I Will Never Forget

I WILL NEVER FORGET
By Kati Rounds

I woke early, that September morning, from a troubled sleep. Standing at my bedroom window, I gazed out at the low blue mist, suspended over the Colorado foothills. Thoughts, once again, raced through my mind, and I felt unsteady and nervous. Today I would meet my mother for the first time.

I fantasized about this day nearly all my life. From my earliest memories, I was told by my parents, that I was adopted, a “chosen child,” so therefore more special than most children. “You were selected by your brother, Tom who came up to you in the nursery of the adoption agency in Chicago, took your tiny fingers in his small, plump, two year old hand, and cried out, "I want her! I want her!"

Being “Chosen”, however, did not quiet my hungering and longing to know my birth mother. As a small child, I secretly daydreamed about her. As I walked down a street, I carefully searched stranger’s faces to see if my eyes might match theirs, or if they had any other features that might be similar to my own. When I became angry with my mom, I would wish that my mother would come and whisk me away. I looked at my mom and dad, but saw no reflection of myself in them. When they infrequently talked about their ancestors, I felt like a person on the outside of a window, looking into someone else’s home, someone else’s life.

As I grew older, I realized that these fantasies and feelings were normal for an adopted child. I accepted the reality that my birth mother would be a part of my life, neatly tucked away in a corner of my mind.

As a teenager going through turbulent years of finding myself, I do not remember thinking about my birth mother, except occasionally when my close friends and I would talk late into the night. In high school, we knew a girl who got “in trouble.” She told us that her boyfriend, who she had undying love for, had gotten her pregnant. A thought would flash across my mind that maybe my own mother became pregnant under the same circumstances, and I was a love child.

In my early twenties I married, and gave birth to our first baby. As I beheld our beautiful daughter, with her tiny features, so much like my own, I knew, for the fist time, that I would have to find my mother, and possibly then I could find a part of myself that I felt was missing.
For the next nine years, along with having two more children, and moving to Denver, I initiated a search for my mother. I began by writing to the adoption agency in Chicago, and received background information that was sketchy, but included her age at the time of my birth and her physical description, “being 5’7” tall with brown hair, brown eyes, and a fair complexion.” I was disappointed that she had brown eyes, while I have hazel. The information the agency sent also revealed that I was born in Cook County Hospital, in Chicago. As an adult, I was surprised at this last bit of information. I had long ago realized that the “chosen baby” story, told to me as a young child, was not true, but was encouraged by agencies back then to help the child adjust better to the circumstances. However, what could have motivated my parents to tell me that I was born in the same hospital as my dad, Memorial Hospital? Why didn’t they want me to know the truth, as minor as it was at the time?

Later in my search, I received another letter from the adoption agency, stating, “From what I know, I think that you will find an intelligent person who probably made a plan that could be the only one for her at the time. Certainly, she placed you above her feelings and hoped that you would have a good life.”

I wrote several letters, made endless phone calls, and joined groups for adoptees and birth mothers, who were going through the same emotional turmoil. I shed many tears during these months and years of searching, questioning if I should be doing this. Was I opening up a Pandora’s Box? Was I being selfish, not thinking of anyone but myself? I certainly did not want to hurt my mom and dad. However, I knew I could not turn back.

Several years later, after both of my adopted parents had passed away, I made another of many phone calls on a cool autumn evening. I told the woman on the other end, that I was doing genealogy on a particular family name. I was careful when I approached people with questions, not to reveal the real reason for my mission, to protect the birth mother. As I began to speak with this woman, I knew instinctively that I was hearing my mother’s voice for the first time. I started to ask her pointed questions, while my young daughter sat crossed legged on the kitchen table, listening.

“Does May of 1950 mean anything to you?”
“No.” I heard no flinch in her voice at all.
“Does Cook County Hospital mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“I am so sorry to bother you.” I felt confused, and broke out in a cold sweat.
“I thought you were someone else. I’ve made a mistake.”
“No, you are not wrong. I am your mother.”

Years of searching and wondering came together within the minutes of a phone call.
We spoke several times after the initial contact, and then, she called to say that she and her husband were flying from Chicago, to meet me.

I forced myself away from my bedroom window that September morning, willing myself to carry on the normal responsibilities of wife and mother. I quickly showered and laid out the navy blue suit I had purchased for this occasion. I helped my children to dress and prepare for my husbands parents to pick them up.

The long wait began. My mother said she would call from the hotel upon their arrival, and every time the phone rang, my heart pounded. I tried to keep myself busy, but as each minute ticked by, my emotions were strained to the limit. I wished my children were with me, to take my mind off all the questions that were plaguing my thoughts. Would she be beautiful, as I had fantasized as a child, or plain looking? Would I like her, and more than that, would she like me? Do I have brothers and sisters? When I first see her, should I hug her, or shake her hand? Would she be rigid and hardened by her life in the past, or would she be a wonderfully warm and self-assured woman? What if I saw a close up picture of all the things I did not like about myself, in her? Would I dislike myself more because of this new awareness? I felt I would snap.

At four, the phone rang, and I was amazed how composed I sounded when I spoke to my mother. She wanted my husband and I to be at the hotel at five. I felt numb.

I prepared to meet this woman, my mother. The thought again tore through me, and I felt weak, thrilled, and terrified. With shaky hands, I applied my make up. I wanted to look beautiful for her. Normally not a drinker, I had a glass of wine to steady my nerves. My eyes turned blood-shot from the stress.

