I Am A Grant Recipient

 

I am honored and thrilled to announce that I have received a Create! Arts Grant from On Your Feet Foundation.

I first discovered On Your Feet Foundation (OYFF) in 2008 after I’d reunited with my son Michael, who I’d placed for adoption in 1990. The complex rollercoaster of emotions that accompanied our reunion left me confused and in need of guidance. At the advent of Google, a search led me to OYFF as a service that offered post-placement support for birth parents, and despite living in Alaska and the inability to participate in their in-person support groups, I signed up for the newsletter and utilized their online educational resources.

Five years later, after the sudden, tragic death of my son, I found myself lost again and desperate for someone, anyone, who could understand. The sorrow of his passing twisted and morphed with the grief of relinquishment, creating layers of intense loss, regret, and guilt. I turned again to OYFF but was physically still too far away to benefit from in-person support and annual retreats. I never-the-less read each newsletter with a sense of hope that one day I would meet these amazing women.

Fast forward another six years to the onset of Covid-19, and suddenly OYFF was offering support groups online! I could finally attend! The liberation of speaking my truth far outweighed my initial fear of exposing my adoption journey.

These women understood.

I didn’t have to explain the trauma of permanently placing my child in the arms of another. Or how I felt unworthy of my son’s love or wished I’d tried harder to be with him; to know him. When I admitted to questioning the subtle coercion of the adoption agency or my confusion about the past, heads nodded in solidarity. And when I shared the joy of hearing his voice for the first time, and the warmth of his embrace, the tears of others reflected my own.

I’d seldom articulated my experience with adoption; I didn’t know how. My words always lumped in my throat, caught in a tangle of shame and self-loathing. But these women, they knew. They knew the ups and downs, the doubts of choices made, and the blessings that, at least for some, adoption could hold. And I’ve realized, finally, after more than 30 years, the power of shared experiences and unconditional acceptance, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

The women I’ve met through OYFF humble and astound me. They’ve navigated their grief and loss, and although sometimes they seem crushed by their feelings, they steadfastly pick themselves up. I have learned from them that by exposing my weaknesses I demonstrate my strength. They’ve modeled a commitment to reveal their greatest hopes and fears, which has made me braver and bolder than I ever thought possible.

I am honored to be a recipient of one of On Your Feet Foundation’s first Create! Artist Grants, which will be used in pursuit of publication of my memoir, Goodbye Again. I hope my story will serve to validate other birth parents’ experiences, shed light on the trauma of relinquishment while embracing the delicate and fragile dichotomy that is adoption.

Ten Strategies To Cope Without Your Child During the Holidays

The holidays haven’t been the same since my son died seven years ago. By holidays, I mean Christmas. But every anniversary or celebration is different now. It’s just that Christmas is one of the hardest.

When he was little, I wondered about tiny details: how did they style his hair or what did their Christmas tree look like. Were there piles of presents? Did they wear matching woolen sweaters? I imagined Norman Rockwell-esque scenes staged against a backdrop of hand-strung popcorn garland and neighborhood caroling. A couple of months later an update would arrive with photographs to fill in those details.

But the first winter after he died, I struggled to reconcile the fact that I was a birth mother who’d never spent a holiday with her child and a grieving parent who would never see her child again. I snapped back and forth between lost opportunities and our stolen future. I was angry. I was sad. I was lost. I wanted a way to connect to him but didn’t know how.

I thought about his adoptive family and hoped they were faring better than I was, but then jealousy sidled its ugly nose into the mix, leaving a snotty trail of bitter tears and self-loathing in its wake. They’d had years with him, and I had none.

What could I do? How could I escape the torment in my soul?

I scoured the internet for resources and tools to ease my pain. Some helped, some didn’t, but I used what worked and tucked away the lessons for later use.

Since then, I’ve refined my list and I’d like to share it with you. One grieving parent to another.

It doesn’t matter the reason for your child’s absence: if you’re a birth parent with little or no contact or a grieving parent navigating the new reality that your child will never come home. Nor does it matter if this is your first holiday without your child or your twentieth. If you are grieving, I am sorry. But, maybe, something on my list will help you.

1.      Give yourself a break. Grieving takes a mental, physical, and spiritual toll. If you can, find ways to nurture yourself. Take a long bubble bath or a nap or go outside for a walk. If you have other children, and are able to, get a sitter and have some ‘me time.’

2.      Take care of your physical health. Eat right, drink lots of water and get enough sleep. But don’t deny yourself small pleasures either. In moderation, a piece of home-made fudge, a glass of eggnog, or a hot toddy can bring a bit of joy to a solemn moment.

3.      Don’t let others dictate how you should feel or act. If you don’t want to celebrate or participate in certain activities, let your loved ones know you need a little space and ask for their support.

