An adoption reflection: From where I came to who I am

I am not an adoption blogger.  I have not strived to be a human being who dissects her life based on my first seven months of life, the cumulative effects of those, and existing as an international adoptee.  In retrospect, I've not given them the roles they deserve by acknowledging how they have shaped my life as a whole.  It's never been forefront in my thoughts beyond what I think are the typical loss and abandonment stuff most adoptees probably think about when they are feeling down.  Yet, now, I see my adoption as a puzzle, one which affects so many differences pieces of my existence, my thought processes, my values, and my parenting.

In addition, life parenting a child with autism and parenting in general, along with a slew of other joys and challenges, has certainly been enough to occupy my little part of the blogosphere.

I was given up.  For good or for bad.  It is what it is.  The first experience in my life is that I was given away.  The good is I found my way to Mother Teresa's orphanage in Kanpur, India.  I don't know anything about it, but I'd like to imagine it was a place where babies were held and played with, not where they were kept in their cribs 23 hours a day, the only toys ones hung on the wall.  (My adopted sister lived in *that* kind of orphanage, as did kids I work with now).  I have this fantasy that nurturing women, likely nuns, held me when I cried, played peek-a-boo, laughed when I made a funny face, or tried their dardnest to make me laugh when I was on the verge of tears.

What I also DO know is my given name: Shantini.  Folklore says this is the name my birth mother chose.  (My adoptive parents kept it as my middle name).

I also know one more fact:  I arrived here as a baby, adopted by white parents into what was then a *very* white community.  This leads me to say with certainty: I am the whitest brown person you will ever meet.

Naturalization Day... clearly I was impressed.

Sure, there were the Indian meals my adoptive mother tried to make, the Indian dance recitals and cultural festivals we went to, and the one or two sets of Indian or 1/2 Indian/1/2 American couples my parents knew and we socialized with.  I once was given a sari- I think someone once helped me put it on.  I loved to watch my friend S perform beautiful, classical Indian dancing.

But, I never went to "Indian School" like all the other Indian kids did.  I was disconnected from the culture.  For this good reason, it's still quite foreign to me.

There were definitely attachment issues at play.  With my adoptive parents, with extended family, then with men I dated, and finally, as a mother.  In a nutshell, it's hard to trust when you've been abandoned once (and I can't go to that "happy place" of "Isn't it wonderful your birth mother gave you up and brought you where she did?"). 

It's why relationships with my children, and parents, require a lot more effort - and skills I even need to work on.  Trusting someone is going to be there, as the child or the parent, when you been through abandonment is not something I'd wish upon anyone as it's a challenge.  My children mean the world to me, but this "tween/teen" thing may just do me in in a quicker, more stabbing fashion than autism.

Then, there's dating.  It's amazing I got married and had these beautiful children.  I trusted that vow was forever and no one was going to leave or "check out" of the marriage.  It's awful to think, more or less write, but sometimes I wonder if I got married because someone loved me unconditionally.  Me, this not-so-attractive brown person in a very white world, was worthy to a few people.

And then, there was me.  A caretaker by nature, someone who not only loved being part of a family, be it a home unit or a church family.  I truly enjoyed my female friendships; what I gave to and got from them.  

Then, my marriage ended, along with the "happily-ever-after", something we both hold responsibility for.  

So, what did I do?  I got involved with someone just as lonely as I was, even for similar reasons.  He had the same personality and make-up of my husband.  Both very nurtured and loved by their (biological) parents, there were no abandonment issues with either of these men.  I again fell, willingly, into that warm, enveloping feeling of being loved and taken care of.  I don't know how that feels for anyone else, but for me, someone who had been abandoned, it was the safest feeling *ever*.  Forget the physical and emotional attraction and/or compatibilities, I was with someone who did the opposite of abandon me.  He protected me and said he was never going to leave.

Well, that fairy-tale didn't have a "happy ever after ending", either. (You know, Patrick Dempsey in Ever, Ever After is just a nice, juicy fantasy).  What I may have correctly originally perceived as care and commitment I believe was real.  What ended up just as real was a lot of control towards me.  I was used to being in control; I was running a household of four young children.  I was not used to being controlled.  And I was *petrified* of being abandoned again.  It was like turning into that scared little girl I must have been at some point.  Yet, I was a grown-up, with children to raise and other people's children to help care for.  For these moments of joy with him, and many moments of joy with all the kids, there was this insecure piece of my heart which didn't want to be broken, no matter the cost to my person.

