As an unmet, joyful and excited couple marveled and cooed over my precious baby, now theirs..

I was then packing all my meager belongings, waiting for my mother, sad goodbyes, uncomfortable silence, more feelings of shame. As they fussed over the first diapers changed, and made happy phone calls, I was on the cold drive back..5 hours due to traffic into a winter evening sun…mindless chit chat while my body ached to scream “TURN AROUND…I FORGOT MY BABY!” Words never uttered. I was showing them all how “good” I was by being so strong and determined. And with that thought I pushed myself back into regular life and did what I must..I lived. But I was never the same again..and November comes..no matter what has transpired in the 18 years since then..and reminds me..No I am not the same. I never will be. I can’t undo it.

That day, I broke my life in two with adoption..

I left part of my heart back along that cold winter road..I was permanently blinded by the setting sun, the fog of tears.

All I remember of the drive was the sun. Traffic and the sun. Wanting so much to put it behind me and move on like I was promised I would. Wanting to just go back and start anew. Wanting to never have left the confines of the hospital where we were still together.

There was not much to unpack. I wonder now what they all thought of me, returned, problem solved. There was very little talking. I recall nothing of significance. Week before Thanksgiving and it all just slipped back into place.

I know I tried to occupy myself with the ideal of Darrin. He was still in the military but would also be home soon. It was safe to be excited about him. He was old, comfortable worn and he also had been changed, been away, morphed. Somehow, he gave me hope.

No one really asked me how it was to actually relinquish your child for adoption.

I reported the experience brightly. I called my friends, showed off my precious pictures, made them awe at my labor stories. My extended family was still in the dark. I know I was happy that I could hide my post pregnancy weight in big bulky sweaters. I suppose they assumed that whatever story my mother had told was the truth.

Whether I was in a rest home, nut house, or rehab..the puffiness, shame, weight gain, shell shocked look, and lostness made sense.

But it didn’t matter. No one asked what I had been doing the last few months. Not my Uncle, not my cousin, not my grandfather, not my brother. No one even hinted that they realized I was gone. They were probably instructed not to ask me. Told I didn’t want to talk about it. Told to just treat me the same as always and they did. No one dared to go against my mother’s wishes. Not even her own father. Her wrath was legendary. And I was back to being invisible and of little consequence here or gone.

So I helped cook Thanksgiving dinner, I made the pies, picked at the stuffing. Looked on aptly as my uncle held court and told his worldly stories. Listened to my mother’s ratings about life, her job, my father, her father.

I know, a “good birthmother”, I put on a good front.

I jumped back in with two feet. I hide my tears. I preformed. I have no one left now to ask what they really thought or saw. My friends accepted me back with no issues at all. It was just accepted as is. Claud has a fucked up life. Claud’s parents were nuts. Claud’s folks were the divorced ones. Claud dropped out of school. Claud had a baby and never saw him again. No big deal..look at her. She’s cool. If there were looks of pity I ignored them. After all I had lost my child to be back as before..damnit I was gonna get that chance.

Before I left to go to Boston, the plan had taken hold that I was done with Art. Somehow, my experience of working in an office had soured me. I was still being idealistic and my Art, with a capital A, could not be produced at someone else’s whims, on their timetable. Drawing, becoming an Illustrationist, was now “selling out”. Producing little sketches for magazine fluff was absurd. Imagine, I was pregnant and about to give away my baby, but I decide that I loved children and would return to school for early childhood education. Logic or insanity?

So, I had the additional chore of getting back into school. Since I had bombed out of a college of prestige, I was resolved to go to the local community college. There was still no money. My father was still in war with mom and my education was a continued casualty. Plus I had lost my chance with my mother. I would have to pay my own way now or so she said. I know she didn’t have it then anyhow, but I think pride prevented her saying that. She still had allot of anger towards me, but I was able to knuckle under, tail between my legs. I left it hanging there in the room like a trail of smoke that followed her about. I had learned to stop expecting her, wanting her or needing her to be who I wished she could be. She just was what she was and who I, was really, to expect anything better. Defeated, it was all a means to an end and I had to overcome. So my transcripts went out to Nassau. I swallowed my pride with that..that I the best artist of my school, would now go to “Grade 13” as it was referred to. The place where losers went. Yes, I would be happy there.

New new new and different and something was all that mattered. Move on, be strong, after all I was a birth mother now. I was stronger than those around me. I had some power. so I thought.

After relinquishment, the nights were the worst. Always alone.

My brother was almost 7..already hooked into early Saga video games. The sounds of Zelda and Mario Brothers beeped from his room. My mother worked, cooked dinner and fell asleep in front of the TV by 10. I, always the night owl, would putter about my room.

It was then that I would allow myself to view my son’s pictures.

