The Story of a Girl…

If you’ve perused my other blog then you know I am embarking on a trip with my daughter to follow the limbs of my paternal family tree. But there’s another paternal tree in my life, and I guess, in hers.

Quite simply, I am adopted. Simple and complicated, all in those 3 words.

I was raised by good people, loving parents with a huge social network of equally caring families. We must have been middle class, but growing up, I didn’t pay much attention to that sort of thing.

I have an older brother who was adopted before me, from a different mother. My parents must have been about 36 years old when they got me, and boy is there a story behind my adoption. That’s for another entry…

My parents raised me telling me I was special because they had chosen me. I didn’t fully understand until the day I found an adoption certificate, with a big ugly red seal, in my dad’s personal files. I should not have been snooping there.

With the certificate was an envelope containing my non-identifying information, and a handwritten note on one small piece of paper. The person who wrote the note was obviously my birth mother (bm), but her name had been covered on both sides of the paper with white-out. I was an enterprising young girl, and a friend helped me gently scrape away the white out to reveal the name…we will call her Susan.

I was 13 years old, just about to graduate grade 8 and enter this entirely new chapter of my life: secondary school.

I don’t know if it was in these moments that my life seemed to change course, but it did. I was destined for bigger things. Better things. I was intelligent, socially capable and I had this ability to either calm the storm, or inflame the masses.

My non-identifying information described Susan as a 16 year old, intelligent and hopeful young girl with almost zero family support. She was creative, attractive, sensitive and hard at the same time.

I didn’t fully understand what I had found, and so I went about life as it were. I started getting into trouble at school, and ultimately dropped out after attending too many institutions to count. One thing led to another and i was arrested…a few times. Did you know you could be arrested for being an underage missing person? True story.

These arrests ultimately led to incarceration as a young offender. I met a girl and we became friends. At some point, I confessed this dark secret of mine and she told me she knew lots about adoption. He best friend’s mum worked with Parent Finders. One thing led to another, and I got a phone call with this friend’s mum…we will call her Ivy.

I began by telling her what I knew about myself. She asked if I knew my birthname, which I did – but not my surname. So as I was saying my first and middle names, Ivy chimed in, saying them in unison, and finishing with my as yet unknown surname.

This woman knew me. She knew me as a baby before I was adopted. She knew my bm, and she knew the whole story of how I was adopted out, all the way back to while my bm was still pregnant and getting support from Victor Home in Toronto.

Ivy was the person who made the fateful call that cold winter night in 1978 to alert the authorities that not only had I been left home alone once more by my young mother, but I was sick and there wasn’t anything weather-appropriate for me to wear.

The day Ivy came to visit me in the secure custody group home, she brought Susan with her. We sat at a picnic table in the back yard, and I think at some point we went to a coffee shop. I was 16 years old. I don’t even remember what we talked about, but I do recall the feelings I was left with.

Much happened over the course of the next years, both with my bm and her family, and my own family. What I want to focus on here are the truths, or stories and try to decipher what is true…so I can try to figure out what to do next.

My bm told me my father’s name, date of birth and social insurance number. I had them written in a notebook, which over time ended up displaced. I have no idea what happened to it. The SIN is lost, but I remember his name, and roughly his birthdate.

Susan told many stories, not all of which I believe. When I became a teen mum, I must have crossed her and she cut ties with me completely. I would hear from her sporadically over the next 8 years. I hadn’t spoken with her in almost 2 years when I got the call that she had passed away.

To the grave she took her secrets – my truths. I never thought I cared. I never thought it would matter to know my birth father (bf). But it does. For transparency, you should know my adoptive father passed away last year and his death has had a profound effect on every aspect of my being. Perhaps his death was the catalyst I needed…that, and these DNA testing services.

What is holding me back? Why haven’t I taken the test yet? What am I afraid of? I have no delusions of grandeur…no hopes and dreams of a flowery reunion. My first reunion left me vacant and numb, and now I only feel sadness and regret. We were both so stubborn…I could have swallowed my pride and forged a relationship with her.