So, being the responsible adult I was, I tried to juggle and exist in that "happy" role.  Then, the facade started cracking.  On Christmas Eve, kids away at church with another parent, the best birth control of a tubal ligation in place, I got pregnant.  I  ended up in the unenviable position of being the one to consider giving away a child, abandoning him or her.  The other two choices (parenting or termination) were not real options those first few months.  And then things went terribly wrong.  The pregnancy ended in a way I won't ever write about here.  That was another loss, alongside that relationship.  Trust= absolutely shattered.

How much does being an adult adoptee filter into the lens I see parenting through?  More than I thought.  My children have their own stories to tell, different from mine in many ways, and they've experienced a different type of loss: divorce.  What I strive for is to give them the reassurance they are loved unconditionally.  (This doesn't always mean I or others like what they do, nor should it).  But I will never choose to give up my child, or give up on my child.

My ex-husband taunts my core belief that it's important to me to have a village surrounding my family.  Maybe he's right, as many in that village (I think of our long-term church family) simply disappeared after our less-than-harmonious divorce.  Yet, my friends have gone off in different directions, too.  I don't fit in to the "mommy" groups, married women who balance kids, typically hard-to-manage husbands, and households, if not work, too.   I don't neatly fit into the "autism group" stereo-type as I am a strong believer that there is no vaccine-autism link, but I am also not a card-carrying member of the "neuro-diversity" club, either.  The latter is because my son evidenced delays almost immediately after birth, the former because he is not high-functioning and I doubt will ever be able to speak about "Autism and What it Means to Me".  Or even define it in an essay.

Ironically, my son is the one person on Earth I doubt will ever choose to abandon me.  My daughters, collectively, resent him and what his autism has taken away from their lives.  My ex-husband has never accepted him for who he is, and therefore can not manage to care for him for any extended period of time.   Finally, that baby that never was born, who would have been born with genes from two parents who hold autism in our genes, lives in my heart.

I think about Mother Teresa often; more often I think about going back to India and visiting the orphanage.  Yet, if it is not what I expect, that idealized image of care and joy ingrained in my soul non-existent, my heart would break.  It would be easy to say "who cares" about any of this?  The past is the past, that book has already been written.  I can only someday write the chapters of the book that have yet been lived.

Living without an identity IS something I haven't thought about very much.  But, upon reflection, it absolutely is something which contributes to the fibers of my soul, my thoughts, and my choices.  As a woman.  As a parent.  As a partner.   As a professional.

That is the truth.  For some reason I can't pinpoint, simply writing about it makes it hurt a bit more.   Writing about it, however, takes away a lot of the shame.


Author's note (7/21/13):  There is quite a miraculous and intense footnote to this post.  Thanks to social media, connections were made, one incredibly meaningful.  I haven't processed this enough, and my thoughts are too jumbled to coherently write at this point  Two final thoughts:  1.  Never lose hope. 2.   Miracles apparently do happen with one just finding its way into my life.

Community

When I think of the reasons folks go to the emergency room on New Year's Eve or NYE Day, I think "over-partying".   In this frigid weather, maybe slips on ice, or skiing, sledding, and ice-skating accidents, stuff like that  (Until now, to be honest, I never really gave it all too much thought). 

Just to add some spice to our lives, not that there isn't enough health-wise going on, I can now add "New Year's Eve Emergency Room" to my resume.  After 16 hours of unabated, sharp stabbing pain, along with nausea (which I mistook for indigestion), during which I tried desperately to make what ever was hurting stop. I took Tums and Ibuprofen. (Despite Zofran, I threw it all up anyways).  *Something*, maybe a bad stomach bug and pulled muscle, was simply not getting better.  It was, in fact, getting worse.  

My kids had tried to get me to go to the hospital hours earlier. (As is typical, my PCP's office wasn't helpful.  Returning calls in a timely manner, or even triaging them appropriately, are not strength areas).

At the ER, I got taken it right away.  Forget 1-10 pain scale ratings, I think ER triage nurses can read the pain simply by looking at you.
 
There, I learned all about gallbladders.  It turns out people can develop gall stones, and not know they have them for a long time.  I had just one, however it was blocking a duct, this presentation indicated emergency surgery.  I admit to being grateful it could be dealt with laproscopically.  However, it feels like, and I am quoting the surgeon, "having been stabbed" 5 times.