To think of him. To wonder, To cry. Usually it would start as pleasant thoughts. The happy things about adoption that I was taught. How much they loved him. How great his life will be. How I saved him from this dysfunctional house, these people, my world.

It was when I tried to sleep that the ache began. An ache like no other. Broken heart, grief of death and mourning, sickness and despair all rolled into one. It physically hurt. Like one’s soul and heart was truly breaking. It was a battle against the tears, for once they started to fall, then nothing could make them stop. So often, I lost. I would cave to the awesome power and it just would fly out, full force, like a monster out of the box. All the demons, self doubt, hate, despair, sorrow..and oh..to miss him. The tiny bundle of weight. Sometimes I would just lie on my back in bed, convince the cat to sleep on my stomach in a ball. The familiar weight was so comforting. The little movements, breathing..almost like I still carried him in my womb. But the gut wrenching sobs always disturbed poor LLoyde and he would leave me in a huff.

The Silent screams of a birthmother in my pillow.

That deep hiss when you allow force to be expelled, but will your vocal cords to not make a sound..just a squeak..and then that gasp on fresh air. The choking on the breath, as if you could turn your skin inside out. Tears just falling, soaking my pillow, snot running down, into my mouth..exploding the tissue when I would break and blow. Fetal position. Curled up in a ball. Whole body shaking.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Oh God, just make it stop.

I need this to stop, I can’t do this. Who can make it stop, Who can I call. Stare at the phone and wish, think of everyone I know, but there is no one. no one, no one. Alone. everything is tense. My body is a rock. My hands clench so tightly, that my nails cut into my palms, but the pain is good. The blood is right somehow. It least that pain has a cause, a reason, and it will heal. Punch the pillow. Grip the edge of the bed for dear life The room spins.

Oh God, my baby, my baby, I want my baby…

Wail WHY in the silent scream to the night. The voice inside tries to quell the demons, where is my logic now? No, I deserve nothing but this pain. I have nothing but this and it is just. You deserve nothing, BAD girl. You shouldn’t have slept with him. Dirty Whore. Slut. Should have known better, Stupid girl. You knew he didn’t love you. No one loves you. No one cares, Your father left you. He left you. Darrin left you, Bill left you. Unlovable. Broken. Wrong. You would just break that baby too. Curse him with your corruption. He deserves more, better than you. Horrid stupid girl. You think you are good, but when they know you for real..then they leave. Poor baby..he would leave you, hate you too.

Poor thing to have the likes of you as a mother.

Oh but it hurts so much. My body physically hurts. My stomach aches, my head from crying, I must stop, my eyes are welled shut. Puffy eyes, you cannot have puffy eyes in the morning, then they will know you have been crying. Shush, shush, you will wake your brother. OK get a grip now. That’s it. Blow the nose. Stop crying. Dry the tears. Yes, good. Stop thinking about it. Just stop. No more I say. Good. Relax. Lie down. Yes, you need to sleep. OK . Think of school..oh you failed school..look at the mess you made. NO! Ok think of Darrin . He will be home in two weeks. Why would he want you now. He didn’t want you when you were full of promise at 17? Shush Ok ..think of how happy Max will be. He is loved. Not like you, you unlovable slut. OH GOD NO..I can’t take it anymore as another wave takes control and the demons continue to rock me into the dark vortex of blackness and pain.

Too many nights to count like that.

It is a way of life for a birthmother.

Now to battle the demons that descended with the setting of the sun, and the quiet of the night. If my mother ever heard a chocking sob, she never enquired. If my eyes told the tale in the morning, my lack of sleep was not questioned. I would arm myself with books to read…anything to think about as I tried to drift off into sleep, bad movies on TV, anything at all but my life, my child, my badness. All my previous coping mechanisms were broken though. I could not spin tales of what I wanted if I won Lotto, for money meant that I could have my son. I could not dream about the perfect man that was out there for me, for he would find me wanting and disgard me like the rest. Darrin thoughts were somewhat safe, but could turn with the apprehension of the reality. I would be with him again soon and the real anxiety over my now not perfect breasts, my map of stretch marks on my stomach, my repaired up womanhood. No longer as slim, no longer as bright, without a real ability to laugh..I worried.

But long had I survived on little sleep. A few hours from 3 am to the light of day and the stirrings in the house, and I could function. My mother would leave early after my brother was off, so I could avoid them till later, when I was presentable and back in mode. Laura was still at school the first few weeks, but soon would be home too. I didn’t go out the first few weeks. I have little recall of what I did do.

I know I got a job soon after returning home. Working at the Mall. At Sterns, a department store. I was assigned to the stationary department. Picture frames and greeting cards. Precious Moment figurines, tacky gifts and crap. I know when I went for training, I had lost my hair so it must have been early December. Oh my poor hair was never meant to last, I had abused it as much as I had abused me.

