In front of me, on my desk, is a certified copy of my birth mother’s death certificate. I learn more and more about her and me and have mixed feelings about it. Part of me feels like I am invading someone’s privacy and part of me keeps reminding myself this is the woman who gave birth to me. My emotions are twisted and swirling like a tornado.
There are times when I think about all the answers that died with my birth mother. The thought that I will never hear from her what she was thinking over the years makes me really sad. In the same thought, my emotions are not tied to her. Logically, I should be sad or show some emotion because she passed away but my emotions are unattached. My mourning is more for the answers than the person.
This may be because I have had a relationship with those answers. My fantasy was always to get all the answers to all my questions. My mind has scripted a three act play where everything I ever wanted to know was answered. The play was consumed with answers and not relationships.
I never scripted a relationship with my birth mother. The fantasy of us calling each other on my birthday or holidays was never entertained and I really don’t know why.
My fear is that through this process, the more answers I get, the more real she becomes. Maybe our relationship will work in reverse. Maybe I will get to know her after her death and then once I know her better I will then mourn the loss of her.
At this point, that is not guaranteed, but I am hopeful. The letter I sent my birth sister has still gone unanswered. This leads me to believe I will have to prove my place in the family. The fantasy of the family finding out I am here and our emotion filled reunion seems less likely.
As each day passes, the fantasy turns more towards the thought of me kicking in the door fighting for my place in this household. What place I will have or want to have I am not sure, but I can’t accept being ignored.
Their acknowledgement of my existence monopolizes my fantasy now.
The small hope that my birth mother shared the identity of my birth father with someone still beats quietly. It is this hope that will save the door from being kicked in. This hope births a fantasy about my father and his family. Maybe he will be the one to welcome me in and answer the questions that cry out from deep inside of me.
Tomorrow, I contact the adoption agency to see what information I can get in exchange for my birth mother’s death certificate.