4.      If you are prone to anxiety attacks, have a plan. Call a support person who can remind you to breathe and talk you through to the other side. And spend time with people who understand, avoid those who don’t. You deserve support and understanding.

5.      Give yourself permission to indulge in old photos, letters, or videos of your child, and go ahead and cry.

6.      Perhaps you aren’t feeling particularly emotional. That’s okay too. There will be times in your grieving cycle when you feel dull and listless, which is perfectly normal.

7.      For some, talking about their child is a relief, but for others, it may be too painful. Trust your gut but know that the more you talk about your grief the easier it is to bear.

8.      Donate to a charity, or better yet volunteer. The physical act of volunteering takes your mind off your own grief, boosts mental well-being and happiness, and is a meaningful way to honor your child.

9.      Journal, paint, write a poem, crochet, play an instrument or sing a song. In essence, find a creative outlet for your swirling, chaotic, beautiful, and sometimes overwhelming emotions.

10.  Count your blessings. Begin each day by listing ten things for which you are grateful. Even the smallest things count. Research suggests that just the process of searching for positive aspects produces health benefits and a greater sense of well-being.

I lost my son shortly after reunion before we had a chance to build a relationship, and I still struggle to find peace. These are tangible steps that have helped me navigate Christmas, and maybe they will help you too.

Your heart may be broken, but it will go on beating, even if sometimes you may not want it to. And I know it’s hard, but please know you are not alone.

Battling Perfectionism

When I was a girl, I never thought about getting older, finding a husband, or having kids. I didn’t dream of a fancy wedding or a big house. I was too busy trying to survive a chaotic and sometimes scary childhood. I remember going to bed wondering if my older sister would ever come home or if my abusive stepfather would visit in the night.

These are things a child should not have to think about.

Worry and anxiety took root at the foundation of my being, finding fertile soil amongst the poverty, deprivation, and abuse. By the time I was a teenager, the incessant fear had led to a quest for perfection—hoping straight A’s, compliant behavior, and model-like proportions would gain me the love, attention, and acceptance I yearned for.

It has taken me until my 50’s to realize perfectionism is like a field of landmines. Every time I think I’ve identified and carefully excised the obstruction, I discover another buried in my path. 

Silencing, or at least reigning in, the self-critical voices in my head followed close on the heels of tackling low self-esteem. Fear of failure necessitated the need to set realistic standards and goals, which consequently helped curb my procrastination, each a step in trampling a trail to self-awareness.

The process of writing Lost Again has been therapeutic in ways I had not imagined. Today, I am struggling to curb my need to make every word selection perfect and in the process found yet another landmine buried in the road. So here I am, telling myself to aim for excellence, not perfection.

I am still a master at finding flaws within myself, but I am learning to see them for what they are: human.

Clown For A Day

For more than 10 years I have been dressing up as a clown for the 4^th of July.  I’ve skipped, hopped and cartwheeled my way up and down Broadway more times than I can count, handing out event fliers and flags during the biggest little parade you could ever see: so short, in fact, that after it goes by it turns around at the end of the street to return for a second pass.  And I’ve worn the same costume every year: a pretty, girly, brightly colored polka-dotted and alternately striped, big hoop-bottomed dress, with a bright orange wig, big fuzzy bunny slippers and a Barbie umbrella.  

Kids from 0-2, often afraid of clowns, like me because, aside from my bright red nose, I’m not scary at all.  The 3-6 year olds shyly ask about my bunny slippers or Barbie umbrella while posing for pictures next to me.  Those 6 and up think I’m silly and smile at my antics.  And the adults, well, let me just saythat I’ve had my photo taken with way more adults than children while clowning around Skagway. 

Dressing up as a clown has given me something nothing else in my life ever has: unfettered joy.  When I put that costume on I am immediately transformed.  I’m no longer afraid or self-conscious or judgmental.  I’m not worried about work or what other people think.  I can be silly and goofy.  And, for those of you who don’t know me, I am not, without this super suit, a silly or goofy person.

However, this past week, I ordered a new clown costume.  Here’s why.

Just prior to the parade is the annual Skagway News Run Around, a 5k race covering the distance from one end of town to the other.  They give out awards for the fastest runners in several categories, which I’ve yet to win.  They also give out one award for best costume, so it’s the only race I’ve ever won an award in!  Before the race I stand at the starting line over-exaggerating my pre-race routine. Long slow stretches with my hooped-skirt exposing my white ruffled bottom and high loping strides while warming up next to the “real runners.” Just before the start I nose my bunny-slippered foot as close to the starting line as possible while crouching in anticipation for the starting gun.  My efforts elicit laughter and smiles from spectators and participants alike.