I do know the name of a pediatrician who treated me a number of times in 1978 at Toronto’s Sick Kids hospital. She is now with U of T. I have checked requirements for keeping medical records and the time span…there’s just no way those records still exist with the doctor. Possibly with the hospital, and I am considering submitting a request.

I know that Victor Home is now the Massey Centre. I have done some research on their history, and while they appear to do all good things now…their past is a little dark. Especially their past within the months of my birth, which is why I think it unlikely that any records exist in their archives from 1977 or 1978.

What about welfare records? I am pretty sure, if social assistance existed back then, that my bm was a recipient. I do a little genealogical research with my adoptive family, so I know the 101 year rule about the release of documents. Even if I were alive to 101, welfare records would likely never be released.

What else? Where could I search? I don’t know what I am looking for, exactly. Does this make sense? I want to know who she was. I want to know who she was even after I was given up and growing up. I want to talk to people who knew her in her twenties.

I want to do a DNA test and find a father. A half-sibling. Shit, anyone who might be interested in knowing me. I know that’s a hope I should not harbour…

Finding My Passion(s)

I have been following this lady’s blog for a while: Cat Skinner. She talks about sex, passions, relationships…basically everything I need to know about but have nowhere to learn. She and her brother host a weekly Periscope show wherein they respond to anonymous questions submitted through the Original Skinners AskFM page. They inspire me to be both Carmen SanDiego, and Compassionately Honest.

Cat talks about Passions. Finding them, pursuing them, embracing them. I wonder if this is at the root of all the changes in my life recently? And maybe watching my dad get murdered by cancer was the trigger for these changes..?

So what are my passions? Cat suggests finding them through patience, reflection, creativity and self love.

Reflection I’ve got. Much of my quiet time finds my mind reflecting on the past…and not always the distant past.

Patience…is a virtue that does not come easily to me. It sounds crazy to some, but I feel my level of tolerance is closely linked to the state of my home. If things are clean, tidy…I can sit and talk, or do a craft with my daughter.  When there are shoes in the middle of the floor, laundry everywhere but the hamper, and dirty dishes on the counter, my breathing speeds up and gets shallow.  My mind gets muddled and I can’t focus.

Creativity strikes occasionally, but this is not an on demand feature with me. Maybe that’s why I’m not regularly updating this blog.

Self love…is an illusion to me. Without getting all self-deprecating on your eyes, let me say that love, pride and confidence in myself are not traits of my character. I always want to do more. Need to do better. Feel guilt for past mistakes and allow the past to dictate my future.

So is it possible to find my passions without achieving all of these points? What are the things that fuel the fire of who I am?

I love books. Read.  Writing.  Audio recordings.  I love the smell of a new book; the way the pages sound as I turn them. Don’t misunderstand, I do read books on a tablet these days., but my favourite books are in print on a shelf in my living room. I imagine living in an old library, or in a remote location pumping out bestsellers and having my groceries delivered by helicopter.

Connected to books is education. I love to learn. I read cereal boxes when nothing else is available, and sometimes in conversation with people my questions can seem intrusive. I want to know more. If you’re a sailor, I would ask you about life aboard a boat. A horticulturalist might be asked their opinion of legalizing cannabis and the strict rules around growing. I would ask a bus driver about crazy passengers, or even their uniform.

Travel. My dad had the travel bug and both my parents are immigrants.  They took me to their homelands when I was young, family often visited us from overseas, and we went on road trips every year to different campgrounds.   A day on the beach for my mum and brother in Fort Lauderdale, saw dad and I driving down through the Keys to tour Key West. I’ve recently started travelling again, possibly for all the wrong reasons, but the adventures are fun and memorable. So much so that I find myself studying a foreign language and looking at jobs and Visas to live somewhere in Europe and work.

