Cross-posted on my blog. Somewhat off topic, though it does deal with the issue of abortion. I decided to cross-post here because I (naturally) want this to be as widely read as possible.
I was adopted at the age of 3 weeks. I was placed in a loving home and raised by loving parents. Still the circumstances of my adoption, my biological mother’s life at the time of adoption, and whether I had any brothers or sisters (I am the only child in my adoptive family) has long been a mystery to me.
Late last year, after reading Dreams From My Father, my curiosity peaked again. I sent in a request for information about my birth parents to the California State government. I received what information the government can disclose (neither parent signed a consent for contact, so I do not have their names or addresses) in the mail on Monday afternoon. I have been thinking about it since.
The information discloses my biological mother’s unfortunate circumstances. She was originally from Arkansas. Her older sister was retarded and suffered from Cerebral Palsy. The family apparently moved to California when my biological mother was a child.
My biological Mother herself was border-line retarded, and at the age of 16 she was placed into a state mental health hospital after irrational emotional outbursts. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia, undifferentiated type. She stayed in the mental health system for 8 years, then lived in family care homes, and finally by her mid-30s was on SSI disability and could take care of herself.
Though reading was listed as one of her favorite things, she never advanced beyond the tenth grade. She apparently liked to knit, do needle work, visit people, go to church, read magazines, and go on long walks. I remember a baby blanket she knitted for me, which I had as a child. I presume my adoptive Mother—who stashed many childhood keepsakes—has it safely tucked away somewhere.
At the age of 39, my biological mother became pregnant. My biological mother was a devout Pentecostal. I find it ironic that I have spent most of my adult life fighting against the fundamentalist right, but that the fundamentalist right could be responsible for my very existence.
The consideration of an abortion was never mentioned in the papers that the state sent me. It merely states,
"Your birth mother declined to name your birth father because he was a married man with a family and she wanted to support his interests. She stated that he was in favor of you being placed for adoption, but wanted to remain anonymous. She decided that adoption was the best plan for you because she was aware of the limitations of her functioning and she felt that raising a child would be an added responsibility, especially when she was just learning to take care of herself appropriately. She felt that caring for an infant might be too overwhelming for her. She also wanted a two parent family for you. She was very excited that you were normal and healthy at birth. She called several times to inquire about your health after you were discharged from the hospital."
And so my mother, a mentally ill woman with a limited intellect and ability to function went through 9 months of agony and a natural child birth so that I could live. My biological mother, who was likely taken advantage of by my loser of a biological father, chose to carry me to term. I call my biological father a loser because anyone who thinks it appropriate to have an affair with a borderline retarded, schizophrenic woman is, especially if they are in a position of power, as I suspect he was. Today, I am more convinced than ever that abortion is morally wrong.
But beyond being pro-life, I wonder about things I’ve always subconsciously thought about. I remember looking at that blanket as a child and wondering about the woman who was behind it. What did she think? Why did she decide to carry me to term? Could I ever meet her?
Being that I actually received medical records, including medication she was on during pregnancy (which I needed as I have developed physical health problems), I suspect that my biological mother has passed away now. She’d be 67 were she alive.
The reality is that I’ll likely never meet her. I’ll never be able to show her what I do. And I’ll never be able to say thank you. Of course, there is another reality of this situation: maybe I have met her, but don’t know it. Maybe I’ve sat next to her on a plane, or a bus. Maybe we crossed paths on a trail in northern California. Maybe I’ve knocked on her door in support of a political candidate. Maybe I’ve encountered her at a local meeting of the Democratic Party, or in a church.
One of the best lines in history, and a line which was ample fuel to a current presidential campaign, is "I am my brother’s keeper; I am my sister’s keeper." The Good Book hasn’t lasted 2,000 years because it was poorly written. But now, aware of the fact that I probably have brothers or sisters, but that this trail is a dead end and I am not likely to find them, I will ask myself, "Is that my brother; is that my sister?" And, as in most cases, the intent behind the Good Book is right: it shouldn’t matter whether they are or not. We should treat everyone like they are our brother or sister.
Still, I wish I could meet my mother if only to say thanks. If she is still alive, perhaps she will read this. If not, I suppose I have something to look forward to in the hereafter.