A feel good story for the holidays - Part 3 of my birth family search

(Reprinted from my zine, #4)

Seeking My Birth Family, Part Three

(this is the third and last essay about my search for my birth mom and her family. If you would like to catch up on the background, see the previous two issues (ahem, available for purchase if you’re interested...)

In locating my birth aunt, I understood now that I had a place to figure out. A new role to add to my already complicated sense of identity. How would it all shake out with my family? How would I get along with my birth relatives? What did I expect to get from all of this? These hard questions were not so complicated after all; I approached it all with an open mind and, at times, a vulnerable heart. I cried a lot after I learned that Judy died. I cried, too, in the car on the way to our first hotel stay in Illinois. To my partner I explained that I wasn’t sure what I would need throughout all of this, but that I would let him know as I went. He supported me the whole time, with his whole person. And together we drove on down to meet my kin.

To prepare for the trip I packed some family photos: me growing up, as a baby, as a girl scout, with my parents, Lola as a baby. I didn’t have a lot to share, but I brought what I could and what I thought someone who wondered about me but missed my entire childhood might be interested in. The first family-related stop was my parents’ house. There we washed some diapers, filled up our bellies, got a good night’s sleep, played at a park. Talked a little. I was surprised to discover my own parents’ mild anxiety about the trip, which they let only a little show. As I shared with them the pictures of the DeBord family P. had sent to me they had so many questions. They never said what their hearts shouted: can we meet her? Their sadness for my loss (of Judy) was deep and wide. They grilled me about our itinerary, which I shared: next day to P’s to meet at a park; then, off to set up camp nearby; spend the day together after that, doing whatever catching up is possible in such a short time; meet my other birth aunt and then off to Missouri to visit the graves of my dead relatives; then to meet my extended adopted family to celebrate my grandma’s 90th birthday; then, the loooong drive back home to Wisconsin. Lots of driving, lots of car time, lots of overnights with an almost-three year old. A busy schedule for someone in need of thinking time, of the still quiet time to process all those pesky questions about loving and family and loss.

The following day, while packing up the car again (those of you with young children know the kind of hell this is, packing and unpacking and searching for stuff endlessly on long trips), my parents gave me flowers to put on the graves of Judy and her father, Hugh, whom I knew was dead. I knew before then that they were quite sorry for my loss, but this surprise gesture really touched me unexpectedly. My parents understood how much it might mean to me because they also lost someone important when Judy died - their daughter’s mother. Finally, I understood this, and loved them that much more.

Well, the next day we planned to meet P. in the late morning. Of course, we were running late, and left the house in a hurry. The meeting time came, and we were still half an hour away. Nervously, I knew we had to stop and call her to let her know we were late. I bravely left the known haven of our car and walked to the phone outside the gas station. It was noisy, roads under construction, with lots of trucks passing our busy intersection. I dialed her cell phone number. It rang. And I waited. I wondered what she would sound like. Like me? Like my parents, who have lived in that part of the state for decades? And I listened. Those first seconds were perhaps the most intensely listened-to of my life.

“Hello.”

Not like my voice. Someone else. Different accent than my parents. Not mine. Different.

So nervous, talking to this related stranger. The blood on the other end. From my self. Honestly, I think it made it easier to not hear a similar voice on the other end, it made it easier for me to plunge into our meeting without any expectations.

We drove to meet her at the park, got a little lost, found it. Were we 45 minutes late? An hour? I surely can’t remember, but it was quite a bit. She was there when we pulled in to the parking lot of this little city park. I could hardly make my eyes look at her, but had to. Long graying hair. No-nonsense jeans and t-shirt. Sensible shoes. No makeup, down to earth body in space, not trying to impress me. My mother’s sister. A bit of a physical reflection, but not a mirror image. Related. In relation. Somehow we managed introductions, standing next to her big ol’ SUV, chatted while my partner held our daughter. After an acceptable amount of small talk, they left, and P. and I decided to go to a local diner for lunch. Actually ate, and P. talked to someone there. We tried to figure out what I knew, how I got there, what she knew, and what neither of us knew. We talked and talked, without artifice, without the need to prove anything, without trying to press or prevent connection, or force sentiment. We were only ourselves, nervous, listening, longing for kinship. I remember being unafraid, a little cautious, intensely curious.

I liked her, and was pleasantly surprised. Again. Disappointed to learn that no one really knew anything about my birth father. I had to accept what was in front of me, my relation. And it was right.

After eating, we drove to a parcel of land she and her husband owned, and on which she hung out, feeding birds, taking pictures, listening quietly. We talked about animals, a lot about birds, how she loved the space. I wished I lived closer to her so we could explore this place with my daughter, looking for birds and deer tracks. We relaxed in the sun and talked about nature, our nature, ourselves.