Cycling. I love the way I feel when I’m regularly riding, and when I’ve competed in small town events. Win, lose, draw…I always finish, and I always feel better for it. We all know exercise plays a role in good mental health, so why don’t I go back to riding? I’m lazy. I need to change this.

This list will surely be added to, edited but never taken away from. When I first set out on this path of Change, I had some solid ideas of what I wanted. For one, I wanted to go to night school. I have not enrolled, and haven’t even reviewed course calendars for weeks. I need this reminder.

**Added September 26, 2016

I want to do a DNA test.

Tick Tock…

 

My dad passed away last year. We never looked at the world from the same perspective, and while that caused major dissension in our relationship, I think now he may have been my ultimate champion.

I’d been estranged from The Family for a short number of years because my parents and I didn’t agree on my son’s upbringing. They asked me to come home for Easter dinner in 2014. It was a typical family holiday dinner with all the usual suspects. Mum & dad were recently home from a holiday in Texas, dad full of photos, a cough and a pinched nerve. I can’t remember now if he actually sliced the meat, or if someone took over for him, but I remember the pinched nerve was bothering him.

It was a great dinner, fantastic conversation, and I don’t think I put my foot in my mouth too many times. Did I mention I am the black sheep in this Family? I have offended so many people with my quick, sarcastic wit (heheh) that I have been specifically told to think before I speak, or say nothing at all. Why such thin skins, people? If we can’t laugh at ourselves…well, you know the rest.

Easter Monday…holiday for the kids, not so for me. I’m at my desk when my phone rings, and it’s my mum. Keep in mind, I have physically & emotionally distanced myself from these people, and each time we get together, they bash my ego. I live 200km away – it’s the Buffer Zone.

Why is my mother calling me?

It’s my dad, she says. It’s not a pinched nerve, she tells me. It’s not a touch of bronchitis.

I don’t understand…?

He went for the results of some x-rays the week before Easter. They’ve found something. A mass.

Everything kind of blurs out at this point, and something inside me clicks into gear. I ask questions, and start planning my immediate future.

My parents are 70 years old. My mother is petite, but a powerhouse nonetheless. She’s a trained and well-experienced home care aide. I play out worst case scenarios and start making plans with my partner.

This begins an 11-month pause of my life. My sole focus is my mum & dad, and keeping my job. For many it would be a balancing act; I was blessed with the most understanding manager and was given any time I needed. I did not abuse this, but I attended every important doctor’s appointment – 250kms away from home. And I don’t drive.

For 11 months I went home every other weekend, and at least 2 weekdays a month. My daughter would visit for weeks on end and play “nurse” to her grandad, giving my mum some much needed rest. My dad gave me a list of friends and family to keep updated, and he would let me know when he wanted each message sent out. The day everything was confirmed for us, he asked me to be the one to call his sister, and send an email out to all of these people.

Spring Break 2015, Monday night

I’ve gotten off work and am in the backseat as my boyfriend drives the route to my parents. I am going to drop my daughter off for the holiday week, and sleep over myself for the night. I start crying. I don’t want to go. Each weekend for almost a year when I have gone there, I am unable to eat, my stomach goes crazy and I vomit sporadically throughout every day. Looking back, I recognize anxiety and stress like my body has never experienced before.

I kept up a good front. I smiled a lot – I am a bit infamous for my enthusiasm. My dad did not always appreciate this character trait 🙂 and I tried to tone it down when he would clearly not be in the mood.

But this night…I wanted to turn the car around.

We arrived late. My boyfriend literally just dropped us off, gave my mum a hug and turned around for the 2 hour drive in the snow.

I can’t remember if my dad was awake.

I crawled into the big soft bed in my brother’s old bedroom, with my daughter next to me. I was wearing a white t-shirt.

I woke up to my mum screaming at me to get up and help her. My daughter woke up. She was 12 years old and grandad is her closest ally. I asked her to please stay in the bedroom with the door closed until I came back. I had no idea what was going on.