On New Year's Day, I watched the Tournament of Roses parade from my hospital bed.  Friends came to visit, doing (walking) laps in the hallway (only a really goof friend would do this) with me, and even bringing flowers.  (My best friend took two of my kids and she, and her parents, spoiled them to death during a sleepover).

Last night, I came home.  The scene that unfolded was a bit surreal.

If you happened to be a stranger looking at my house last night, you might have thought you were witnessing mass chaos. A boatload of dear friends here, bringing food and household stuff, putting out trash and recycling, doing dishes and laundry, making the bed, feeding cats,  even finding and going to one of the two pharmacies open on New Year's Eve, and general post Christmas clean-up.

But it wasn't chaos. It was community.  People who love my kids and me lending a hand, or seven, on a cold night to ensure I was supported and loved, and able to care for my kids despite being in tremendous pain.

I am so blessed to have such a village surrounding me and my kids. I love you guys! 

Ironically, last night, it was my son who showed such kindness and real empathy.  He asked to crawl into bed and snuggle, bears in tow.  He understood to be gentle.  Autism can shine and his heart is oh-so-big.

Mother's Day

Just when you wonder if you're a good mom who is making an imprint in your child's life, she comes up with something like this.  Last year, S wrote this all by herself,  printed it out, and glued it onto the cover of the Boston Sunday Globe.

Mother's Day has never been the "Hallmark Holiday" for me that it can be for others.  I don't know my birth mother, who left me at an orphanage in India.  I am so blessed to have a few very special women in my life who have helped fill the void. I amblessed my birth mother did not give uo but cared enough to allow me to be adopted.

All I ever wanted was to be a mom, and a good one.   Being a mother has made me more tolerant, kinder, gentler, and more patient (the latter is a work in progress).

I will never lose sight of the fact that my children are more important than anything else.  The village they belong to loves them.

I know what it's like to feel the weight of the world (specifically the IEP/school one) sitting on your shoulders.   Today presented an opportunity to pay that friendship and kindness forward... To all you *extra-special* moms, know you are loved (even if your kids can't/don't tell you as much, even if you don't *get* breakfast in bed, flowers, or jewelery, even if you feel stressed to the point of exhaustion by a system which struggles/often-time fails to support kids and families).  Your children and friends care.  It takes a village, folks, doesn't it?  

S's "article" tells me I must be doing *something* right.

Happy Mother's Day!

villages and autism

I know it takes a village.  In my work, that's a lot of what I've been providing to families who need them, this week in particular.  However, I've been lax to reach out to my own village at a time we could use some kindness and good/better karma directed towards our little corner of the universe.

This autism-heavy week has been a stark reminder of the hell brought on by what this disorder can do to my kid.   Many #youmightbetheparentofachildwithautism quips were batted around in the past week by me and many others .  That  light-hearted back-and-forth was a welcome diversion from what autism really exists as in our home.

Reality sunk in on Sunday after I had what seemed like really awful heartburn (having only experienced once before this sharp, searing pain) and someone mentioned gallbladders.  Not heartburn, after all.  Turns out my gallbladder and I don't get along so well and it should come out.   As if I have time for that.  A cause? Stress.

Today, Andrew's laptop screen was broken during a power struggle/behavior/meltdown.  This is the second broken laptop in 4 months.  In fact, this was the laptop that replaced the other one that got thrown on the hardwood floor during a similar tantrum.

The pieces of the puzzle which is Andrew aren't fitting together very well at all this week.

He's 12, a boy in what is becoming shockingly more and more like a man's body.  While his bears have brought him great joy and comfort over the years (remember, he doesn't have functional play skills and even could care less about video games, oh how I wish my son would play a game on the Wii like other boys his age), nothing brought him peace tonight.  For seven hours, with short breaks, he was a ball of anxiety, uncomfortable even with my touch or reassurance, which is not typical for him.

He was able to say, "I've been giving most people an attitude recently. I hate lots of people."  My heart broke.  So many people love him, yet he knows (and now names) people he views as having abandoned him (in his mind, because he's autistic).  That's his new "out, by the way.  When the behaviors happen, he maintains, "I'm tantrumming and not calming down because I am autistic".  This drives his older sister crazy; he drives her completely nuts in general.  I feel badly for her, being the older sib of a child with autism must be so damn hard.

