If I Could Only Tell You One Thing

Lots has happened since I shared my song in the above blog in 2007. In 2010 I finally found my b-family. They are a very big family. My b-mother had died in 1983 and when I contacted my family, they opened their arms and embraced me immediately. This song is so perfect for both my mom and me, from the stories my family has shared. I'd like to believe that she is reading these words now, from another space. I had hoped that I would be able to process with some family members, and I have, in a way. I have to be careful with that. It is limited. But I realize the real work, now three years into reunion, will be working through my grief for her loss, finding a new way to connect with her now. Only I can do this. It will be my private journey.

I work with moms and dads whose babies and children have life limiting health issues, obstetrical and pediatric palliative care. I hold the space for them as they go through the process of learning there is a problem with their unborn baby or child. Sometimes their children die. They have hope at first, and it's the hope that changes shape, hope for a cure, hope for a few more years together, hope for a few more days together, hope for a painless death - they are able to accept losing their baby or child only in little steps. They grieve through each step. I offer to quietly hold the space for them, create safety, for their process.Sometimes life on the job is funny, it brings you into the situations you need to experience for yourself. Today a feeling of vague sadness I've carried for a long time finally coalesced and it "popped". I too have been able to get to this point only through increments. I had a big aha moment - that I need to grieve the death of my b-mom with the same tenderness and depth of space that I hold for my families. I told someone who would really care - my adult daughter. I am blessed in having her as a witness. This affects her too. And perhaps I am teaching her how to grieve in a healthy way when it's her turn. I've learned that there are many people who are strangers to their feelings - even capable, mature, experienced, aging people. Being asked to hold the space for someone to grieve can feel overwhelming when personal feelings are kept below the surface as a habit, for a lifetime. The most important member of my grief team is me. I hold the space for myself.When I first met my b-family they took me to my b-mom's grave. I was able to get a moment alone, and I slipped one of my earrings out of my ear and into a space of earth that was opened up along the side of her headstone. I continue to wear its mate. It's one way for us to be connected. I'm thinking of other rituals I can do, plant a plant for her in my yard, retrieve some of the earth around her grave and mix it with the dirt supporting the plant. I'll keep searching for ways to memorialize her in my mind and heart.Then there's the crying. I have cried for different parts of her story, in increments, along the way, like my families grieve for their children. No one knows for sure, but I think the man (her fiance) might have taken her by force. Or he seduced her (a good girl in 1950). And then he abandoned her. I cried for that. I cried for both of us. I cried for myself, being genetically sired by a monster like that. I cried for how she couldn't tell anyone about what happened or her feelings. She helped her sister deliver a baby girl a few weeks after my birth, without saying a word. Her sister, my aunt, to this day still cannot get why that might have been hard for my mom. Or maybe she knows and isn't saying. Too deep.My b-mom used to say "I want my baby girl". None of the family could understand what she meant. They thought she meant she wanted to have another baby who was a girl (I was her only girl, she had three boys). When my family met me they finally understood what she was saying. So much about her then made sense to them. When my young cousin got pregnant my b-mom spent a lot of time supporting her, almost begging her not to give her baby up for adoption. I cried for all those things, for how she might have felt inside, for what it must have been like to hold her grief without expressing it or being witnessed.One time I did contact who I thought might be her (it was her), 1975, the summer I wrote that song. She lied and said she wasn't the right person. It was because she was married to an abusive husband who would have left her. I was only 23 at the time, lacking maturity and finesse in my approach. So I cried for that too, and have been able to forgive her, in increments, for the lie. So today. I haven't grieved for her death. It's time. She died of breast cancer in 1983. She had a spot on her breast for awhile, told her sisters, and might have ignored it for too long. She thought they got it all, but later it spread to other body parts including her brain. She died in the hospital. Before she died she said "I want to see my adopted daughter". No one knew what she meant, thought it was the ravings of a woman who had cancer metastasis to the brain. Now they know what she meant.Early this morning I did my yogic practices, mental japa (chanting). It helped me manage my pain. I hurt so much all over my body, my stomach, spine, shoulders, I felt so vulnerable and unsafe. Yesterday I had a falling out with a b-cousin who had earlier pushed me away for a reason unrelated to me. She wasn't able to hear why it was important to me to be connected with her and her mom. If you've never lost a b-mother it is impossible to understand the depth of that loss. That is the foundation for support groups - similar experiences. But it was a deeper trigger to guide me to my next step, this new work of grieving my mom's death. And it was a wake-up call to stop trying to find a grief partner in a b-family member. I fed the pets, told my daughter how I was feeling, called in sick, went back to bed, did more mental japa, fell asleep. When I awoke I had my aha moment - I needed to grieve my mom's death. Tears flowed. I had hit gold. Oh no, I thought - working my grief process - sadness, more tears, a journey of grief - it will take a lot of energy. But it's something I must do to get to the other side. That's what I tell my families. Now I am telling myself.Got up, more tears, kleenex (kept the box beside me), cried into an afghan that my b-mom had given her mom, my grandmother, a long time ago. Phone call from my daughter, told her what was going on. Even cried (I used to try to hide tears around her, but she's 38 and a social worker - she can take it). She highly supported my grief journey. She said "why don't you check out an online support group". More tears after she hung up. Finally felt hungry. Had some coffee. Had some toast. Journaled, wrote my intentions and feelings, then a dialogue between my b-mom and me. Comforting. What would she have done if I had been able to go to her on her deathbed? She would have embraced me, held me, never let me go. She said her spirit was holding me now, surrounding me, resting on my heart. As I do this important grief work. Grieving her death.What's next? Not numbing out. Not getting too busy with things. More yogic practices. Chanting out loud this time. More journaling. More blogging. Maybe someone else has a similar grief experience to share. The stuff that makes up a support group. We can hold the space for each other. Listen with our reading eyes. Witness.In this blog I am opening the possibility to a very unique type of support group. I was lucky in finding an opening for me in my b-family. Though my b-mom is dead I have stories about her. And I look like her. She did similar work to mine. Some adoptees are turned away, or they can't locate anyone, they feel sad, or angry, or indifferent, or numb - but it's a loss. Some adoptees are able to develop a relationship with their b-moms. Everyone processes differently. Yet I believe it is a human need to be heard.Right now I feel calm. I know I will cry again. I will find little ways to memorialize her. I will do my practices, journal, and I will do things I can't even imagine yet. I remember what some moms have said who have lost unborn babies - it takes them years to complete the grief - they will never ever forget their babies and in some ways they carry their grief throughout their lives. It doesn't go away, it gets manageable. Some don't understand why these moms would even grieve when they've really had only that short intrauterine experience. My grief is kind of similar - I spent 9 months inside my b-mom, but something important and cosmically vital happened between us. It will be OK. I am on my way.

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