A few weeks ago, my dear friend Lena hit me up on Facebook with a question:

“I was going through some stuff and found some old letters you wrote while you were in Boston. Would you like to have them?”

Of course, the answer was yes, because as much as I lived through being 19,
pregnant, away from home, alone and about to have my first child and relinquish him
for adoption; I still have very foggy memories of that time and wonder now, with hindsight, WTF was I thinking!!

The parcel came today and mixed in with some pictures of Garin as a baby that Lena
must have taken on long ago visits, there was a bland letter from when I was
first married to the ex ( I didn’t even read that one), a Sonny and Cher post
card from 1990, a weird print out of a shark from the precursor of fax
machines.. I think they were called teletype?? I forget.. I was just talking
about the same machine the other day!)..and then, two letters written from when
I was pregnant with Max and living in Boston.

The first letter is dated 8-23-87 and must be mere days after my arrival.

I am immediately struck by my handwriting. It has been the same for years. Longer than I have realized I guess. Somehow I managed to convince myself that my habit of all capitalization was from years in the interior design biz and my drafting education, but no.. I was writing the same way at 19. I have no memory of writing this note, but it is unmistakable from me.

It is perversely chipper considering the situation.

“Hi, Helo and what’s up? All is fine here in Boston. Got here OK and either everyone here is cool or they are great at acting.”

I then comment about how I finally get to go to the doctor, but then describe the city “It’s like NY only prettier..no scum, trees and flowers! Sadly, my commentary is about how I would love to be able to really check out the city but “aka when I am not a Hippo”

There is talk of a visit from friends, but no visit very did materialize the entire time I was there. Then I basically plead for Lena to make me a cassette of various Cocteau Twins and wonder about them playing a concert upon my return in December. That never happened either.

The next letter is from September 26, 1987. Dark earthy gray is the stationary and I comment once upon my frustration with my choice of pens. I am a pen snob, always have been, and a plain ball point has always made me cranky.

Almost half of it is commenting on the asked for and received tape, though I bitch that it took too long. There is one comment about the music reminding me of “happier times”. In between the lines, yes, I hear some sour grapes, some resentment,”I guess school is in full swing again. You are very busy working, commuting, and schooling.”

“I really don’t have very exciting news from Boston. I am very Fat. I assume I’ll be fatter for there is still more than a month to go ( due Nov 12ish). I finally bought some preggo clothes, but I don’t really wear them. Asia ( that’s her name – God help us if she has a little peni for then she’ll be a nameless boy) kicks me constantly. They say that means she is healthy ( something I do worry about). I say it hurts at times…

My mother is still a very large smelly doodie. I have not heard from her in 5 weeks now. Such maternal love!! I’m going through a big loss type of therapy at the moment. I think it is actually helping me in a painful -healthy way. Having to face the fact that and mourn that I don’t have a father OR a mother to speak of. It sucks, but hey, that’s life!..”

..then I moan about wanting to go shopping for something with a belt an the size
of my pregnant breasts…

“and guess what? I am NOT bored!! Everyone seems to think that I am going insane because I do NOTHING- but is is fun to do nothing. I watch TV, I weave bracelets, I shop, I play with Kari and she spits up on me, I try to understand life, and I write letters.”

Then more about one visit that never happened and another plan that won’t come to pass.. and then back to wondering about the Cocteau Twins concert.

At first, I was discouraged by the shallow flippancy of these letters, but it’s almost too much even for a much younger me. And inside, I know it was all a good front. Twas my encouragement to those back home that I was still the same me, that I was not changing, that I was going to be OK.

I don’t recall being so focused on that concert, but it feels now like I was looking for something past the inevitable to think about and look forward to.

I am angered by my own mother’s actions so many years ago. She angered me then by cutting me out and it still hurts. It angers me that the counselling at the agency was more focused on me and my folks, my loss issues, but never quite made that connect to my child and his soon to be loss. It seems so obvious to me now. I know I could not see it them, I was 19, I didn’t want to see it, but the professionals? With degrees and training.. how happy I was just to hang around a house caring for a baby, but yet it never even entered my mind that I would be happy with my own child.

I often think of my 16 year old self during introspective moments. She was so ready for anything, so idealistic, so full of dreams, so opinionated. I think of her and question, if I could go back in time and show her where we would end up, the ultimate question is: Would 16 year old Claud think I was a poser? Would she think I had sold out? Would he be em brassed by what I had become? And usually, I think she would still be happy knowing we ended up here, where I am, this life, this city, this husband, these friends, this job, me…

But my 19 year old self, alone in Boston. Trying so hard to make good for everyone, trying so hard to please, and so happy that these stranger, these unknown folks up there in a strange town seemed to really like me. I want to run back through time and save her, save us, save Max from what lies ahead. Yes, she too would be happy at what we are now, who we are, but I know that she would rationalize it… she would say that we have these good things now because of what she was about to do. That the sacrifice made her, me worthy of good things to come.

Living though the fire, hoping for a better day – pants with a belt, a concert to attend, a visit from friends, waiting for the adoption to be over.

Only, it’s never over. It’s never truly over. That’s what is missing form the letters. The reality that it will never truly be over and no, I am not the same. Nor will I ever be again.

But thank you Lena, for this small bit of me. She was lost.