In 2013 it was during this pre-race performance that Tom approached, face stormy and stride purposeful.  He gently but firmly grabbed my arm and said “Let’s go.”  He said he had something to tell me, just not right there.  So I started walking with him, back towards the house, a mere two blocks away, thinking something bad must have happened at work.  His stride was brisk, his countenance stoic, and I’m thinking it’s got to be really bad.  As we walk just around the corner I see my friend and colleague walking briskly towards me too.  In a panic I turn to look at my husband who, realizing he can’t wait any longer, says “Michael passed.”

And as I crumble to the ground, unable to breathe, I float away.  And what I see as I hover above is a sad, horrible picture of a woman who has just lost her child, again, dressed in a pretty, girly, brightly colored polka-dotted and alternately striped, big hoop-bottom clown costume, with a bright orange wig, big fuzzy bunny slippers and a Barbie umbrella.  And this image is burned in my brain, and no matter what I do I can’t seem to shake it. 

I’ve tried. 

The past two years during the months leading up to the 4^th, I have cringed at the thought of having to don that costume.  In the end I convinced myself to put it on and parade down Broadway.  I cartwheeled and skipped and took photos with kids and adults alike, but behind those enormous sunglasses with the big red nose, I’ve hidden tears and sadness.  I smiled at times too, but I still couldn’t get that image out of my head.

So, I’m retiring the clown costume.  I finally decided it’s just easier to put it away, if that’s the image that keeps coming back.  I’m doing it to ease the pain but I’m also doing it because I know he would have loved that I’m a clown.  He would have loved the joy and smiles brought to so many people, not the least of all myself.  I even like to think that one day, had he lived, he would have joined me in skipping, hopping and cartwheeling down the street.  And that’s what I want to come to mind when I become a clown for the day… and I want to find my way back to that fearlessness and silliness and unfettered joy.

Outside-the-box

It’s really hard to develop an intimate relationship with someone after they’re gone.  And as a birthmother, even one with a strong sense of self-esteem, I can’t help but question my “right” to want this relationship.  I have to pointedly talk myself through, again and again, the entire decision making process. 

I have to do this all the time, lately it's been almost daily.

And it’s tiring, by the way.


 

Since he turned 18, and we were first reunited, I’ve tried to glean a sense of who my son is.  Early on social media was the main source of information, and since his death I’ve been fortunate to have access to his family and friends too.

Here’s what I’ve come away with: 

the image of a young man with a tendency to think-outside-the-box; 

not just an ability to do so, 

but an inclination to do so. 

The ability to think outside the box is prized and encouraged, while those who prefer to live life outside it can be viewed in less favorable light.  I imagine, as a result, that some people were not so sure he had it all together or perhaps thought that he was a bit “out there.”  But I also believe he had to have some of the BEST friends a person could ever ask for.  Friends who embraced his individuality and who encouraged his imagination, and even friends who took up residence outside the box with him from time to time.

There’s power in owning ones’ uniqueness, and I think it takes most of us a long time to figure that out (yep, still working on it over here), but I think he “got it” early.  I think he figured out that there’s a lot more space to move and “be” outside the box than in it, and he made the conscious decision to go there. 

Is this who he was?  How his mind worked?  I don’t know.  I may be just making things up.  Again, it’s really hard develop a relationship with someone once they’re gone.  But this image I’m developing of him, in my head, is beautiful.  And in my head, I can embrace him and hold him, and if he did indeed live and think outside the box, then I can believe he would embrace me back, without hesitation and without judgments.

 

Cherish Everything

Lately, I’ve been able to think about him without crying, even talk about him without crying.

Well, sometimes…

It amazes me: the tears seem to be self-replicating.  They just never seem to run out.  However, they are less insistent.  Less like a waterfall, more like a softly rolling river.  At times I find myself floating along, carried by the current, at other times I rest in an eddy, seemingly content to be idle.  I have come to the point, finally, where I’m less likely to judge my feelings and instead just acknowledge, accept and sit with them. 

It’s a good place to be.

I’ve been thinking more about what I’m missing and less of what I missed.

Neither holds any joy, however.   

So, I try to turn my attention to what I did have: to the memory of seeing his face for the first time, and his perfect little features; his ruddy cheeks, tiny fingers and downy hair.  And to the memory of his face again, after 19 years, and having it feel like it was the first time.  How it felt to have his grown-up, man-like frame engulf me in a hug.  His eyes, his beautiful eyes that looked so like my own.  I look lovingly at the pictures from our one precious face-to-face meeting.  Him and I, arm in arm, with smiling faces and glowing eyes.  I’m so grateful to have them, so grateful.

Here’s an odd confession: I’ve actually come to value the flush of my face and the heaviness in my chest that happens immediately before the tears start to flow, because, in reality, I want to cherish everything I can that has anything to do him whatsoever.