Hi guys, it's odd job. Since they started this project where we tell each other
stories and since the birth of my second child, my daughter, I started thinking a
lot about about my first mother being adopted and pulled out this little
audio commentary for my archives, details, my search for my first family, for my
first mother, first father. So grab your headphones because there's no video to
this one and enjoy.
Early one Sunday morning in March 2003, the steel shank of an ice pick was
crammed into my lower back. I shot out of bed clutching my side only to discover
there was no wound, no blood. My wife Laura drove me to the hospital while I
writhed in pain. During my check-in I began to feel very nauseated. The lack of
a frantic response was unnerving. Where was the gurney? Where were the doctors
and nurses crowding over me jabbering an obscure medical jargon? Why do they call
us in the emergency room? What the hell was going on? Then I threw up. Next to
childbirth it is said that kidney stones produce the most intense pain. It's the
closest thing that I as a man will ever come to knowing what it's like to be in
labor. Oral medication didn't work so they started me on some serious IV pain
killers. Shortly after the stabbing sensation began to fade away a doctor
came in to ask me a battery of questions. On a scale from 1 to 10, 10 being the
worst, how would I rate my pain? 11. Had I seen any blood in my urine? Yes, saw
him last night. Is there any medical history of kidney problems in my family?
I don't know, I replied. I'm adopted. There it was. Every physical exam, every
medical checkup, every pneumonia-induced doctor's visit, the questions have always
been met with the same blank. I don't know, I'm adopted. I've always known I was
adopted. Kelly, my older sister, was adopted too. Our parents told us from a
very early age that we were special because they got to pick us. We felt
unique in a way that a child who dresses himself in mismatched socks feels
unique. My sister has blonde hair, green eyes, and dark complexion. I have brown
wavy hair, brown eyes, and pale freckled skin. Neither of us look like our
parents. Kelly and I went to a Catholic grade school where kids in our classes
had four siblings on either side of them who all looked alike. I didn't look like
anybody else. This is a hole in my life. It's a feeling I'm sure the estimated
6 million other adopted Americans can relate to. The exact number of total
adopted people currently in the U.S. is unknown. This is because there's no
federal law that governs adoptions. Each individual state handles adoption
differently. The last time reliable statistics were gathered was back in
1975. Maybe there are more than 6 million. Maybe there are less. From a report on
the National Adoption Information Clearinghouse website, it states, quote,
in nearly all states, adoption records are sealed and withheld from public
inspection after the adoption is finalized. Most states, therefore, have
procedures by which parties to an adoption may obtain non-identifying
information from an adoption record, unquote. Missouri, where both my sister
and I were born and where our adoptions were finalized, does have a couple of
procedures in place that gives a searching adoptee like me a few options.
The first is a mutual consent registry. This only works if both parties know
about the registry, register, and give consent. I signed up eight years ago and
gave periodic updates of my current address, but it never helped. Melissa,
who works at the registry, told me they don't even keep official statistics on
how many reunions they facilitate. She thought it might be one a month or maybe
even two. From 1988 to 1997, Missouri averaged 2,300 adoptions a year. The
second option is for an adult adoptee to obtain either a signed notarized
consent form or a death certificate for both of their adoptive parents, depending
whether they are alive or deceased. Then the adoptee must send it to the county
court that finalized the adoption just to start an adoption search through a
third-party search agent. The adoptee has to pay for the search agent out of
pocket and there's no guarantee of success. I'm an adult and I still need to
note for my mother to learn where I came from. There is a third option that is to
approach every state, county, city agency, and private institution involved in
the adoption and request copies of any scrap of information related to the
adoption, just like there's no federal law creating uniformity among states
regarding adoption. There's also no state law creating uniformity between
government agencies and private institutions. This means that one place
may include a first name and blank out the last name, where another may blank
out the first name and include the last name. So there are roughly six million
people who may not know whom they look like or where they came from. They don't
know if they have an increased likelihood for breast cancer or once they
retire whether or not they're at an increased risk for the mental decline of
Alzheimer's. We all grow up unaware of the potential biological hazards lurking
in our genetic histories. We are all ignorant of where we get our eyes, our
smiles, or our ability to deliver a killer slam dunk. My doctor was unfazed by my
lack of medical history. He was more interested in finalizing a treatment
plan for the three decently sized kidney stones making their way through my body.