As our time to return approached, I reluctantly agreed to go back at our prearranged time. The amount of catching up we had to do seemed enormous; how could we ever build all of our familial bridges in just one more day? We drove back to the park to reconnect with my partner and my daughter. We found them, talked a while by the tables, took pictures. I was happy. I noticed a hummingbird in a tree near where we were standing and took it as a good sign. P. was utterly delighted, and I was glad to please her. It was off to a good start. And I was looking forward to our next day together.

As my little family drove away, I began to notice how emotionally exhausted I felt. There was so much going on in my background right now I could hardly tell Chris what it was like to meet my birth aunt. I hardly knew myself. We set up camp at a really nice, completely empty campground several miles south of her house. Made dinner and decompressed, got our tired toddler to sleep. Listened to the birds in the early morning, amazed at how loud they were. It had been ages since we had been in southern Illinois and I had forgotten how beautiful it is. The land still feels like part of me. That night and the next, it truly provided us with a respite from the intense emotional experiences I had during our visit with P. and her husband.

The second day we went to her house. There we met her dogs and her engravingly talented husband. I should mention that he is the tallest person I’ve ever shook hands with, 6’ 6” in his bare feet, and a Civil War reenactor to boot! He graciously welcomed us into their house and talked at length with my partner and daughter while P. and I spent hours looking at family photos. She pulled out an entire box of pictures and we looked at most. I think I began to feel numb after I learned about all of my great aunts’ deaths. Really, no one is left except P., her sister, and her sister’s estranged son. And me, the seed that blew far away and became someone else in another soil. I looked at picture after picture of dead people and the magnitude of this loss of family and heritage was overwhelming. The loss of this family was becoming insanely clear to me; secretly I began to think that I truly may have been spared by being adopted out. Another survivor by omission.

We went out to eat afterward, enjoying each other’s company, feeling comfortable, feeling a lot like family. It would have been nice to visit another day, but we reserved the next day for meeting my other aunt, S., and driving out to Missouri. That night I cried a lot, at odd times, felt numb and quiet, and happy, and lucky and hopeful all at once. I had a new family member, someone else on the earth to care about and to care about me.

The next day we drove to my other aunt’s house. What a difference! Sister, but without all those sweet feelings. S. was really gracious, fed us yummy organic foods, and showed us her very obedient and well-fed retrievers - which Lola loved. This woman was passionate about her dogs and their behaviors. She loved working with them, and showed them off with pride. We did feel a little odd at her house since there was some animosity between her and the other two sisters, but overall it was good to have met her. She gave us detailed directions to the cemeteries where everyone was buried, we stayed a few hours and then left to meet some dead people.

We drove to the graves on the most perilous stretch of highway in the whole state of Missouri. After asking directions twice, we finally found the cemetery where Judy and her dad’s bodies are buried, and I got out of the car to find the headstones. I couldn’t wait, my whole body itched to get out and walk, to finally meet my mother. I found their headstones quickly, and sat down gently.

“Hi,” I said. What other greeting was there? The grass was green but not weedy. The ground was soft. “I found you.” Tears slowly welled under my eyes as I heard the enormity of my experience. “I finally found you. I found you.”

Grieving, I cried long for her, for our loss, for my loss, for all the dead and given up, for her grief and struggles, for my own resolution to the drama of my beginnings, and of her sudden death by car accident 20 years ago. For the real loss of my mother, of kindred. This was harder and simpler than I imagined, pain welling up after I thought it had worked its way through me as I sat in the grass next to the place her body was silently decomposing. It was hot; my shirt clung to my sticky back. It was an open, quiet place surrounded by houses. I was alone.

Finally I went back to the car to get our things for the grave. I left my bundle and my parents’ flowers for Judy and her dad. I talked to both of them and introduced my daughter to them when she came over. I said goodbye when I left, and never looked back as I walked away. There was repeated crying; a gift; my grief; and my family. Having my daughter with me, a little more than a year older than Judy when she died, felt lucky. Hell, in this kind of situation even the grass and graves held the hands of the dead and the living. Both daughter and mother, I was happy to sit in between my uncertain beginning and my certain end.

Then we went to the other cemetery where Judy’s mom and maternal aunts and uncles are all buried. There were a lot of graves there. A lot of family. I left some flowers there, too, and introduced myself. Leaving, I decided that so much death was just enough for me. I don’t think I could have handled another dead person memorial. It was just the right frame of mind to start our trip to my adopted aunt’s house for the big ol’ celebration of my grandma’s birthday the next day.

I saw so many people I hadn’t seen in too long, and it was fun. We chatted it up with grandma, ate a bit, watched the generous consumption of beer, shared stories with my parents and aunt, met the next generation and generally appreciated their acres of beautiful southern Missouri land. After some hours, and some eating, we drove away, completely exhausted. This trip had been very long, and there was only driving ahead of us.

A year later, I now have a really satisfying relationship with P. We feel like family to me, alike and different, related. I love having another person on the planet who cares about who I am and what my values are, and who cares about my little family as I do. We have each other, a miracle to have, to find, and to have found. I love them all, every new and old bit of family, created and born, my kin.