Searching for Roots

Meeting her first-born’s, first-born’s, first-born.

Much, much more to follow......

I'm setting the publish time on this post so it publishes as I'm in the air, on my way to something I've dreamed about for many years.

Tomorrow my boys will meet their great-grandmother, my birth father's mother, for the first time. For those of you who haven't been reading my blog over the past year, you can catch up in my Searching For Roots category to see why this is such a monumental event.

Growing up, I never really thought much about my birth father. I suppose it's because I was blessed with such a wonderful dad, a man who has been an important part of my life since I was five. It wasn't until I started having children of my own that thoughts of my biological heritage started coming to the forefront of my mind.

As I've mentioned in previous posts, there is no question that I inherited most of my physical traits from my father. As my children grew, I could see that they also resembled my father in remarkable ways. I think that was really what started my desire to search for him. I wanted to see a three-dimensional version of the black and white pictures I had tucked away in my cabinet.

The urge grew stronger as I saw my children develop into young men. I was so proud of my boys and I wanted my father to see what he helped bring into this world, because in a way, if it wasn't for my father, I wouldn't be here- nor would these two beautiful spirits that were gifted to me.

I had many dreams of introducing my sons to my father. Dreams of the look on his face as he saw his features on two people that he's never met. More so, I wanted him to see the things that I see in my sons and be proud of the fact that they are part of his legacy.

I thought that dream was dead when my search revealed that my father has been dead for over a decade. I think that not only was I mourning the loss of someone who helped give me life, I also mourned the loss of a dream I'd held close for more than 20 years.

That dream hasn't come to an end though. I wouldn't have believed in my wildest dreams that my grandmother would still be alive (and very much kickin!) at 92 years of age. With the help of an angel, I found my grandmother and the rest of my father's family last July. BJ and I flew to meet her in August.

Nope- I didn't waste any time!

Tomorrow at approximately 11 a.m. PST, I will introduce my sons to my grandmother. The very idea of it floods me with emotion and I know that this is just a small piece of how I'll be feeling in that very moment. I can scarcely imagine the joy I'll feel because I believe that this moment will be the culmination of the 20 year journey.

I chose to do this for her birthday because I can't think of a greater gift than to introduce her to part of the heritage that was left by her son.

In the grand scheme of things, maybe this was how it was all supposed to play out. Surely the death of my father broke my grandmothers heart into a million pieces. I cannot imagine the pain of losing your child. I'm sure she had no idea that somewhere in the background I was out there searching and would eventually bring my family, a part of her son, into her life.

I certainly cannot fill the void in her heart that was left when my father died, but I know without a doubt that this will be a very joyful event for her.

As will it for me.

BJ is gone on a business trip tonight, so I've had some time on my hands. I've been looking over my "searching for roots" category and have done a lot of thinking about the journey I've taken this year. I am amazed at what a journey it's been.

I'm going to post something that is a little scary for me because I know some of my birth father's family read my blog. Hopefully, they know what I'm about and know that my first concern is to do no harm. Even so, I must be true to myself and that's what this blog is all about. I write to know what I feel and I'm feeling some very powerful feelings right now.

I've been searching off and on for the past 20 years or so for my birth father. To be honest, I was hoping for answers as to why he chose to not be a part of my life. It's hard for me to comprehend being half of someones genes and not wanting to know how they were or what type of person they grew to be. I look at my two sons and cannot imagine having a day, sometimes even an hour go by and not think about them.

Part of me thinks it's because I'm a mother. I believe that mothers are inherently programmed to protect and look after their children. Maybe it's the nine months they were one with that child. Fathers don't have the benefit of living with another life, feeling that life move inside of them.

I never imagined that once I found my father he'd be dead. I can honestly say that I never really visualized that moment that we'd meet face-to-face, and I'm not sure how I'd feel if I'd of been given that opportunity. I know without a doubt that anger would not be part of the flurry of emotions. Fear might have been in place. "Did I meet up to his expectations? Did I accomplish enough? "Does he see parts of my mother in me that made him leave? Will he leave me again?" All of these fears constantly circled in my head every time I made a concerted effort to continue my search, and it made me afraid to pursue as hard as I could have.

As a believer that all things happen as they are meant to happen, I know that it was not in the cards for me to ever meet my father. In the same light, I know that I was meant to have the dad I was blessed with- the man my mother married when I was five. I believe my dad taught me a lot about how to view life. My dad has what I like to call a quiet sense of humor. He's not boisterous, nor does he strive to be the center of attention- but he's damned funny. My dad can have me on the floor with just one sentence. The thing is, you have to pay attention, or you'll miss it.

I can't help but be a little sad that I never met the man that was half responsible for bringing me into this world. I've learned a lot about my father from his family- my family- since July. I've learned that he was extremely smart, very sensitive and had a quick wit. He was also very handsome. Except for the handsome bit (no woman wants to be known as handsome!), I possess many of his traits. Nobody has described him this way, but I suspect he was just as passionate as I am. Like me, he seemed to like to dabble in lots of different things and succeeded in anything he tried.

This picture is of me at the same age as my father was in his picture above. I don't know why this is so important to me, but I would have liked to know that he was proud of me. I take such pride in my children and would like to think that if he knew me, he'd be proud of me. Since he is no longer alive, it's enough to know that my grandmother- his mother, is proud of me. I love hearing her say that I am like him because I know how much she loved him.

I am a little sad that I have not been able to create a relationship between his other daughters- my two sisters. Maybe one day we'll try a little harder to bridge that gap. Until then, I'm happy with the relationships that I have built thus far.