I decided to have the nastiest stone removed and take my chances with the
other two smaller ones. The medical staff managed my pain and kept the ice
picks at bay while I waited for my calcium oxalate exorcism. After the
stones evacuation they'd analyze it and prescribe a preventative diet so this
sort of thing wouldn't happen again. One night in the hospital I wondered out
loud to Laurel why this was happening to me. As a teenager I suffered with
hemorrhoids and now this. I told her I was sick of having these surprise medical
emergencies. Why don't you start searching for your birth parents again my
wife suggested. Once you find your biological parents maybe you'll be able
to answer your questions. Plus it will be helpful when we start trying to get
pregnant. After returning from the hospital I dug up my search file. My
search for my biological parents began in earnest in 1996 but it really began
three years before that. I was home for Christmas in 1993 when Kelly showed me a
stack of paper she had received from the state of Missouri. It was the non
identifying social history of her biological mother typed up by some
social worker. I was amazed at the detail. It was at once abstract and concrete. In
key places where blank spaces were names of people used to be it was a sort of
declassified personal history document. It could have been the construction of a
writer's fancy but this woman was real. She was out there somewhere. She gave
birth to my sister. Kelly's birth mother was very social and studied to become a
nurse. Kelly a very popular girl in high school was at the time a few credits
shy of her nursing degree. Having gotten this far my sister was satisfied with
what she knew and didn't want to go any farther. She shared her investigative
secrets with me so that I might start my own search. It was three years before I
was ready. Before I sent out my first request letter I already had a couple of
scraps hinting at my origins in my baby book. There was a baby formula pamphlet
with the name baby Jonathan written on it. My name used to be Jonathan. There were
the notes my father took about my birth mother during the placement meeting just
before I was handed over. 25 pom-pom squad, drama, music, physical
characteristics, heredity. I'm Swedish, Italian, German, French, and English.
Basically a year old mutt. Voted most popular, Iowa. For years whenever I would
drive through Iowa I would stop at a random town, go to the library, and look
at yearbooks from the time when my birth mother would have gone to school. I'd
study the hands and the faces looking for any familiarity. It was hopeless.
Eventually I had all the information about my adoption that my sister had
about hers and more. I had the same kind of blanked-out document that told about
hobbies and interests but no names or places. My birth parents identities were
still a mystery. After 18 months of solid detective work I abandoned my search. I
was emotionally drained. As the years passed I'd pull out the file now and
then and go through it. Each time I'd reach the same conclusion that it was
hopeless. About a month after my kidney operation I was discussing my renewed
search with my father. Always a pragmatist he attempted to console me. You
need to prepare yourself for the possibility that they don't want to have
anything to do with you. Did you ever think about that? Well yes of course I
had thought about that. While I had him on the phone I shared my findings with
him. Counting the blank spaces I knew my birth mother's first name was four
letters long. She marched in the Rose Bowl parade. She was, according to his
notes, from Iowa. Iowa! Kelly was from Iowa not you. Are you sure? I asked. It was
right there in his handwriting. Absolutely. I kept a journal back then and I
remember specifically writing down that she was from Iowa. I even had a way to
get in contact with the mother's family at the time. All these years I had been
looking in the wrong state. I knew from the copy of my adoption decree that my
name before I was adopted was Jonathan Emerson. Someone had neglected to blank
out my name. The first name matched the name on my baby formula pamphlet. Looking
for Emerson's in 1996 in every phone book in Iowa seemed an impossible task. Now
I knew she wasn't from Iowa and now I had the internet. Another suggestion from
Laura proved to be the golden key that unlocked all the doors. Why don't you
investigate the Rose Bowl? That's a pretty significant piece of information. She
was right. I contacted the Tournament of Roses Parade Office in Pasadena,
