Mom wrote the story below. They have both always been very supportive of me in my search for my birthmother. Since the writing of this story, Mom and Pat have written to each other, and spoken on the phone. It has been a very positive experience for both of them.
by Alice P****
Jim is my son, my adopted son. I first saw him in the
hospital when he was just one day old. The nurse held him up to
the nursery viewing window and counted his fingers and toes.
Jim surveyed me as I gazed into his clear blue eyes, so much
like my father's eyes, and he smiled. Don't tell me it was gas;
it was love at first sight. I would not have cared if he had
ten fingers on each hand and no toes.
Ten days passed before all the signed releases were
completed and we could bring our new baby home. Home was our
little-two bedroom house located in Oriole Park on the northwest
fringe of Chicago. Married six years, my husband and I had
bought this post-war home with expectations of raising a family.
Adoption was our last recourse, explained Dr. Schell, who
volunteered to act as sponsor.
Jim's homecoming that late January day in 1951 coincided
with a sudden arctic cold snap. Our puny oil-burning furnace
struggled mightily against sub-zero temperatures and biting
winds. I placed Jim, wrapped in a soft blanket, in the bassinet
in the warmest corner I could find. When my parents and aunt
and uncle came to see the new baby, a blast of icy air blew them
in through the front door. Aunt Mildred, always vocal and
forthright, let out a howl. "He's turning blue! Are you trying
to kill that infant? Get me a woolen blanket. Right now!"
She wrapped Jim up like a papoose and he soon he regained a
pink complexion. I felt like a dunce, an utter fool. Good at
office work but, as a new mother, a complete failure. Jim's
birth mother would surely hear about my ineptness and come
rapping on my door to reclaim and protect her infant. For six
months she would retain that legal right while I remained on
probation. My worst fears would be realized. She would come;
she was his mother; she had the right.
But Jim survived his first days at home with me. I learned
how to fold and pin diapers, make formula, warm the bottle, test
the rubber nipple, and listen for his cry night or day. We
settled into routine and, as soon as the probation period ended,
signed the legal adoption petition papers.
When Jim was three and a half and we adopted Maryann.
Entranced with his little sister, Jim invited playmates in to
see "his" baby. Maryann, as soon as she could walk, tailed Jim
and adored him. She didn't like dresses; she preferred his
cut-off jeans.
Needing more room than our little house afforded, we sold
it, bought a larger one down the street, and celebrated our
eleventh wedding anniversary in our new home. Exactly one month
after moving in, my husband suffered fatal coronary occlusion.
Never before had I heard the term. "What do you mean?" I asked
Dr. Schell. "He's never been sick."
The good doctor was in a state of shock almost as great as
mine. He stood at the curb where he had waited since placing
the phone call and just shook his head. "It's a form of heart
attack -- caused by a blood clot. Could have gone to the brain.
We don't know the cause. We doctors like to pretend we are God.
But we're not." He handed me the wallet and keys the ambulance
attendants had turned in.
The hot July sun streamed into my car as I sat in the
driver's seat. Maryann dozed in her car-seat but Jim stood
behind me, watching the scene. "Is that Daddy?" he asked as the
ambulance pulled out on its way to the funeral home.
"Yes," I said, keeping my voice low and level. Then I
turned to Dr. Shell. "Don't worry about me. I have two little
children to take care of. I'll be all right."
On the way home I drove slowly, carefully avoiding traffic
of busy streets, and answered Jim's numerous questions as best I
could. If adoption is a normal process of life, then death must
be, too. At home my sister and friend and neighbor, Anna,
waited at the door. They took charge of the children and urged
me to lie down and rest.
In the solitude of my bedroom, rage burst through my reserve
and I shed my first tears. I was angry, angry at God. "What
are you thinking of, God? You are not fair. You cannot leave
these children without parents a second time. All right for
you, God. I'll take care of them. I'll keep the business.
I'll keep the house. I'll be mother and father to them. You
can't stop me!"
