… the classic story of girl meets boy and gets pregnant. It was 1986, and A was the cutest, funniest, coolest thing that ever lived in Canada. I turned 18 that year and just started at a new high school. In Ontario, we had a grade 13 at the time. He wasn’t my first boyfriend, but he was the one I fell hardest for. And I fell a lot harder than he did. Regardless, we broke up after just a few months and I discovered, after a long period of denial, that I was pregnant. I didn’t tell anyone, except for a private adoption agency I found in the yellow pages. I was probably 7 months pregnant before I did even that — thank god for 80s leggings and baggy shirts — everyone looked pregnant! Not to mention the height of the hair that took focus away from the midsection. I might try to explain why I didn’t feel I could go to my family, but that’s a whole other discussion.
The agency owner was a male social worker who smoked incessantly. This was the 80s, so people smoked everywhere. Even in a small office housing a very pregnant teenager. He also smirked whenever he had to ask something he was uncomfortable asking. He took my history and presented some prospective APs. This was probably over a few appointments, but I can’t remember. I don’t know when open adoption became more common, but it certainly wasn’t mentioned to me in 1986. I chose a couple because they had already adopted a girl, then 2, and they were both professionals (read lots of money).
I went into labour September 2 and had a fairly fast, uncomplicated delivery. The baby was taken to the nursery and I visited him a few times. It wasn’t really that different from the other mothers there; the babies slept in the nursery and were brought to the mothers for feeding. We were all given sleeping pills with our pain relievers post partum. The male SW called me at the hospital and said he would be sending one of his other SW employees, Sharon, to see me. I had met her briefly in the office. She was fabulous. Just the right amount of upbeat and serious, in her early twenties. She went through all the paperwork with me, talked about the adoptive parents I had chosen, oohed and aahed over the baby. I left after a couple of days and she told me about how it went when the aparents picked him up at the hospital.
In our province, if the bmother uses a private agency instead of the Children’s Aid Society (CAS), she still has to meet with a CAS worker to sign the TPR. I took my meeting with her as being a safety measure — the government agency making sure the private sector wasn’t coercing pregnant teenagers to give up their children. She was pretty dour, and I felt like I had to convince her that adoption was the right route for me at the time.
So I never felt coerced, like so many other bmothers did. At least it wasn’t active or overt. I hadn’t sought any help in making the decision. There was certainly family pressure to not cause problems and to deal with my own issues myself. Again, another story. I felt I had no other option, which is a kind of coercion, I guess.
Over the time period after the baby was placed for adoption and before it was official (6 months? 4 months? Can’t remember) I’d meet with Sharon regularly and got a few pictures from the aparents.
Around Christmas, December 16 to be exact, Sharon called to make an appointment with me. It had been a couple weeks, so made sense. I asked if I could bring a Christmas present for the baby for her to pass on and she said “Let’s talk about it tomorrow”. I should have wondered at that, but it was a traditionally closed adoption and I had even been surprised to get the pictures I had. When I arrived at the office, the receptionist greeted me warmly and offered tea. Now, that was weird. She was not unfriendly in the past, but had never offered tea before. Still no feeling of dread.
Sharon brought me into her office and told me she had some bad news. The baby had died; the amother found him in his crib two days previously. It was ruled SIDS (crib death). What the hell do I do now? I’m sure Sharon was devasted to tell me, and she got nervous and started talking and talking. For whatever reason, she just gave me the aparents names and correct spelling. She said the funeral was immediate family only, and they did not want me or the people at the agency to come.
So I had to grieve losing him again, while I was still grieving losing him the first time, without the hope of reunion. No hope. And I had to do this while living with my family who knew nothing of any of it. I told a couple of very close friends and they were invaluable for support, but it was tough. Sharon brought me in to the office the next week and got the amother on the phone. She started bawling and saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept him up so late. He was perfect. I’m sorry”. Now that I’ve had more two boys, I feel her pain more than I did at the time, but I was feeling put upon to be the one comforting her. She had plenty of people to lean on! Later, Sharon told me the afather was furious that we called. He was worried I’d intrude in their life. Hey, jerk. Guess what? You were only interesting to me when you had my baby. Don’t think he ever knew I was told his name!
How do I grieve this secret baby whom I knew mostly from my imagination? I felt like I needed something concrete, I needed to go the the cemetery. It took weeks of calling the agency to try to get the information. Sharon was sympathetic and I still believe she would have told me if she’d known, but the owner was the one dealing with the aparents and they weren’t telling. The owner was a very poor communicator, and would tell me to call back in a few days, or next week, then would ask why I kept calling and maybe I should find some counselling. Um, aren’t you guys social workers? Wouldn’t it have been kinder, easier, faster to just say the aparents don’t want me to know?
Turns out, if you know the person’s name, it takes one phone call to any cemetery in the province to find out where he’s buried. So I did that instead and when the owner called me months later with the information, I could tell him I already knew. Small victory, but finding my son’s grave didn’t feel like much of a win.
Twenty-one-and-a-half years later, there is no gravestone, as it’s a family plot and I guess no one else has died. I went often at the beginning and left flowers, but there’s just nothing there and I stopped going regularly. The last time I went, probably a year ago, I wasn’t even sure I had the right spot.
The saga doesn’t end there, which you’ll know if you’ve read my previous entries. I got pregnant again shortly after and had a daughter in January 1988. Same bdad, same denial, same agency. I guess I subconsiously wanted to go back and do it right this time. To be continued…
Posted by canuckfirstmum 
Canuck First Mum 