Ghosted

by Cindy Shultz 
 
It’s been 7056 days without my son.   

The ache in my soul is relentless. Since losing my son to an adoption nearly 20 years ago, confusion and scrambled thoughts have ruled my mind as if I have no will of my own. I am bound by panic when confronted with a decision for fear that it will be the wrong choice again. 

In the fall of 2004, when I found out I was pregnant with my 3rd child, I was excited to tell the father! He was intoxicated as usual and came over to sit on my lap. Stroking my hair, he cooed in my ear, “We’ll take care of this. Everything will be ok.” I didn’t immediately realize he wanted me to have an abortion. Could I get an abortion?  

Heartbeat International advertised “options counseling.” When I went, they showed me graphic videos and suggested adoption instead.  
The lady said, “It’s open now, you know. You can remain in your child’s life”. 
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The following week when I walked into Catholic Charities, the receptionist called down the hall, “Your birthmother is here.”  
I had already been reduced to a vessel that would birth a product for them to sell.  
When I met the adoption counselor, I was struck by her resemblance to the puppet Lady Elaine Fairchilde, the neighborhood troublemaker from the children’s television series Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.  
(Interesting fact: the only chaos-causing character on the show was named after Fred Rogers’ younger sister, whom his parents adopted when he was eleven.) 

Lady Elaine asked me why I was considering adoption. I held in a smile as I imagined her turning the land of make-believe upside down when she didn’t get her way. I told her adoption wasn't right for me, but I was curious what the “open” aspect was. I also admitted the father didn’t want the baby, and I was worried about raising a third child while also caring for my mother. The floor of the single-wide trailer I owned needed repair, as my car often did too. She listened sympathetically and asked me to come back. It was nice to feel like someone cared. 

Each time I went, I told her I didn't want to place my son, and she would remind me of all the reasons I shared with her in our initial session. 
Soon, I began feeling selfish for wanting to keep my baby. I hadn’t seen the greed beneath her veil of compassion. She promised stability for him in a future I could not yet see in a two-parent home with perfect people. My own insecurities eclipsed reason, and I began to fall into her trap. 
Lady Elaine would say things like: 
 “I know you don’t want to place, but why don’t you look through our book of couples? They’re all hoping to someday welcome a child into their loving home.” 
 “I know you don’t want to place but why don’t you just meet a couple to see what you think? You can ask them anything you want to find out if they would be good for your baby.” 

I reluctantly looked through their book of perfect people they’d deemed better than me. All of them had professional photos and boasted big houses, lucrative jobs, and dreams of being a parent.  
I picked out the ugliest couple, thinking at least they wouldn’t be better looking than me.  

In an introductory letter, I wrote, “We already have one thing in common. We both want this baby.” When I met them, I asked questions about discipline and experience with children. The hopeful woman had perfectly polished answers and her husband rarely spoke. She certainly didn’t mention that she beats children with a wooden spoon.  

The Puppet Lady pulled me into the hallway and said, “I don't usually do this, but I think you guys are the perfect match! Why don't you take them along to the ultrasound today and find out the gender together?” 

Each step I took with this agency sucked me in deeper, and I was struggling to escape. I was horrified at the idea! However, I struggled to stand up for myself, and I was scared to say no.  

Lady Elaine encouraged me to get to know the woman who was hoping to take my baby, so we met weekly at a quiet motel restaurant and talked about what this adoption might look like. I asked her things that weighed on my heart, like how much I could be involved and if he could call me mom. She asked me things that were important to her, like if I would have more kids for her because she wanted a sibling group. She also suggested potential sperm donors like “some bum and a turkey baster.” When I finally had the courage to tell her I didn't want to go through with this adoption, I don’t remember what she said, but the shift in energy was ominous, and I felt like I owed her my child. 

On the day of delivery, both Lady Elaine and my baby’s father unexpectedly appeared and sat in the delivery room all day. They mostly looked uncomfortable and barely spoke. He stole pulls from a flask in his pocket. Puzzled, I asked Lady Elaine why she was here, and she said, “to remind you why you are here.” I remember apologizing through my embarrassment to her after a particularly loud whimper amidst my growing contractions, saying, “But you've probably seen a hundred of these before.” She wrinkled her long red nose and gave a tiny nod. Later she admitted she had no children of her own and had never seen a birth. 

