Standing At the Threshold

Unable to Cross

Photo by Blake Cheek on Unsplash

I arrived at the hotel at the intended time. I was nervous because after two years of letter writing and phone calls, I would finally meet my birthmother in person. I went inside, got my key card, and then headed back out to the car to grab my things to bring up to the room. As I was getting ready to lock the door, I realized I didn’t have my keycard. Ugh! I am going to be late! I put everything down and scoured the car, finally finding it under the front driver’s seat.

I went into the hotel, and my birthmother was standing in the lobby. We tentatively hugged, with the hotel employee looking on. I wondered what he thought about people who looked so much alike just meeting each other for the first time at our advanced ages.

I explained that I was a few minutes late because I had lost the keycard in the car while gathering my things. She indicated she had done precisely the same thing. That funny coincidence loosened my anxiety just a bit.

We went to dinner, and she filled me in on her news and talked a little bit about the family. I was aware of feeling vulnerable, trying to avoid saying something that would affect her desire to be in a relationship with me. She might be disappointed in who I really am, so I'd better guard against expressing too much of myself.

After dinner, we went to my room and started looking at the photos we had each brought to share. Holding myself back and watching my performance was becoming exhausting. I was relieved when she suggested we call it a night and get together in the morning for breakfast.

I have read many adoptee memoirs. Some adoptees describe wanting to fall into the arms of their birthmother, to sit in her lap, and be held. I can’t imagine having this reaction. That level of intimate contact feels dangerous to me. I felt exposed just being in her presence. I feared that I needed to keep my innermost thoughts and feelings hidden from her, or I could be rejected again. These feelings were not initiated by anything she did or said. She was a lovely person and treated our relationship with care and warmth. These reactions were all coming from deep within me.

The next day’s breakfast was uneventful, and we went our separate ways.

After years of reflection, I think that we were both detached during this visit. I had the sense that she was as on guard as I was. That sense of detachment would color our 11-year relationship.

While I enjoyed talking with her and learning about her life and family, and telling her about mine, the monthly phone calls became mundane after a while. I did attend a couple of her annual family reunions, where I met her small family. I also went to her 80th birthday party, where I met her closest friends. Everyone was kind to me, but I was always conscious of being an outsider. Understandably, these occasions were opportunities for everyone to reminisce, and I had no reference for the memories.

After eight years, I felt ambivalent about continuing the monthly phone calls. I already had a mom, so she wasn’t playing that role. We lived in two different parts of the country, so we didn’t have the option of seeing each other regularly. We had no shared history, and we didn’t talk about feelings (at least not feelings about each other.)

I realized that my ambivalence about the relationship stemmed from the lack of passion in it. Without an emotional connection, there wasn’t anything compelling enough to continue. Sharing mundane details didn’t interest me.

So, I decided to ask her about what her birth experience was like, thinking that maybe we could bond over that shared loss. She said very matter-of-factly that she didn’t bond with me. Instead, she bonded with a 2-year-old she was taking care of during the course of her pregnancy. This revelation could have been an opportunity to explore her feelings about the pregnancy more deeply. Or, we could have talked about what it was like for me to hear this.

I stood at the threshold of this potential emotional vulnerability, unable to enter. My mind detached immediately. I didn’t ask her any questions. I didn’t empathically express my imagining that she must have needed to protect herself from the overwhelming grief of losing me.

Recognizing the missed opportunity of an emotional connection, I decided that in the next phone call, I would express my feelings about what she had told me about not bonding. I did that, and it landed with a thump. I suspect that she, too, immediately detached. It was clear that we had made a tacit deal not to walk through the door to emotional vulnerability. Neither of us asked a question nor expressed empathy towards the other about the matter. We just awkwardly moved on to safer territory with the details of our lives.

With my birthmother, I often had the sense that I was experiencing, for the first time, what it might be like to interact with me. This is a lifelong pattern I have had. When someone does or says something that feels emotionally evocative to me, I shut down. I leave my body and observe my performance as if from the outside. My priority in the moment is to skate by whatever feelings might be evoked without endangering my emotional stability. I quickly store the interaction in a place for later processing. Later could be hours, days, or even years. In doing so, I have missed the opportunity for emotional intimacy.

We never talked about ending the phone calls. They just tailed off naturally. Five years later, she died.

Sadly, I never experienced a real, emotional bond with my birthmother. Maybe it was made impossible by her decision not to bond with me in utero. Or, perhaps the thought of surfacing charged emotions she had repressed was just too much for her to bear. I also don’t know if I would have been able to respond with emotional honesty if she had been able to express her pain and sorrow. I might have diminished the importance of my own feelings to protect her. Such is the complexity of adoption.