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by Lake Calder I wonder…do all parents think their kids are going to get married and have kids of their own to spend holidays with? Is that just part of the parental mentality? Most parents expect their children to outlive them. Sadly, that isn’t always the case. Research reveals that the risk of suicide attempt is approximately 4 times greater in adoptees compared with nonadoptees (American Academy of Pediatrics, 2013). I’m an overdose survivor, and for many years, my parents had reason to fear they might outlive me. Adoptees that do outlive their parents might still not go on to have children or families of their own. What if the child/future adult has a physical/mental illness or disability that precludes them from having a partner or children? What if they had a bad experience with their family and don’t want to risk re-creating it? Who will they have to spend holidays and special occasions with? Will they have cousins, siblings, parents’ friends, their friends’ kids, community? If the premise of adoption is to provide a “forever family” for a child/future adult who might otherwise stumble through life bouncing around foster care and thrust into an unstable, lonely life of being unwanted, what do parents do to guarantee a lifelong family support network?
My adoptive parents moved across the country away from their families to start a new life. They fled bad memories and sour relationships without concern for maintaining a family network for their son and me. My grandma and aunt eventually followed to be near them, but they passed away too. Realistically, I have never felt physically or mentally well enough to even consider marriage or motherhood. From my first hospitalization at age 14, surrounded by my fellow self-harming teens, I imagined myself in a tragic mother-child situation like Sinead O’Connor and her son years later. I’ve avoided gambling with my health or a child’s life. I might still have decades of “Ever After” to face alone. I feel disconnected from every person, every place, and every thing from the first half of my life. Nothing from my adopted life makes sense anymore. I no longer exist in relation to those strangers. It’s as though I’ve awakened from an unsettling dream back to a life as if I’d never met them. In my memories of my childhood home, a voice says, “Who are those people?” This distance my psyche has imposed may be a defense against grief. I haven’t run this theory past a psychiatric professional, so who knows? I wish I’d formed no attachments to people or places, especially my childhood home, where I can never return. The adults I grew up with have died. Their houses are now occupied by strangers and I can never go back. I made the mistake of Google Street viewing the home my parents bought the year before my adoption, where we gathered throughout the years until their deaths 40 years later. Holidays were my favorite time of the year. Favorite food, favorite weather, and many presents and activities. Heirloom Christmas decorations were the only vintage things my mom didn’t discard as soon as the next trend came along. The slow Doppler effect of the Santa-bearing firetruck moving at a crawl along our foggy, festively lit suburban street past our driveway set me on edge but remains part of my fond holiday memories. Now, in that driveway, two huge new fancy pickup trucks sit in place of my dad’s minivan that accommodated his electric wheelchair. The image of those trucks and the thought of strangers in my upstairs sanctuary that resembled Sabrina the Teenage Witch’s room makes me sick. In solitude, though, I am finally locating a sense of self. I feel more focused and comfortable in autumn and winter. The cold is soothing for my autoimmune inflammation, so I look forward to the whole seasonal experience rather than dreading it, even though I have no family togetherness. I marvel at adoptees who manage to get married and have kids. How do you even trust another human being enough to bind yourself to one and breed with them? I can’t even fathom that level of belief that someone would love you every day forever and that your offspring might too. Wild. I spend my holidays alone in a room, eating the same medically restricted meals I eat every day. The closest I get to family gatherings are TV show sets: The Dunphy-Pritchett-Delgados, Luke’s Diner, Monica Geller’s apartment, Liz Lemon’s office, Sabrina, Zelda, and Hilda’s house. I watch cozy vloggers decorating the homes they share with their loving partners. These are my “friends,” and some YouTubers even refer to their subscribers as such. I like familiar faces and voices, but my only options are those of televisual strangers. I am in contact with my birthfather and his other kids via text, but we still haven’t met in person after 11 years because he and I are too ill to travel. They live halfway across the country with their own existing struggles, and we have no shared history or memories. I’m reading other adoptee stories of going home for the holidays and having to put on their family chameleon colors and cope with drama and black sheephood. I feel relief at not having to deal with that, or travel, or navigating the holiday supper table with my food sensitivities. I can be alone with my safe, bland foods and soothing beverage, chuckling at family sitcom holiday high jinks. During the years I worked retail, I took every holiday shift available to earn extra money while distracting myself from lack of togetherness, gift-giving, and general family “love” stuff. Post-pandemic, I am so relieved to stay home. I am fine in solitude, in control of my sensory environment, and free to spend holidays as I please (with financial and medical restrictions). I don’t think I feel especially desolate during the holidays, but I consider myself chronically anhedonic, so it’s hard to tell. I’m just surprised to find myself alone when I thought the whole premise of adoption is to provide a child/future adult with a secure, welcoming, connected, supportive, gift-giving, “forever family.” I had years of holidays with boyfriends and their nice families, and I figured one of those situations would be permanent. But illness and lack of trust in other humans have perished any further thoughts of pair bonding. I keep content with my crafts, music, and entertainment, but I wish the non-adoptee world could understand that forever family is a myth. At least I can count on my TV friends and families. I can see and not see these people whenever I want. Monica will stress about her holiday candy-making. Ross will dress as an armadillo. Sabrina will hate on Christmas. Luke will make a Santa burger for Lorelai. Sookie and Emily don’t have to deal with my exasperating dietary restrictions. I don’t have to worry that I am bothering or imposing or if I’ve done something to upset anyone or if they are talking about me behind my back. As long as streaming services stay in business, I’ll have familiar faces and voices to keep me company during the holidays. This is fine. I think this is just fine. About the Author: Lake Calder (pseudonym) is the product of a late 1970s California closed adoption. She aims to convey the need for greater adoptive parent preparedness, especially parents adopting children of a different race/ethnicity. She hopes to raise awareness about the realities of adoption to increase child safety and adoptee rights. She is a wildlife enthusiast who enjoys making music and art. The name 'Lake Calder' is based on her birthmother's initials, which were used for her pre-adoption name in foster care, and reflects her aquatic inner world. Lake’s Instagram and link tree can be found at https://www.instagram.com/adoptee.writer.calder/ Work Cited: Keyes, Margaret A., & Malone, Stephen M. (2013). Risk of Suicide Attempt in Adopted and Nonadopted Offspring. American Academy of Pediatrics, 132(4), 639–646. https://doi.org/10.1542/peds.2012-3251 AKA invites you to hear from members of the extended family of adoption and the surrounding community. While we take great care in curating the content, please know:
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