As my husband and I arrived at the entrance of the hotel, I was on the edge of panic, hoping I would not pass out. With trembling legs, we entered the most exquisite lobby I had ever seen. Golden crystal chandeliers hung from a high ceiling. Large palms stood in the corners and numerous works of art were hanging by golden cords on the wall. Towards the back, in front of a glowing fireplace, were a few oversized sofas and high-backed chairs surrounding low, shiny black coffee tables, with sprays of colorful flower arrangements in vases resting on them.

While my husband and I walked toward the office, my husband leaned into me and whispered,
“There’s your mother. She’s sitting over there and she’s looking right at you.”
“How do you know it’s her?”
“She looks just like you.” After thirty-two years of wondering, imagining, and fantasizing, I could not bring myself to look at this woman. A shock wave traveled through me and I thought I would black out. I kept walking. When we arrived at the desk, a man approached us from behind and asked, “Are you Wes and Kati?” He took my husband, and as I turned to see where they were going, there stood my mother, Elizabeth, right in front of me.

Time stood still. She took my hands in her own, with not one word spoken. My eyes were riveted to hers. Was I looking in a mirror? I could have cried when I saw that her eyes were hazel, the same as my own, and not brown, as the agency had told me. In fact, my eyes were her eyes, and my facial features belonged to her. She was more then I had imagined. I drank in the image of this lovely woman. Here I stood, hand in hand, with my mother, the person who conceived me, and carried me for nine months, sharing her laughter and tears with me during this time. I felt a hundred pieces of my own life coming together and I was stunned, surprised, relieved, and awed. This was my mother, a part of me, and I loved her.

"Should I say anything?” I wondered, as I drank in the image of this lovely woman, but what could I possibly say?
When we finally released our eyes from one another, we walked, arm in arm, to the chairs where our husbands were seated, in a secluded corner of the lobby. As Elizabeth and I were sitting down, I noticed the corners of her mouth turning down, and her eyes filling with tears. She looked at her husband and remarked, "She looks like me, doesn't she?", and both of our husbands nodded affirmatively.

Side by side, we talked for the next several hours, answering each other's questions, watching each other's every move. Elizabeth surveyed pictures of me taken as an infant and young child. In many instances her husband would point and say, "This one looks just like you at that age," and I felt so proud. Many times, I saw the corners of her mouth turn down, and as I watched her eyes fill with tears, I knew that what the adoption agency had told me was true. Elizabeth had made this great and terrible sacrifice, relinquishing me at birth, for my happiness, not her own.

We went to supper, and the mood lifted. Elizabeth and I ordered the same chicken dinner and New York cheesecake for dessert, with both of us commenting that it was our favorite pastry. We discovered, through further talking, that our likes and dislikes in food were similar. I was astonished to find that a person inherits qualities that I thought at one time could only be bred in a person by the environment in which they were raised.

At one point, Elizabeth's husband asked me if I missed living in the Chicago area, and I replied that I especially missed lying under the cottonwood trees, along the river banks, and watching the sun being shattered into a million diamonds through the leaves of the trees. Elizabeth's husband gave me a look of disbelief, and when I questioned him, he said, "You wouldn't believe what our yard looks like. Elizabeth has planted cottonwoods everywhere." Again, a tremendous sense of completeness swept through me.

The most touching moment of our visit occurred when Elizabeth shared with me what had happened the day I was born. On that spring morning in late May, the nurse brought me into Elizabeth, and handed me to her. Surprised, my mother held me close, and burned the image of my tiny features into her subconscious. Silently, with tears slipping down her cheeks, she said goodbye to me. “I will never forget, little one.” She looked up at the nurse. “I think a great mistake has been made. I am not supposed to see my baby. I’m giving her up for adoption.” The nurse returned me to the back of the nursery, separating me from the rest of the babies behind a curtain, marking my chart in big black letters, Social Service baby. Mother and child were forever separated and Elizabeth realized that a chapter in her life had ended.

After the late supper, we spent a few more minutes together, hanging onto the moment, knowing that once again we were going to be separated by time and space, and again, not knowing how long it would be until we saw each other again. I learned that I have a sister and two brothers, but Elizabeth chose not to tell them about me, for the sake of their security and happiness. Once again, I got chills when I learned my sister's full name, for it was the same name that I used as a child, while pretending.

My mother and I parted that evening and for the first time I experienced a total sense of completeness. My life was forever changed. I understood why my mother gave me away as an infant, and my feelings of rejection vanished. I was whole.

The next day, as my mother flew towards Chicago, emptiness and loneliness swept over me. How could this experience be gone already, after I had waited for so long? I cried many tears that day, but when my beautiful children returned home that evening from their Grandparents', I realized that God had blessed me beyond my wildest dreams. I had my children, and I could pour out my love on them, hold them close, and be with them when they were hurt. I silently said goodbye to Elizabeth, and then, as I looked at my lovely little girl, I saw myself in her eyes, and I saw Elizabeth. So God, in all His greatness, gave me a small part of my mother in my daughter's eyes, and I thanked Him for bringing my world together.

Elizabeth was again gone, but I had met a beautiful, warm, wonderful new friend, who besides having all the qualities that I loved, just happened to be my mother.