’t know what to do with me and just wanted me gone.

The truth is, if I had been honest with myself, I would have seen myself heading down a road that wasn’t normal, no matter what experiences or hormonal imbalances I had just gone through. Instead, I didn’t want people to know I was suffering inside. The agency had told me that I would just “move on.” I wasn’t moving on so I thought something was wrong with me. Instead, the agency did me a huge disservice by minimizing the pain that birth mothers experience as a result of placement. Because I was experiencing something different than what they had said I would, I felt like a failure. And I don’t like to feel like a failure. Ever.

I want all expectant mothers and new birth mothers who are reading this to know that if something doesn’t feel right, you need to call someone. If your agency has dropped off the face of the Earth and your doctor doesn’t know how to handle you, please reach out to other birth mothers, even via the internet. Someone can help you find resources and talk you through your emotions while you wait for an appointment with a qualified therapist. You do not have to do this alone. Mothers who have been there and done this would be more than willing to help you. I promise.

For birth mothers who are considering building their families (by parenting another child), I encourage you to read my post over on the birth/first parent blog on the subject today. BigBrother’s birth threw me for an even bigger loop.

Also, I encourage other first mothers to share their stories today as it is the BlogHers Act Blog Day for Mothers Act. Be sure to tag everything with Mothers Act so you can be found by all types of mothers!