|
by Hannah Andrews I grew up the youngest of three, but I’m really the oldest of two. I was the last child adopted in one family, as well as the firstborn and only surrendered child in the other. Or is it vice versa? I grew up with two brothers and recently met a third. I call my adoptive brothers my “brothers,” sometimes even my “real brothers,” and my biological half-brother I call my “half-brother.” Always with the half. Three of my four parents are deceased. I never met my first mother. I’m still looking for my biological father. My biological grandmother is 91 and refuses to acknowledge my existence. It’s complicated, but also, this is my normal. I’ve had lunch with my newly found half-brother twice, despite the fact he lives less than 20 miles from me. He’s sweet but a bit standoffish. I think it's genetic. Speaking of genetic, he actually looks like me. This was HUGE for me. No one in my adoptive family resembles me at all. Honestly, I was elated to meet him, but well, it’s just kind of weird. Like an awkward first date with someone you have everything and nothing in common with. Like a kid brother you didn’t meet until you were fifty. The one she kept after she let you go.
His children, my biological nieces, didn’t find it complicated. We met at a local resort for a casual lunch last summer. His daughters were 5 and 6 and had already made use of the pool by the time I arrived. He called to them and they splashed their way over, all waterlogged pigtails, pink and purple unicorned swimsuits, and orange floaties. I could feel my smile take over my face. “Girls, do you remember I told you I had a big sister?” They nodded. Answered in unison, “Yes Daddy.” “But how we didn’t know each other like you two when we were little?” Double nod again. “Well, this is her. This is my sister.” They said hi in unison. Then waved to me. Adorable. “It’s so nice to meet you,” I said. I wanted to sweep them up in my arms, squeeze their little cheeks, poke their dimples, which look like their dad’s dimples, which look like my dimples, which look like my biological mother’s dimples… But I don’t. I just smile and wave back. With that, they practically pirouette and jump back into the pool. It’s nothing to them. No big deal. I’m just the sister their Daddy didn’t know until he grew up, who looks like their grandmother they never got to meet. This was late summer in San Diego so the weather was perfect. His wife was there. Our mother's best friend was there. It was all amazing. And awful. I wanted to stay in that moment forever. I wanted to run screaming away. As I watched them all, these people that knew each other, but not me, I thought about everything I’d lost. What I lost by not having. The memories I never made. The mother I never knew. The big sister I hadn’t been. Adoption was a fire that destroyed everything that life—my life—would have been. And this was everything I’d lost in the fire. Speaking of fire… Last week in my adoptees only writing class, Anne Heffron told us to write as if our homes were on fire and we could only take three objects. “Pets and children don’t count,” she informed us. “They’re all safe. Now, grab three objects you want to save. Go!” I decided I should grab my laptop. My life is on there. Then I remembered I had a backup. In the cloud, wherever that is. Same with the phone. Plus my phone is already attached to my hand, so it's a given. Photos are on my phone and in the cloud. My journals are garbage, don’t need those… I gotta grab my (adoptive) parents’ ashes, I thought, but remembered my brothers have portions as well and they could always break me off, or brush me off a portion if need be. I would grab my birthmother’s ashes though. Her longtime best friend gave me a beautiful cremation keepsake box with some of her ashes inside. I keep it in my writing room. I’d definitely take that. It’s irreplaceable. Then I figured if I was taking my birth mother I couldn’t leave my adoptive parents behind. So I’d have to go back into the piano room and grab my parents' box. I don’t keep them in the same room because, well, I don’t know why. It just seemed like they should have their own separate spaces in my world. By then the hypothetical fire would be raging, my dog and three cats sitting outside, collectively rolling their eyes and thinking, “Oh my god she’s probably hemming and hawing over what to save and worried that she will offend one of her ghosts,” which is of course exactly what I’d be doing. My dog would probably have to run back in to save me and my ash collection. Ironic, don’t you think? To save ashes from a fire? Even with all my parents gone, it’s still a complicated mix of emotions and loyalty and loss. Back when Facebook was more of a fledgling, still fighting with MySpace for space on our laptops or first-generation smartphones, “it’s complicated,” was a sort of cool, evasive status selection on the drop-down menu. Maybe you were divorced but dating your ex, maybe you were in a new or non-traditional relationship and didn't want to share. Maybe you wanted to seem cool and mysterious. I always chose no status. Which, if I’m being honest, was like saying it’s complicated without really saying it’s complicated. That’s how adoption feels to me. Endlessly complicated. I’m just trying to find my way. This month, our peer support groups and guest blogs will feature the theme, “Navigating Complex Family Relationships.” Check the calendar for our peer support schedule, and if you’d like to contribute a guest blog, email me at [email protected] Happy New Year! 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:
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Back to Main BlogNewsletter ArchivesBlog Archive
September 2024
Categories |
RSS Feed