I kept mostly to myself after my son was placed. My mother and I had a huge blowout, yep, about the adoption, and I couldn’t stay with her. Initially I went and stayed with a friend, who shared a loft apartment. I can’t even remember her roommate, but they were in college and gone most of the time. I think I stayed for about two weeks, but even now I’m not sure how much time passed; it could have been longer.
During that time I literally gave myself over to the grief. I don’t remember leaving the apartment. Or showering. Or eating. What I do remember are body wracking, agonizing cries, the ones that come from deep down inside you, and hurt. I remember clenching my fists and holding them up before me, shaking them at an unseen foe. Staring into the sky, like I could place the blame on God. But, I couldn’t. This was mine, all mine.
I remember being exhausted.
It is an awful thing to face. The fact that I was likely never going to see him again. That I’d never see him learn to crawl or walk, never wipe his runny nose or hang his “artwork” on the fridge. And all of this was the result of my choice. But probably the most painful thing for me was admitting that I was not capable of being a mother. And believe me, it is not any easy thing to acknowledge, to live with and come to terms with. But this single admission was vitally important to my ability to move forward in my life.
Now, almost 24 years later, I find myself reliving that sorrow. Reevaluating and having to readmit to myself that I was not “mommy material.” Rehashing all the many reasons I chose to place him for adoption, and finding them still valid today. I wonder, sometimes, what my life, what his life, would have been like if I had chosen to parent… and I continue to conclude that I made the right decision.