California. I had them fax me a copy of the parade program from the year my
birth mother would have marched in it. Only three universities marched that year
and none of them were Iowa. Soon all the pieces began to fall into place. What
once seemed interesting but unhelpful was now very important. I started with the
first university and called the school library. Was there a woman on the
marching squad with the last name of Emerson and a first name for letters
long? I asked them to check the yearbooks and school newspapers from the
year the school marched in the Rose Bowl parade. Later in the afternoon I
received a call back from the librarian. Yes, there was a woman whose first name
was for letters long and whose last name was Emerson. Did I want them to email me
a picture of the marching squad from the college yearbook? Hell yes! Within minutes
I had a grainy scanned image of my birth mother. I know it now. It's her. But at the
time I had to be absolutely certain. The name of the drama club matched the
description from my social history. Phone directory listings from her hometown
matched the information I had about her father's occupation. The age and number
of siblings matched. I even checked the 1930 census to verify the occupation of
my birth mother's paternal grandfather. Everything checked out. Still more phone
calls and internet research unearthed an obituary for her father, my grandfather.
He died of cancer in 1987. I now had her married name and new city of residence.
A simple internet search told me her address and phone number. I was ten
digits away from speaking to the woman who brought me into this world. My birth
mother, whose name is just four letters long, traveled across the country to live
the final months of her pregnancy and seclusion at the Willows Maternity
Sanitarium at 2929 Main Street in Kansas City, Missouri. That was the same place
my parents went to pick me up, giving their daughter a little brother to play
with. Before the pill, before Roe v. Wade, middle-class unwed mothers had few
options. To keep a child who was conceived out of wedlock was a social
taboo. The mother would be thought of as selfish. The child would certainly be
derided as a bastard. What man would marry a woman so deeply scarred? That was
then. The young women who stayed at the Willows were to have no contact with the
outside world. Each was encouraged to use a made-up name to protect her
privacy. Exchange of personal information between young women was
discouraged. The Willows Hospital sat atop a hill at the end of a very long
flight of stairs. No visitors were allowed. I've read just about every property
deed, legal document, business record, and newspaper article on the Willows. The
Kansas City Public Library keeps a vertical file three inches thick on the
Willows because so many people inquire about it. It was a private institution
started by Edwin and Cora Hayworth in 1905. In its 64 years of operation, Peggy
Hayworth, Edwin and Cora's daughter-in-law, estimated that 25,000 women had
stayed at the Willows. In 1969, the Willows closed. It was eventually raised
and, if you believe the newspaper accounts, all of the facilities records
were piled up in the backyard and burned. So if each of the 25,000 women had a
file of, say, 50 pieces of paper, that would add up to 1,250,000
pieces of paper. Put all that paper into boxes and you get a wall of boxes 10
feet tall, 2 feet deep, and 18 feet long. That would have been one hell of a
fire. I contacted the Kansas City Fire Museum who checked the Kansas City Fire
Department's handwritten ledgers for a six-month period around the closure of
the Willows. There's no record of any fire. The articles that mention the fire
include no eyewitness accounts. No fire department officials are quoted.
Apparently, someone was very interested in keeping the identities of these young
women a secret. There's a rumor going around among Willows adoptees that the
records are stored in a limestone cave under the World's Fun Amusement Park. I
understood the seriousness of what I was about to do. My birth mother indicated
in her social history that nobody knew about her pregnancy. Her brothers and
sisters were told she was off working for the government in a summer jobs
program. Was my father right? Did she not want to be found? I had come this far. I
had to see it through. At such a momentous turning point in my life, I had to
proceed with caution. I read books, sought advice, and learned what others had done
to achieve successful reunions. I contacted Sarah, an intermediate third
party, and requested that she, birth mother herself, contact my birth mother.
