Two Names, One Infant

Still intact in the little vault in my brain are the secrets others have entrusted to me over the years. I feel trustworthy. I have always prided myself on being someone who was able to maintain the confidence of others. It was a requirement of my job as a registered nurse. Yet my own origin story had been hidden away from me in the vaults of my family and friends.  

 The short version of a much longer story is that my passport application was denied because my birth certificate was rejected as proof of citizenship and identity, leading to my discovery of the secret only I didn’t know: I had been adopted.  

Discovering at 49 that I was adopted was in itself a life-altering moment—one that divided my life into a definite before and after. Discovering I started life with a different name threatened to create more of a divide. I feared if I wasn’t careful with my thoughts, it would be easy to split in two: the infant who moved from one path, as Wendy, to a completely different life path, as Kathleen. One infant, two names, Wendy and Kathleen, potential for a split personality. 

Over the years, when I told family and friends my adoption story, I began to discover that so many already knew. They didn’t say anything because I never said anything. 

From my teen years forward, I was aware that I was different than others in the family that raised me. My body type and problem-solving skills left me feeling like an outcast, and, at age 20, sent me asking all the adults in my life if I was adopted. I was told, “No,” and that it was crazy to even ask. I pronounced myself crazy and moved on with life until a free trip to Cancun changed everything.    

Realizing I was kept in the dark all those years, lied to by those I loved the most, was more than I could hold at the time, and I unconsciously placed those feelings on the “Deal with this later shelf.”   

Now, at age 69, I’m being forced to sit with, give language to, and process the feelings about my adoption I put on the “Deal with this later shelf,” thanks to the funeral of Peg, a dear family friend, and then, a few days later, my fiftieth high school reunion. What’s common to both events is that, for the first time in 20 years, I spent time with those who knew the secret I didn’t know. 

Thank you, adoption, for always bringing awareness of some little thought, emotion, or behavior that rears its ugly head and says, Stop and deal with this NOW.  

I find myself feeling of lesser value  and quality than others. Unworthy of the truth others are allowed to know. A fool for not figuring it all out sooner.   

Ever since the adults in my life dismissed my questions about being adopted, my already self-critical inner dialogue became much more critical and severe with respect to how I thought about myself, my inner voice telling me, It’s my fault, and my intuition can never be trusted. How refreshing it would have been all those years ago to know it was simply a difference of DNA.   

On Tuesday, I attended Peg’s wake at the funeral home the day before the funeral. The wake or calling hours, as it’s sometimes called, gives people in the community an opportunity to spend time with the family of the person who has passed away, especially those unable to attend the funeral but who still want a way to pay their respects to the family. There would be a full Catholic mass the next day. I wondered if any of these friends were aware that I had finally learned about my adoption. I honestly expected to feel an ease in once again hearing a familiar voice and the comfort of friends with a long shared history, memories, and stories, our paths separated by geography and time, a community of friends grieving the loss of Peg and comforting each other as well as her family, supporting them in their loss.  

When Peg’s husband asked me what was new in my life, it was a jolt to my system.  My grown sons, my retirement from my nursing career, my published essays, or the fact that I followed in the footsteps of his mother in law, my role model, didn’t even cross my mind. Instead, I was obsessed with my own adoption. It took a lot of energy not to make it all I talked about. I wanted to make it about me. When did they know, and exactly what did they know? I wanted details. But there will never be answers, because it wasn’t appropriate to ask. I was there to support people I cared about.   

Wednesday morning, I arrived early at the church for the funeral. I sat in the parking lot waiting, feeling the full burden of the complexities of adoption, what being the last to know brings to my life. It felt like a gut punch. I sobbed.   

My high school reunion was much the same, where I needed to talk about my adoption. Having had the experience I had at the funeral, I was a little more prepared and aware that my adoption would be my focus. It didn’t take as much energy to focus on my classmates, their families, and accomplishments, and not myself. Still, I wondered, what did they know, from whom did they learn it, and when did they know? Why didn’t they ever think to say anything? Not that it was their place. They were living their own lives; I wouldn’t expect them to think about mine. Here, it felt more awkward, knowing they had carried my story when I didn’t. Teenage life was hard enough without adding another layer of complexity in the form of this knowledge barrier between us.   

I live my life now with grief and joy side by side. A sadness of being aware that no one felt I could be trusted with my own story also occupies my cells. My truth. It’s a pain that makes me feel unlovable and strips me of my confidence.   

I love all my family dearly. This is not about them. They had their reasons for their behavior and choices. This is about me, the ramifications and the costs of being a secret.   

I now use my voice to bring awareness that the secrets in adoption shouldn’t be allowed to happen. It puts a barrier between adopted parents and children.  

I remember that August morning two days after reading the words “Adopted Baby”—the morning I got the call to go to my parents’ house. I had just settled into my work day, having taken those first few sips of coffee and turned my phone on ready to receive patient calls. I answered the phone. It was my Dad, asking if I could come over to the house. I tried to put it off until after work. “No,” he said. “You must come now.” The tone in his voice made it clear I was not to disobey. I felt that barrier vanish the minute my parents finally told me what I had learned two days prior on my own. I had been totally unaware that they had held me at arm’s length for the entire 49 years of my life. How much richer would our relationship have been if they had been honest with me, eliminating the invisible barrier between parent and child?   

It does a disservice to all, and the truth will surface. It usually does. Especially in this age of at-home DNA test kits.  

Being a secret has a hefty cost, both emotionally and physically. The process of healing takes a lot of hard work, time, and energy, and it’s exhausting. The new growth, while much slower to achieve and to recognize, can be exhilarating.