I walked into my parents bedroom. This was the last night my dad would be in his own bed; the hospital bed was being delivered Tuesday, with oxygen coming Wednesday.

He was not in his bed. He was in the en suite. It had been a good couple of weeks since my dad had gotten himself up during the night to go to the bathroom. My mum had taken to sleeping in my old bedroom, so dad had more privacy and space.

He got stuck in the bathroom and hurt himself, and couldn’t get up. Just thinking about it now stops my heart. If I could go back to that night…

I lifted him, and brought him back to bed, and tried to help mum position him. Once on a regular bed, it is VERY difficult to reposition someone! Mum stayed with him the rest of the night. I emailed my boss and told him I could not leave. I told him I needed a couple of days to figure out what was going on. I got the approval, and the weight was taken from my mind.

My dad’s blood was on my shirt.

In the next couple of days I sat dad and stroked his hair. He told me he liked it. I don’t remember being so close to him since I was a little girl laying against him on a weekend afternoon while he watched Arsenal, or whatever FC happened to be playing.

I still did not understand.

Thursday A.M.

I talk to my dad about his night, the oxygen machine, breakfast and audiobooks. He lost his voice after the first biopsy, and his whisper is so faint, I can barely hear him. He’s too weak now to gesture. The lady comes to check his oxygen level, and he is not doing well. He tries to tell me something else, and repeats himself twice. I look at him and tell him I cannot understand what he is saying. This is terrible, because throughout everything, I have been the interpreter. I always understood him.

And this is the last thing I ever say to my dad. I’m so sorry dad, I don’t know what you’re saying.

We call the nurse. She’s gotten close with my parents, and is better at her job than anyone in this world. She tells me to get the Black Box. This box was delivered by courier, zip-tied closed, with warning labels all over it restricting anyone other than a nurse from opening it.

She tells me to open it and list the contents.

It’s all heavy narcotics. Did I mention I am also an addict in recovery? I’ve been clean since 2002, but you wanna talk triggers?

The nurse advises she will be over as soon as she is done with her clients, but to give him  one of the pills to tide him over. He is in pain.

Mum knows dad cannot swallow this pill, so she breaks it up and puts it in jello. We both take turns feeding him, but he won’t swallow it.

It’s a long wait. Dad sleeps. My older brother shows up minutes before the nurse. She puts in a direct line to my dad so she can give him injections without poking him everywhere. Because my dad is so healthy, and anti-drugs, he has not taken many pain killers throughout any of this ordeal. The nurse knows this and has to adjust the dosage to something lower than prescribed so she doesn’t overdose dad. She tells us it is a good thing he did not swallow the pill earlier, as it was time-release, and breaking it up could have overdosed him.

My mum is asking when we need to give my dad another dose. The nurse tells her not to worry about it, but mum can’t understand. I remember her eyes looking confused, and her brow furrowed when she looked toward me and then my brother. He put his hand on her shoulder and tried to explain dad would not stay with us until the medicine wore off – he would leave us first. She would not accept that, and so I asked the nurse to please let us know when we should give my dad another dose. She obliged with instructions, understanding what was going on.

And now I began to make more phone calls. I called my son and spoke to him for real for the first time in years. I asked him to come now.

I called my cousin, who was more like a sister growing up. Her partner has also lost a parent, and was a good support to me. They were planning to come on the weekend. I asked them to come now. They did.

I called my aunt and uncle around the corner. They came.

More cousins came, and I sent out an email.

That night, surrounded by family, my dad took his last breath.

And my world began to change colour…

 

The Journey

Just a quick note to start out. Hoping I update this regularly. My life has flipped upside down (hopefully for the better), and this is a documentation of the adventure I’ve embarked upon. I’m seeking my passions, whatever they will present themselves to be. 

I don’t want to waste time, or run out of time. I feel I’m racing against a clock and I’m not keeping time. Now is my time. My chance. Opportunities are presenting themselves. 
Maybe it’s not too late. This is my new beginning.