Sarah had made hundreds of these types of calls before. She is a search agent who
facilitates reunions of adopted children and their birth parents. On Sunday,
September 7th, 2003, I received a call from Sarah. She had called the phone
number I had given her. She asked to speak to my birth mother by name and told
her it was regarding a very personal matter. What's this about? Sarah explained
that it was about the birth of a boy and gave her the date I was born. How did you
find me? Your son found you, said Sarah. He is very smart and determined. He
pieced it together. Nobody was supposed to find out. Nobody knows. Not my children,
not even my husband. She was clearly stunned. My birth mother told Sarah that
she thought about me all the time, especially on my birthday. Sarah recounted
their conversation to me. She described how she explained to my birth mother that
promises of anonymity may have been made to her, but nobody could have foreseen
the advent of the Internet, making the search for birth parents a lot easier. As
per my instructions, Sarah requested that she share any medical information that
might be useful. No, nothing really. I'm pretty healthy. My mother has Alzheimer's
and my father died 15 years ago from kidney cancer. Sarah asked her if she was
interested in reuniting with me. I can't. I felt like I had been punched in the
stomach. Sarah and I discussed my options. My birth
mother had indicated that she was a private person and wanted her privacy
respected. Flowers could be sent anonymously on my birthday. Perhaps
Sarah could act as a go-between for correspondence. A married woman getting a
letter from another woman is less suspicious than getting one from an
anonymous source. You have my phone number, Sarah told my birth mother. If
anything changes, feel free to give me a call. Ten minutes later, Sarah's phone
rang. It was my birth mother. I just can't. Who knows what she was going
through that point in her life. Who was I to come barging in and turn it upside
down? At the time, I decided not to attempt any further contact. I was
crushed. I couldn't hear anymore. Sobbing, I handed the phone over to Laura to finish
the call. Two weeks later, I wrote my birth mother a letter and included some
pictures. I sent it through Sarah the intermediary. It came back opened with a
handwritten note taped around it. Dear Sarah, I want to be left alone. I want my
privacy respected. I want no further contact. I hope I have made myself
perfectly clear. Crystal clear. It took me seven years to prepare myself for that
eventful September day. The least I could do was give my birth mother seven years
to live with the knowledge that I was alive, that I loved her, and that I wanted
her as a part of my life. She's in pain. She said that she can't, not that she
won't. There's a big difference. What she needs is someone to talk to, someone to
confide in. It sounds like she doesn't have anyone to share her emotions with.
These were some of the responses I got from First Mothers Reunited. They are
an internet-based support group I stumbled across late one night in a
search for answers. Each First Mother relinquished a child to adoption. Now
they are turning to each other to deal with the emotions associated with their
experience. On their website, they posted an open letter to all adoptees and
welcomed emails from those needing advice. I sent them an email detailing my
search and subsequent rejection. Their support was overwhelming. I would stay
up until 3 a.m. some nights reading and answering emails from these women. The
data I owe them can never be repaid. Their depth of understanding has given me
new insight. They prefer the term First Mother because they feel it more
accurately describes them. It leaves open the possibility for a reunion and the
development of a continuing relationship. They reason that if a mother can
love more than one child, then surely a child can love more than one mother. If I
couldn't talk to my own First Mother for whatever reason, then talking with
these women was the next best thing. What's wrong with me? Why doesn't she want
to meet me? Isn't she curious about the man that I've become? Skillfully, patiently,
they answered all the questions that I'm sure I asked more than once. Here it is,
one year after Sarah's phone call. My First Mother is now a grandmother. Laura
and I have a son. We plan on having another child and we may even adopt. For
the first time in my life, there's somebody who looks like me. A tiny
biological mirror. His thumbs bend at a complete right angle at the first joint
just like mine. My father-in-law tells me that he smiles just like me. One day, I
hope to look into my First Mother's eyes in search of answers. I want her to tell
me her story. When I ask her why, I want to hear her say, because it is very
difficult for me to seek acceptance from such an important stranger and not get
it. We may both go to our graves having never uttered a word to each other. I
suppose I can live with that.
