First Meeting
With My Birthmom
The date was set.
January 22, 1995. I was finally going to meet Mary, my birthmother. We'd talked on the phone a few times since I'd moved back to Indiana, but talking over the phone and exchanging letters was completely different from meeting her face to face.
I arrived at her house 10 minutes early, even though I'd stalled by stopping for some flowers. I'd waited for this moment for so long, but now that it was actually here and about to happen, I was nervous and scared and wasn't sure if it was the right thing.
I don't remember this first glimpse at Mary. I don't remember the door opening or what color blouse she was wearing. I do remember her perfume. I remember how she wore her hair. I remember feeling the first hug from her. But I can't remember her face.
She took me into the kitchen and we sat at the table. What did we talk about? We shared a can of soda, I remember that. There was a large picture of her oldest daughter Tanya hanging in the hallway, I remember that too.
We talked about her first marriage and that the fathers name given on my original birth certificate was not actually my father. I was born in the same hospital her son (my older half-brother) had been born in, and she assumed they just put her first husbands name on my records too. Suddenly, I had to stop thinking of Bobby as my father and instead think of Vince. Petty as that may sound, this bothered me.
Before long her husband Jim arrived home, followed by her youngest daughter Darla. They'd all known about me for years, but I'd only recently learned of their existance. It was a bit uncomfortable as I listened to them exchange normal, end-of-the-day talk. 'I should've been a part of this my whole life' I certainly remember thinking that.
That first visit with Mary is almost completely blacked out from my memory. I guess it's been replaced with other memories.
Like the first time she can to Indianapolis to vist me. She told me that first night we spent sleeping under the same roof, she woke up in the middle of the night and stood in the doorway of my room, watching me sleep just as she would have had I been with her as a baby. She said she had to fight the urge to check to make sure I was breathing...she always did that when her daughters were infants.
Or the first time I went to lunch with her and my half-sisters. It was the four of us, I remember exactly what we all ordered and how we teased Darla, the youngest, because she'd just gotten her drivers permit. I truly felt a part of them that day.
I especially remember Mary being at my wedding. She and Jim were the only ones from my family that was there. And we'd only been 'family' for a year.
Even more than that, I remember Mary being there when my son was born. As soon as I called her and told her I was in the hospital in premature labor, she rushed down here to be with me. She helped me keep my sanity by bringing me contraband cheeseburgers (I hate hospital food!) and bought me dozens of magazines. SHe spent every night with me and helped me through everything. She was with us the first time we saw our son in the NICU, and held me as I cried.
It doesn't matter to me that I can't remember the very first time I laid eyes on her. What matters is that I remember all the times since that she's been there. That's the important thing to me.
Into the Mystic