As a mom, I feel paralyzed.  Not a little unable to help, but a lot unable to even get through to the boy who usually loves to snuggle with his mom, make brownies, or have endless conversations about the complex, intricate lives of the many bears, Build-A-Bear and others, who live here.

A question he kept asking over and over again today was new. "Are you and Dad every going to get married again?"  I told him we were not going to get married to each other.  Then he wanted to know if we would marry other people, have more kids, and, by the way, would they have autism just like him.

My little boy, not so little as he is taller than me, lies next to me, a bear in his arms, a medication for anxiety and sleep in his body, a prisoner to autism and to the hellish chaos it creates.  Tonight, fully recognizing all the things I have to be thankful for and that others have many more challenges, I mourn for the boy I thought he would be and commit to trying to better understand and accept the boy he is. I pray for strength for him; as I also pray for strength for those around him.

He needs a village now, whether he wants to admit it or not.  His sisters and I could use one, too.  Hopefully, tomorrow will bring Andrew some peace.

it takes a village to pay it forward

Two principles integral to my life are "it takes a village" and "pay it forward".  Not just words; these are concepts to live by.  This week has provided the opportunity to support a family starting to heal from domestic violence.

Domestic violence within a loving home filled with children just seems so wrong.  I remember.  It is 2 a.m. on a cold winter night; the doctor covering for my PCP returns my page.  In a small voice, I explain that my husband had pulled my middle finger back so far it was grotesquely bent.  The male doctor non-chalantly, and perhaps a bit annoyed at being woken up from his beauty sleep, suggested a trip to the emergency room.  I didn't go, but I should have because the episodes happened again... and again.

There have been so many incredible and generous people who have been part of our village, providing love and support in many forms to my children during a very tough few years.  It seems only natural to pay that kindness forward, to a family led by an amazing mom who has no idea the strength she does have.  Holding her in my arms after dropping off some bags of food, through her emotions and tears, she swore she wanted to write thank you notes and couldn't imagine that people cared this much. 

I do care.  My family cares.  My friends care.  My clients care.  We will help her through this by providing some of the physical "things" she needs, but also listening ears when and if she wants them.  I've been there, even now he tries to cause me pain. Some days it works, most days I just ignore him.

What is a village? It might be extended family, friends, or a faith community (church/temple). But, often times, when those supports don't exist or are stretched thin, it can include colleagues and sometimes folks who want to stay anonymous.  (I remember "Santa Claus" showing up on my doorstep in 2007, when I had no money to buy gifts for my kids, and when their stockings were filled with M&M tubes, ponytail holders, and 99 cent bottles of nail polish).  Three years ago, dear friends offered to serve as trustees so that I could buy property and rebuild my credit as a single person, not attached to my ex-husband.  That is obviously a large offering, but the small things (ie: food, a funny and/or inspiring card, rides, childcare, or simply a listening ear) meant just as much.

What does it mean to pay it forward?  To me, it signifies being the recipient of a good deed and recognizing and honoring that by practicing random acts of kindness to another.  The world survives, and our communities thrive, when folks help one another.  In the circle of life, sometimes you are able to give help, sometimes you need to learn how to accept help even if it goes against every grain of your soul, and sometimes to keep your sanity in-tact you choose to save your emotional strength for those you love and only them.  But we are never in the same place permanently, those of us with empathy, at least.

My nine year old and I discussed donating money and goods to families who are going through tough times.  She may be single-digits, but she is wise beyond her years. She remembers her father smothering me with a pillow, as well as the depression I went through a year after that episode. We figured out that simply smiling at someone who might be having a bad day at Horn Pond or Dunkin' Donuts is a way to make the world just a tiny bit brighter.  It is just part of our personalities to be friendly and offer a smiling "thanks- have a nice day" to everyone, including those who bag our groceries and sweep the floor.   Likewise, I typically make eye contact and say hello to those I pass on a walk or hike.  Common courtesy, not being fake, never causes harm and usually encourages good.

Another family is going through something similar to the the life-changing, mind-numbing, and downright cruel experience we lived four years ago.  There is no melodic terminology to describe that kind of pain.  Simply put, it sucks, as well it can very well suck the humanity out of your soul.  Hopefully, we are able to "pay it forward" and help be part of the village of people who can help lift the spirits of folks who are going through the darkest of dark days.