A Questionable Narrative

Before I begin his explanation, I feel the need to invoke the disclaimer that any stories which involve either of my adoptive parents at this point are to be treated with a general distrust, until proven accurate. Much, much more on this reminder later.

The story technically begins with my mother having a very bad miscarriage around 1981. As she dealt with the pain, my parents moved to and lived in Israel for the next two years, so my father could direct and produce two live action productions. One was a live Nativity play, the other a live Passion play, about the Easter story. They had to leave, however, as war erupted.  My father stayed behind briefly to finish his affairs. He also took this time to go to the Wailing Wall.

The Wailing Wall is a place of significance in Jerusalem, where it is traditional that you to pray for things with which you are struggling. Naturally, as my parents were unable to have a child, he prayed at the Wall, and offered up a lifetime of service as payment for a child to God. He shoved his prayer, written down, into one of the cracks of the wall, and prayed, and prayed, and prayed for a family to come together through divine intervention.

A few weeks later, upon returning to the US, my father was in Washington DC at a diner/grille. As he ate, he noticed a younger woman who was clearly pregnant. Their eyes kept meeting throughout his lunch, and so he did what any extrovert longing for a child would do—he spoke to her upon his departure.

“How wonderful it is that you are able to bring a new life into this world!”

“Too bad I can’t keep it.”

My father immediately sat down with this young woman and began to talk with her about the reasons she couldn’t keep the baby. He explained to her that this was clearly God’s doing, bringing them together like this.

In doing so, he convinced her to consider him and his wife to be the potential parents of her child. He did tell her that the child would never know of the adoption, and she readily agreed. They planned to meet a week later to discuss either parting ways or moving forward.

The next week, they met again, and cemented an agreement. He would pay for all the hospital visits, and she would give him her child. There would be no contact between her and her child, and that was what she wanted. It was an answered prayer.

When my biological mother went into labor, my father immediately went to the hospital. After I was born, my she held me, and I cried and cried. The instant she handed me over to him, I stopped crying. I, of course, stared lovingly at my new father, as a sign from God that I was, in fact, his. Upon returning to my mother’s arms, I began to wail again. My place was clearly with my father and mother, and not with my birth mother, as it was clearly ordained by God.

But, there was a problem. Child and Protective Services wanted to take custody of me. The doctor, taking pity on my father’s plight, placed a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the nursery door, so no one could take me.

This allowed my father to get official documentation from both biological parents, showing consent for my adoption. My birth mother was in close proximity, but my biological father was more difficult to pin down. According to my father, this man wouldn’t come to the hospital, or allow my father and his lawyer to come to his house/apartment. Therefore, the only possible option was to meet at a Metro station, close to my biological father’s home, to sign over custody to my father and mother.

The story isn’t done yet… not by a long shot. My release from the hospital was still done quietly, though the paperwork was signed. At any point in the next year, my birth parents could reclaim custody. My adoptive parents were so worried! What if they tried to reclaim me?

As they waited for the adoption to be finalized, a court representative had to meet with my parents to ensure that it was a safe environment for me. After interviewing them and visiting our home he told the judge that if for whatever reason the court decided to not grant my custody to my parents, that HE would like to be adopted by them.

Throughout this tale, I was told at least two or three more times about how relieved my father was, how much the weight had been lifted off his chest. How there were so many examples of how God brought me to my parents.

I asked why so many others knew, but I did not. He explained that, they had to know, because when he and my mother showed up to church with a baby, people obviously wondered where I came from. So they were told… as were his choir members… and his former students… and my friend’s parents… and then my friends… and, in some cases, some of his students and their families… Pretty much everyone in my life (and many who were outside of any direct circle of mine) knew.

When I pointed out how wrong that was, and that he was, from all accounts I’d so far received, the only one who could and should have told me the truth, he agreed and said “I know…. I know…. Sweetheart, I know…. I couldn’t…. Your mother wouldn’t let me. The three times I tried to tell you, your mother interrupted me.”

Oh. Ok. Three times. There were surely only three opportunities to tell me. It’s not like he was ever alone with me.

Except, he drove me to school every day. It was a 35 minute trip. He drove me for French Horn lessons from middle school through high school… it was close to an hour each way. He could have told me at home, you know, since we lived together, or in any other way possible, but the statement that he couldn’t floored me.

Then: “I mean, I told you once.”

“You did?!?”

“Yes… you were four. You asked ‘What’s adopted?’ and I said ‘Well, we’re all adopted… by Jesus.’”

Oh, good. I’m glad that he explained to a four-year-old me the intricacies of adoption using a poor metaphor involving religion, because, of course, God gave me to him (please note, not to him and my mother. Just him. Though he had two other children, and my mother desperately wanted a child. Not her. Just him.).

And I’m not frustrated that he couldn’t bear to explain to me that he loved me so much before even meeting me that he literally found me (granted, I was inside a stranger’s uterus, but still… God brought that uterus to him, which is like the same thing, right?).

It was clearly too difficult to explain that my mother couldn’t have children, and that I was so wanted that they took this opportunity to show a child all the love they had. I totally understand why that was so hard for them. Obviously. Because #God and #prayer.

“Why didn’t you tell me? What were you afraid of?”

“We didn’t want to tell you as a child. Then, the longer it went, we became more afraid you would leave us.”

So… not only were my feelings and needs not accounted for, but they were much more worried about themselves. The need to perpetuate the lie that I was actually my mother’s child superseded my need to know that I’m not genetically related to them. Additionally, and quite possibly more painful to me, my parents clearly have no actual idea of what kind of person I am, and lied to me on the off chance that I might have left them.

My shock was real. I was speechless.

My ultimately parents lied to me because they don’t know me as a person. This means they are unaware of how dedicated I am to everything I do. They somehow thought I would run away from them if I found out, when the opposite would have been true. They couldn’t understand that I don’t see blood as the only indicator of family. They didn’t think I had the integrity to know who my family was.

That’s not devastating at all.

“Do you have my adoption paperwork?”

“Yes. It’s at B and B’s house.” (They are family friends who live locally.)

“Why don’t you have it?”

“Well… I was concerned your mother might get to it.”

Great… So my mother so desperately needed to perpetuate a lie about her relationship to me, that she was willing, and potentially wanted, to destroy my adoption paperwork, lest I find out the truth.

This just gets better and better. Who were these people that raised me?

At the end of the dinner, my father’s excitement for the truth finally being revealed was visible. He told me how happy he was that we could begin a new chapter. You know, an honest chapter. Where have I heard that before?

I was unsure where this “we” was the last 33 years. I wasn’t included in the decision to keep me in the dark, or when others were told casually about my adoption, yet I was not. I had no say in so many areas, I didn’t know how to respond without screaming.

So, as we got up, my father gave me a very awkward hug. He told me that he’d get me the paperwork ASAP. I went to the bathroom.

As I emerged, my father was nowhere to be found. He had left me while I was using the facilities. How unbelievably predictable.

I have never felt more abandoned, which is saying something, given the news five days before that I was adopted.

But then I remembered that my father was relieved. So, what am I complaining about?