Mother’s Day, 2018. For me, this one is an entirely new ball game. After about 40 years of searching, I have found who my birth-mother was. Past tense, because she’s no longer living, but also present tense, because after I came and went, she made a marriage and a son. I have a brother, and he has a family.
The final DNA test is now in process, but so many other pieces of the puzzle fit so tightly that the report is a formality. I will take a journey this week to meet my people, and they are waiting with open arms. I have no words for this joy.
When all of us have shuffled through the memorabilia—photos, letters, clippings, cards—and the scientific blessings of the test results are in, I will know more and be more specific, but at this moment I just want to share my feelings.
My adoption was arranged before my birth, privately, through an attorney. The mom with whom I grew up was nearly fifty when I was born and had no experience with children. Our home was in Indiana farm country, and when I showed early musical talent and taught myself to read before I was four, nobody around me was remotely like me. My executive dad left for his commute at 6 am and returned twelve hours later. I was an alien, pretty much isolated, no near neighbors, no other kids.
So this Martian orphan suddenly discovers kin. Musicians. Vibrant people. I’ve been sent photos, and can see the echoes of my own face. I’ve already been told stories and can recognize some of my own tendencies to color outside the lines.
Conrad is my anchor, sweetly appreciative of my sudden giddy fits. I will go off on my journey to open doors, and come back to my soul-mate with a fuller soul. Literally.