Life after Trauma

Return to sender - of birthdays, silence & sorrow

They say everything can be replaced/Yet every distance is not near

Bob Dylan

Return to sender (Donovan Beeson, flickr creative commons)

 

When I got back from a recent trip, I didn't check the mail for a few days. When I did, I found the card that I'd sent to my daughter - the one who I relinquished for adoption and who I'm estranged from - in the mailbox. There was a yellow sticker on the bottom right hand corner of the card that read, "Return to Sender. Not Deliverable as Addressed. Unable to Forward." I was so upset that I barely touched the card and threw it, unopened,  on the table with the other mail. I was upset because a previous letter that I'd sent came back with a slightly different message: "No mail receptacle." That was a message I'd never seen, so I phoned my daughter's local post office, located in a small town near her rural home. They told me that my daughter was having her mail held or forwarded for a year - I don't remember which - and, then, assured me that if I sent the card  back in a new envelope, addressed as the first one was, they - i.e. the post mistress - would make sure it was forwarded. I believed her and did what she said, only to discover upon my return home, that it had NOT been forwarded. 

 

Angel of sorrow (ekletik2xs, flickr creative commons)

 

I was sad when I made the discovery, but even sadder a few days later when I realized that for the first time since my daughter and I were reunited thirteen years ago, I couldn't send her a birthday card. It didn't matter that I haven't spoken to my daughter in three years. (As of yesterday, July 25.) Somehow it didn't seem so final if I could send her a birthday card, as I've faithfully done on the previous two birthdays since we've been estranged. See more about the story of our estrangement by clicking on the link: Estrangement - telling our stories. Yesterday - July 25th - was the 42nd anniversary of the first time I lost my daughter and the third anniversary of our estrangement. I guess that means that I've only been in touch with my daughter for about ten years of her life. Not for lack of trying or lack of hoping. No, that's the way adoption was done back in the 60s and 70s and, today, both my daughter and I are still living with the aftershocks of the day we parted. We both left the hospital alive on that long ago day, but something died: the normal relationship between mother and daughter was lost forever. Does that make me sad? Yes, yes, yes! More than I can find a way to convey. However, the deepness of the sorrow and frustration I felt yesterday, frightened me. It's appropriate to grieve, but I know that I have to let go of the hope that someday my daughter and I can be a mother and daughter again. 

 

bouquet, flickr creative commons

 

 Letting go of that hope feels so painful that it's hard to think of a metaphor. The best one I can come up with is imagining that the roots of a tree called sorrow are growing around my heart.  Pulling this sorrow tree out feels like it would kill me, but I have to try. "Don't let your grief hold you hostage," my therapist said today, when we talked. Amongst other things we talked about what letting go might look like and we also discussed suggestions for a personal ritual of closure. Letting something go into the ocean - which I live near - was one of the things we discussed. I immediately thought of a small creek in a nearby botanical garden. The woods are deep there, a small wooden bridge crosses the creek, and it's a quiet spot, perfect for such a ritual. Right now, it's too dry for there to be any water in the creek, but come fall and the rains, I can plan a ritual that involves a close friend or, if he'll participate, my son. After all, my first daughter is his half-sister. I can picture the flowers and how they will twist and turn in the current before heading along their journey to the sea. I like the ideal; it's a place to start.

Meanwhile, I still have the card sitting here on the table in front of me. It was a beautiful card, carefully chosen, telling my daughter that I would be in Michigan for a few weeks where I thought she was - indeed, may be - living and suggesting we get together for coffee. Of course, she never saw the card. I'll probably put it in the box with the mementoes I've collected over our decade of reunion. Only time will tell whether someday in the indefinite future we'll be back in touch again. For now, though, I have to get on with my life, and set at least part of this heavy burden down. It's time. 

In the years that my daughter and I led separate lives and neither knew where the other was, I often kept the words of one of my favorite Motown songs in my mind.  "There ain't no mountain high enough/Ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough/To keep me from getting to you." I never imagined that my daughter would be the mountain or the river - that she would be the one who wouldn't let me get to her. More on why adoption reunions fail and how to cope in a future post.

  

How can [birth] first mothers cope when adoption reunions fall apart?

They say everything can be replaced

Yet every distance is not near

Bob Dylan

Lone tree (Bader Al Bassam, flickr creative commons)

 Today is my daughter's birthday. I lost her on this day 41 years ago and didn't see her again until she was 29 and then two years ago I lost her again. I realize that the circumstances weren't normal. After all, when are circumstances normal with adoption reunions? There's nothing normal about a baby being taken from its mother at birth and growing up in another family. This is a huge obstacle to overcome when the two - if the two - meet again. Adoption reunions often unfold in predictable stages:

1. Search

2. Reunion

3. Honeymoon  

4. Pull back (Time out)

4.  Re-reunion and/or

5. Estrangment

Here's a great article from [Birth Mother], First Mother Forum on the ups and downs of adoption reunion.Why do Adoption Reunions Go Awry?

 

Miss you, Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh (Laura Suarez, flickr creative commons)

 My daughter (let's call her E.) and I have gone through all of these phases and, now, we are going through our longest silence since we were reunited. Rationally, I understand the reasons for this: E.s husband died about two years ago; in 2010, her natural father, E. and I were together for the first time since she was born. Both events triggered deep sorrow and anxiety for me. Meanwhile, E. was grieving the loss of her husband. What that means for our relationship is less clear, since she hasn't told me what she's feeling. All she said before cutting off contact was "I'll phone you when I'm ready." The last time we spoke was two years ago, on her birthday, so today, also on her birthday, I'm missing her, frustrated, confused, and have no idea what to do. That's because I don't know if she's taking a time-out or using the silent treatment or some combination of both. I sent her a birthday card and may try to phone her later. May. That would be a big step because she hasn't answered the phone when I called for two years and imagining her ignoring my number is distressing. On the other hand, I'm the mother and maybe I should extend myself further than a card.

What Should You Do When You Are Estranged from an Adult Child?

Knowing what to do, is complicated to say the least. Dr. Joshua Coleman, who works with parents of estranged adult children, has some suggestions.

Why parents should hold back

 

Porch light (photo: Valerie Everett, flickr creative commons)

Laura Davis, author of I Thought We'd Never Speak Again: The Road from Estrangement to Reconciliation, has many wise things to say about estrangement and I recommend her book to anyone who is dealing with estrangement in their own lives. (A full book review to follow in a future post.) Davis describes a strategy which she calls, "Leaving the Porch Light On," that makes sense to me. 

I like to think of it as leaving the porch light on; you are in your home, puttering and content, focused on what you need to do in your own life, but you still keep a warm place in your heart for the person who is gone (p. 306)

Of course, this isn't as easy to do as it sounds. First, you have to get far enough along the path of acceptance and forgiveness, and that takes time. I realize that I need to know more about why my daughter can't "deal with" having me in her life. Sadly, I need to hear this from her, but reading the memoirs of other adoptees can help. I've resisted doing this because they're so triggering. However, if I cannot speak to my daughter, they are the next best thing. So, once I pass through the fragile stage I'm in now, I vow to pick out several memoirs of adoptees and see what I can learn from them. Meanwhile, I'm "keeping the porch light on," through sending birthday cards, Christmas cards, and occasional letters throughout the year. So far, E. hasn't told me to stop doing that, so I will continue.

Finally, a song by Gillian Welch, herself an adoptee. Mary Gauthier is another singer-songwriter/adoptee who has been influenced by adoption. 

 

 

How have you dealt with estrangement from adult children? Have you had any issues with adoption reunion?  I'd love to hear from you.