This isn’t a “Gotcha is yucky for “some” people so we have to find a new word and enforce it on everyone and judge those harshly who use it” post .

It’s a way for people to share how they feel…hopefully as an adoptee I know so beautifully put it: “All we can do is listen and try to hear each other, and then be open to reexamining stuff if we hear something that makes us think twice.”

My son was born Nov 14, I saw him for the last time on the 16th, and signed off on the 18th. I went home the next day. He went to his new family on the 18th once all was signed off. I imagine that they were thrilled beyond all belief when they got the call to come pick up their new baby. For THEM the 18th is probably a wonderful day in their memory..whether they acknowledge it in any way or not..I don’t know.

I don’t do well the month of November at all.

I had a friend call it recently “the season of Max” and it is well put. Not thinking about it, being totally happy and content with life in general, putting the positive “spin” on it…nothing matters..around Nov 4th, a deep unrest starts. Often I have not been even mentally aware of the cause. It’ like a bad PMS come home to roost…for a long time. I get irritable, weepy, nasty, unrest, depressed, unable to sleep..Eventually, I realize the date and recognize my old friend…ah, yes…that is why I feel this way. Even if my brain tries to forget, I swear the cells of my soul remember and go into mourning. It is like they shut down.

I cannot ignore my relinquished son’s  birthday no matter how much I might try.

I become anxious about “the day”…by time it is here..I am in a bizarre mental frenzy of sorts. Things come back to me that have been dormant all year…new thoughts and memories surface. I always write to my son on his birthday. I always cry. The next few days, I go though the motions but I am living in the past….I go back to the precious 48 hours in the hospital when he was him and still mine…no longer a resident of my body but firmly entrapped in my heart..when I could hold him, smell him, watch his butterfly lashes flick in his minute baby dreams..when I whispered over and over again how sorry I was, how I could see no other way out, how I loved him and how I must do what I would soon do, how I had no choice. The 16th is worse that his actual birthday…I remember the last time I held him, the blinding searing pain of walking ut the door hits me all over with new freshness. Hands down…watching my mother die, young and racked with Cancer, the broken heart and confusion from having my best friend boyfriend of almost 4 years, fiance for one week announce he was gay and drop out of my life forever, living though a crumbling marriage/ divorce, having my next child have open heart surgery…..nothing beats walking out of that hospital and leaving my new born son behind. I still shudder when I think about what compelled me to even be able to do it. I can’t imagine, even been there, lived it, how I pulled that off.

Then there is the muddled blur….the next few days…my memory is hazy though the non stop tears. I remember walking though the mall, shopping for the perfect gifts to leave with my son. The small trinkets that would somehow convey the endless mother love for him and keep me somehow warm and alive to him. My legs still jelly from the birth, stitches inflamed, belly soft but now void and empty, my breasts engorged and leaking..I walked the mall..painfully choosing the perfect pen to inscribe the perfect book, with the prefect stuffed doll for my perfect blue eyed son.

And then the day of the signing…over and over the lawyers? agency reps? judge? I have no idea where I was and who I was with nor anything..but their endless repetition of “no longer your son, no longer any parentla rights, forever ,forever, forever”..untill I wanted to scream from the pain that “forever” brought forth and would do anything..even sign the blasted paper never in my possession..to make them stop.

As an unmet, joyful and excited couple marvelled and cooed over my precious baby, now theirs; I then packing all my meager belongings, waiting for my mother, sad goodbyes, uncomfortable silence, more feelings of shame. As they fussed over the first diapers changed, and made happy phone calls, I was on the cold drive back..5 hours due to traffic into a winter evening sun…mindless chit chat while my body ached to scream “TURN AROUND…I FORGOT MY BABY!” Words never uttered. I was showing them all how “good” I was by being so strong and determined. And with that thought I pushed myself back into regular life and did what I must..I lived. But I was never the same again..and November comes..no matter what has transpired in the 22 years since then.. even with an eventual search and a dear reunion with my now grown man boy son…..and reminds me..No I am not the same. I never will be. I can’t undo it. The day I broke my life in two..I left part of my heart back along that cold winter road..I was permanently blinded by the setting son, the fog of tears…

Yeah..”stomped” on is a pretty accurate way to describe it. There are no words that really convey it. “Stomped” is as good as any. And I guess if “stomped” is just as good as any other word, then “gotcha” is as good as it’s opposite. Just a word? Sure…many meanings..yeah.

I say “Gotcha’” makes me feel yucky all over again..even for just a tad…it makes me shudder. I see it on board, in a thread, a post, a card..and my stomach flops.

Yes, my breath catches. I am not your child’s mother..so your word for your day should not effect me…but is the loss of a child different across international borders? Is the feelings of separation and emptiness any less though different years, different eyes? Are my tears any less bitter, more sweet?

You say “Gotcha” and my mind races back to those days….with no regard to what it might be like, was like, is like. There is no room in the word “gotcha” for me. And while I can understand the feelings of joy my son’s parents had…heck, I comforted myself with the fantasy of what it was like for them..to balance it out, to give the pain some meaning, some purpose besides myself…I like to think that they did think of me..wondered too..if I was sad and feeling alone, empty. Like I thought of them..full of joy..loving my child.

The word hurts me. I have as much control over that small sharp feeling from Gotcha as I do over how I feel during the month of November.

Whether you care or not is up to you.

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