Sacrilegious? Perhaps. But it cleansed my mind. I charted
my course. These children would have a secure home and a good
education. Days later, Anna and I worked out baby sitting
arrangements and I returned full-time to the office.
By Christmas the children and I were enjoying our house.
They accompanied me to choose a spruce tree and buy wood for the
fireplace. Together we made strings of popcorn and cranberries,
and hung up our stockings. Life is not for weeping. Christmas
memories are dear to me; I wanted them to have happy memories of
their own.
In Spring, neighbors said, "There's a square dance at the
church next Saturday. We're getting a group together. There's
this man we know. A bachelor. We think you two characters
ought to meet."
When Matt met the children, he cuddled one on each knee as
they snuggled up to him. We were married by my minister later
that year, in front of the garlanded fireplace mantel.
The following year Matt adopted the children, and we moved
to Danville, Illinois. In 1961 he was again transferred -- to
southern California where we still live. When Jim turned of
age, I urged him to petition his court records from Cook County,
Illinois.
"I won't look for my birth mother while you are alive," he
used to say. "You're my Mom," and I countered by reminding him
time was ticking; not to wait until too late.
Now, closing in on a half-century, he has been diagnosed as
diabetic and, after all these years, finally admits he used to
look into the mirror and ask himself, "Who am I? What is my
background?"
One evening last Fall, he phoned with exciting news. "Mom,
I've found someone on the Internet who traces ancestry. He said
he could help me. He needed the name and location of the
hospital, and date and time of my birth. I had all that data,
from you, Mom."
Armed with only this information, the searcher found Jim's
records within minutes, but said there was another name on the
record. Jim told him, yes, he knew; he had been adopted twice.
No, the searcher insisted, prior to that. An unusual name;
that's why it had been easy to find. But costs were involved.
"We bargained and agreed on $50.00 for the name only," Jim
said. "I'll do my own searching."
The only other information I had been able to give Jim was
that his birth mother was a few inches taller and several years
younger than I, had a brother still at home, and a step-father
who was not supportive. Not much information on which to base a
search. How much of this story was factual, how much surmised?
Hard to tell.
The name Jim had been promised was H*******g. He turned
sleuth and located about sixty people nationwide of that unusual
surname. He then tackled phone books across the country.
Dedication brought results. One call disclosed a relative
in Texas compiling a family tree of H*******g and its various
spellings. Jim obtained a copy. Branches of the old Germanic
clan had settled in North America, especially in Wisconsin.
He concentrated his search in that area. "Hello, I'm trying
to trace my family tree. Do you have a...," and he would read
off names from his list.
"Dorothy? No. Patricia? No. Mary? No. Hey, wait a
minute. Go back. Did you say Patricia? You must mean Aunt
Pat. Dad's sister. She lives in Ohio, not here. Her address?
You can call back tomorrow and get it from my mother."
Armed, finally, with the Ohio phone number of the woman he
thought was his birth mother, he called. A woman answered. Pat
wasn't there. Who's calling? Why? What do you want?
Jim says he almost flipped his cool. He broke down and
admitted he was adopted and looking for his birth mother. She
softened a bit and questioned Jim and his story. He answered,
fully and truthfully. Saying she was a long time friend, she
agreed to let Jim know when Patricia returned to town.
The call came in early May. "She's coming back on Sunday.
Been in Phoenix. Give her a couple of days. Let me talk to her
first. If what you are saying is true, I know Pat will not deny
it. I'll be in touch."
On Tuesday evening, as Jim arrived home, he heard his wife
say, "Hold on. Jim, telephone for you." It was Patricia.
"Hello, Jim," she said, "I've been waiting for your call." They
talked for four hours.
Jim called her on Saturday to say, "Happy Mother's Day." He
came here on Sunday to say the same thing. I am looking forward
to meeting Patricia some day -- soon. I want to give her a big
hug and say, "Thank you for sharing Jim."