It was dyed black when I first went to NYC and I decided that Blue would be better. A dark navy blue was so much more cool, But years of black would be very hard to get out. So Laura and I stripped it out with 100 volume wig peroxide. It hurt so much I was crying and she kept on telling me “Hold on..it’s not blond enough yet”..after a while I couldn’t take it so we washed it out..and my hair went from WHITE on the natural roots to every shade of blond to yellow to orange, reds, browns to my ends which were still BLACK..as I had been dying it black for years. The bang completely broke off..and we realized that if we put the Blue in, then all the yellows would make it Green and I would have Seaweed hair…so instead we put Poppy on top..a real pinkish red..which looked nice with the black… The pink that would bleed down when I had to meet Him at the opera in the rain.

Then I decided to go “normal” because normal hair when living with a secret pregnancy is a normal thing to do. ..My uncle paid for me to go to a very posh salon where they spent hours with me in the chair trying to restore me to a normal color…very challenging. It worked out Ok and I had nice Black Cherry color…which I kept for the final months of my pregnancy with Max. In Boston I carefully loved and conditioned my sad hair. Willing it to be Ok as much as I willed myself.

So I kept it “nice” for some time…and was convinced that it was healthy..and upon returning home got it in my noggin that I would like a perm.

Because of course, that is a sure fire way to get over losing a baby..new hairdo!

And, I did it myself. To his death bed my grandfather got scared every time I messed with my hair. He was home as I attempted the perm..and as I unrolled the curlers…my hair ALL CAME OFF with the curlers. I threw the biggest fit in the universe. My hair had MELTED together..in huge clumps. So what didn’t fall out with the curls, had to be cut off because it was fused..what was left was still so damaged that it would not dry at all..after hours it was still wet.

I wore scarf’s on my head until I had a few inches on top. and I recall starting at Sterns feeling very self conscious about my hair. I hated it. I was fat, ugly and had nasty hair. Because it was close to Christmas..and I made all my family chip in for very expensive hair extensions. So I spent 8 hours in a chair again..getting my hair pulled and weaved and then I had butt length spiral curls. It was amazing hair, even if not my own. And it did restore some of my good feelings about myself. Not a whole lot, but enough which was a good thing because after Christmas, my mother decided that we had to go to Manhattan and see Marina at the Office.

I wonder now. What the fuck was she thinking?

But I went. Wasn’t asked if I was Ok with returning to “the scene of the crime”, it was presented to me as an obligation. We had to go see Marina and Sondra, show her pictures, tell her I was all right, thank her even.

And so,still making up for being such a terrible bother, I did what I was expected to do.

I have two snap shots of that day..you know when everything is really a great big blank but two memories are so burned into my brain:

Standing in Marina’s office: I am to the outside of the cluster. Standing apart, I know I feel fat, ugly, and unattractive. I have my hair, but I am in a big sweater. It is gray from the Macy’s men’s department with teal snowflakes across it…a ski sweater. I can still see the sweater, my hair hanging down on it. Waiting for HIM to come in. Trying not to look around. Wondering will he dare, here I am with my mother. But he must perform too and soon I hear his booming steps coming down the hall, his voice demanding something of Marina. And he finds us all.

There is a measure of shock in his voice, some surprise, but he quickly regroups. Hellos to all…to me, though, a bare minimum. No secret looks. No glances. No eye contact. It is as if it never was. It is all erased. We never existed in our own little world. I never visited his bed. Never wore the stockings that made him follow me like a trained dog. He never kissed my naked , swollen belly with that kind questioning look in his eye. I never felt his child rush forth from my flesh and see his own blue eyes staring back. Nope, Nothing there at all. Poof.

We went to lunch. we returned. Upon going back to the office, Marina and I stayed on the street. Sondra was with us at lunch, with us at the office, and my baby was a secret from Sondra. So I stayed back with Marina to grab five minutes of truth with her. I had my photos with me, now safely packed away in an album. And proudly I showed her the son I produced.

She looked, she ohhh and ahhhed, deemed him beautiful and never saw her boss face in my child to my relief. And then, she most pointedly made me promise that I must never ever tell Sondra the truth of this baby. That it would break her heart as she so wanted a child and could not due to the Chrone’s disease. And so I swore to never utter a word to poor sick Sondra, that she would never know the injustice that I who could not care for a child, had one and gave it away while she was tortured by her body’s inability to make one. After all. Marina was her mother and that’s what mother’s did..protect their children from hurt.

Yes, I recall her words perfectly in her Columbian accent. I can see her standing before me. A little bird of a woman, with short dark hair, and deep set mournful eyes. Fast and efficent, proper, and curt. “You must promise me”, she said, “Sandy most never know”.

And I kept my promise. I never spoke to either one of them about it again.