Now I recognize the extreme steps she took to manipulate me. I wonder if she had phoned my baby’s father and convinced him to come to further deter me from keeping my son. 

I stayed in the hospital for three days cradling my baby; I wanted all those precious minutes. By the time I left the hospital, my eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying. The adopter handed me a giant wicker laundry basket with some heavy-duty pads, snacks, and a bottle of whiskey. Her mother handed me a thank you card with a 100-dollar bill inside. 

I left the hospital with my consolation prize, and they left with my baby. 

Over the years, I had to learn the ever-changing boundaries of being a birth mother to Boo (short for Caboose, his father’s nickname). The name was especially fitting for the ghost of a child I wasn’t allowed to intimately know; the baby I didn’t bring home and wouldn’t raise. Lady Elaine had encouraged me not to name him because it was just going to be changed. I now understand that was a tactic to create a larger wedge in our natural bond. The adopters named him after their own family, and it didn’t feel right in my heart, so I settled on a nickname from his father.  

Lady Elaine told me that most birth mothers end up walking away, and I promised that wouldn’t be me, but the adopter sure tried. I learned to ignore the whispers and prodding questions from her family members at picnics as well as her repeatedly telling me her family didn’t want me there. She often made offhand remarks about my family and kept pressuring me to have more children for her. I kept telling myself that I only needed to put up with this for 18 years.  

Each visit had me physically ill for days and heartbroken from having to walk away without him again and again. I soon learned that hugs and interaction were discouraged, and I would need to keep my focus solely on her during my visits.  

The chaos that ensued revealed just how deranged the “perfect” family was. 
The adopter moved an elderly woman of age into her home and was paid to care for her around the clock. During a visit, the woman begged me to help her, claiming she was mean. Around age 3, when I revealed I wouldn’t have any more kids for her, the adopter made reports to Child Protective Services, attempting to get my other two children.  CPS closed my case but warned me to be wary of her. One year she told me her marriage was abusive. Describing some of the violence, she said, “I was trying to kill him, Cindy,” talking about choking her husband. I still don’t know if the domestic violence claim was true. Around age 10, she made a false police report saying I was stalking them and had threatened to kidnap him. 

She allowed contact, updates, and visits as her insecurity would allow, sometimes closing me out for years at a time.  
Around age 15, she began asking me to take him out to dinner. Up until that point, we had never been allowed to be alone together, but sensing a trap, I watched what I said to him. I feel like she was probably worried about him turning 18 and wanting a relationship with me and hoped I’d say something to deter his love.  

Around Thanksgiving of his 17th year, she was talking about him being an asshole like his bio dad. It wasn’t the first time she had blamed the qualities she found undesirable on his biology. I texted him to acknowledge her words could be hurtful, but then at Christmastime, I stupidly bought him a shirt that said, “I’m an asshole like my dad.” 

I have since realized I often did or said things I thought would appease the adopter to remain in their good graces even though it went against my heart. During that visit, I also mentioned something about not always having her around to initiate our visits. 

He hasn’t talked to me since.  

A few months later, she begged, “Please don’t stop being my friend when he turns 18, Cindy”. My first thought was, “of course not,” but as I processed why she would say something like that, I realized it was over, and she knew it. I had made it through 18 years of pure hell, and I was free. How could she believe I was her friend after the egregious attacks on myself and my family? Although we talked on the phone often in what would look like a friendship, and at some points, I really did love her, I couldn’t forgive her for taking my baby after I told her I didn’t want to go through with it, and especially after seeing how it destroyed me.  

I began to imagine all the things I could now say to her to end this relationship; the years of words I had left unsaid for fear she would close the adoption again. By the end of the week, I chose to just silently unfriend her on social media.  The following year, this year, she sent me a picture of him and his girlfriend talking about how well he is doing (she moved him to a different state shortly before he turned 18). Without replying, I blocked her. The boundaries are now mine and if he ever chooses to speak to me again it will be on his terms not hers.  I will forever wish I had the courage to stand up for myself and my child. 
My son was more than a transaction, and her infertility was not my burden.  

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 
Cindy Shultz is a first mother from Ohio who works to help the systemically oppressed members of her community and advocates for family preservation. She performed a reading of this piece (originally titled, “If Only I’d Said,” at the 2024 Concerned United Birthparents Retreat.  
You can follow Cindy here : https://www.facebook.com/share/aYzN9sCHYXmrVqTJ/ 

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