I want so badly to feel his presence just as I feel other family members that have passed on. But I don't. I'm sure it's because I wouldn't recognize him, and that makes me sad. I know about him, but I don't know him.

It's been a big year for me; one I never really thought I'd have the opportunity to live. I know without a doubt that the timing of all of this was right and I have much to be grateful for. Maybe one day I will have the opportunity to meet my father after I've left this world. If I do, I'll want him to know that I have no regrets and I hope that he doesn't either.

My life is as it was supposed to be.

Yesterday I was at Hospice House, making my phone calls and ran into an experience I've not yet had. Well, at least via Hospice.

I'm going to backtrack a little, if you don't mind. An ex-boyfriend of mine used to refer to my habit of doing this as "going around the block and coming in the back door". Sometimes my thoughts are very scattered and it takes me a while to put them together. Anyway, I read an article in Oprah last month that described me exactly. This woman said she wrote so she'd know what she was thinking. As succinct as that is, it perfectly describes why I write sometimes.

Often, I feel agitated, or sad, or any of the other various emotions but can't put my finger on it until I start writing. Some of my blog posts have started out as one thing and ended as something vastly different. Sometimes, so different that I'm compelled to change the title of the post.

I've mentioned this before, that I'm not often very good with verbal communication, especially when it's something very important to me. It's because my thoughts are all up in my head, swimming around like alphabet soup. Writing out my thoughts, then putting them in some sort of order usually gives me the answer(s) I was looking for, or at least explains to me why I'm feeling a certain way.

I even have a book lurking on my hard drive, but like the thoughts in my brain, it's so jumbled right now that it's nowhere near ready for editing or publishing. I believe (and have been told) it's compelling, and the message behind it is important, but I have to wait until I feel up to organizing it so it makes sense to the reader.

So, onto yesterday's experience.

I love it when I have the opportunity to talk to several family members. It gives me more insight to family dynamics than if I'd of just talked to one person. The difficult part of this is that I cannot tell one family member that I've talked to another family member because what I do falls under HIPAA laws. For example; a daughter was worried that her mother wasn't doing enough to handle her grieving. I had just talked to the mother prior to this call and knew that she was going to one of our seminars as well as had just signed up for a six week group. I knew that her mother was doing a lot to care for herself, but I couldn't reassure the daughter. That's difficult for someone like me, because I am such a caretaker. I wanted to be able to reassure her, but couldn't.

The call I was referring to at the beginning of this post really tested my resolve to separate my personal life and feelings from my Hospice experiences. The person on the other end of the call said that she was handling the death of our patient OK, but wanted to know if we had any books on grieving a child that was given up for adoption. We went on to talk about this topic for over a half an hour, and I knew that I could not talk about my personal experiences or share with her resources that I'm aware of to help her find her child. I had to watch what I said very, very carefully.

My job yesterday was that of a grief volunteer, not adoption resource. I suspect that giving her any information outside of those boundaries would have violated some type of rule and I was not willing to put my organization in jeopardy.

I sent her some booklets on grieving and wrote her a little note that after reading through them, I felt she could replace the word 'death' with 'adoption' in her mind as she read the literature. I sent my thoughts her way as I sealed and addressed the packet, and I wished for her that she finds what she is looking for.

Days like yesterday make me realize that I cannot save the world. I must do what I can within the opportunity and boundaries that I'm given. The important part is to learn to accept those boundaries and move on.

My cousin [waves to cuz] recently scanned our grandmother's vacation journal from the late 40's and early 50's and sent it to me. What a treat! It was so fun to read her thoughts as she and the family traveled the country in the brand new Cadillac. I loved her ratings for places that they stayed, such as P.U.! My father even wrote a few entries in it, which seemed rather surreal to me. Seeing his handwriting and reading his teenage thoughts made him a little more real for me. It made me kind of wistful.

I decided a couple of months ago that I wanted to surprise my "new" grandmother for her birthday by flying my boys out to meet her. I want them to meet her just as much as I want her to meet them. They are just as excited (or at least pretend to be!) about learning all of these new things and meeting these new people as I am.

My grandmother has been on my mind a lot for the past few days and so I finally broke down and called her today. Have I mentioned what a sweet voice my 92 year old grandmother has? Well she does! She sounds just like a grandmother! I just love hearing the joy in her voice when she hears it's me on the other end, and I have no doubt that anyone who calls her gets the exact same reaction. She is just a joyful person. I suspect that has a lot to do with why she's 92 years old and still kickin'. [RisibleGirl is taking notes]

She mentioned that she was leaving soon to go get her eyes checked because she was sure she needed new glasses. I shared with her my horror that my eyes are showing their age and I need bifocals. Her response? "Oh honey, don't knock it. Bifocals are WONDERFUL". Tee hee- my grandmother says, "don't knock it".

She told me that she keeps the 8x10 wedding picture that I sent her on the table next to her couch so she can kiss it whenever she wants to. Isn't that just the sweetest thing you've ever heard? Yeah, I know- I sound like s silly school girl, don't I?

I decided to go ahead and tell her that I would like to bring my boys to meet her in February for her birthday and she was just thrilled. As far as I'm concerned, February can't come soon enough! When I told her that I know she'll love my boys because they're really good boys she said, "of course they are, because you're their mama". That's the biggest compliment anyone could ever give me.

So, the cat is out of the bag. Now I need to watch for good prices for flights. Four tickets- yeouch! but worth every penny.