By Aurette Bowes
Extract: Chapter One – Looking for Clues
I was about six or seven years old when my mother first told me this story:
“Daddy always wanted a little girl with brown eyes and blonde hair. One day we received a phone call from the hospital. ‘We have a baby girl here with brown eyes and blond hair,’ they said. ‘Do you want her? And Daddy said, ‘Wrap her up – we’re coming to fetch her.’”
I never forgot this story. As I grew older I came to think of it as my mother’s way of telling me about the birds and the bees because she thought I was too young to understand the truth. What I failed to realise was that this story was my first clue that I was not my parents’ biological child.
According to social workers who specialise in adoption, it’s not uncommon for children to wonder whether they are adopted. Many do, particularly during puberty, as they struggle to adjust to the physical and emotional changes taking place in their body. Some become convinced or even hope that they are adopted. For most, the intuitive certainty that they aren’t adopted enables them to confront their parents about their suspicions, albeit light-heartedly, as a way of putting them to rest.
I can’t remember how old I was when I first thought of doing this, but I do know I considered it many times while growing up. The question was simple enough. It consisted of only three words and required a simple yes or no answer. Yet somehow I could never bring myself to actually verbalise it, although I often fantasised about posing the question to my mother.
In one of these fantasies I imagined her standing in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot on the stove, softly humming as she worked. I would be standing in the doorway, quietly watching her. As casually as I could, I would say: “Mommy, am I adopted?”
In one version of my fantasy my mother would simply turn to me with a smile on her face and lovingly reply: “Of course not! My goodness, whatever gave you that idea?”
And as she gathered me in her arms and hugged me tightly, I would shrug my shoulders, smile back and say: “Nothing.”
And all would be well with my world.
It seemed so simple. But it wasn’t.
I could never bring myself to ask the question out loud because I was fully aware of the alternative scenario, the one in which the spoon she was holding suddenly fell from her hand and clattered to the floor, or where the pot’s contents spilled all over the stove.
I never got further than this point when playing the alternative fantasy in my head. I was too afraid of what happened next to risk it. Instead I merely imagined my mother chastising me – “Now look what you’ve made me do!” – as she hastily tried to clean up the mess. My question would be quickly forgotten, or conveniently ignored.
I didn’t want to be completely alone in the world, which is what I believed I would be if my suspicions were correct. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t have a family to whom I was biologically related, but rather the sense of not rightfully belonging to them. Not being adopted would entitle me to claim my family as mine because I was born into it and not added. Merely being added meant that I could alsobe removed at any time. A connection by birth, however, can never be broken.
As I continued to wrestle with this dilemma I began to continuously be on the lookout for clues. An official document, an unintentional remark, anything that would bring me closer to finding out the answer to the question I was so afraid to ask yet longed to know the answer to. And while there were many clues that leaned towards “yes”, just as many seemed to indicate the contrary.
Most mothers love nothing more than to tell the story of the birth of their child or children. Nothing beats comparing notes with other mothers about who was subjected to the longest labour, endured the most pain, or suffered the most traumatic birthing complications.
My mother never shared her story. While her friends talked and laughed over their memories, she would remain silent and merely smile and nod as she listened.
Sometimes I would question her about the circumstances surrounding my birth, but her responses were either limited or vague. While she knew my birth weight, she didn’t know on which day of the week or what time of day I was born. It was strange that my friends’ mothers knew all these details about their children, yet my mother didn’t know mine. Had she forgotten them? Weren’t they important to her? Or hadn’t she been there to record them? Eventually I stopped asking.
There were other clues. The women in my mother’s family had a history of various forms of cancer, including breast and ovarian, but when I asked her whether I was at risk she replied there was no need for me to worry.
“You’re all right,” she would say, and I knew by her tone that the subject was closed.
The “no” clues exacerbated my confusion, but kept me clinging to the hope that my suspicions were unjustified. For example, I bore a startling resemblance to my aunt, my mother’s younger sister. Not only did we look alike, but our personalities were also amazingly similar, which meant we had to be related – didn’t it?
But perhaps the most baffling “no” clue was ballroom dancing. I loved ballroom dancing and was once told by a professional instructor that I had a natural talent for the sport, yet I never pursued it. My mother had been a serious ballroom dancer before she married my father and had been awarded many medals and even taught on occasion.
If I am adopted, from whom did I inherit my talent for ballroom dancing, if not my mother?
The years passed and my questions remained unanswered. After matriculating I enrolled at the then Pretoria Technikon (now Tshwane University of Technology) to study journalism. When I left home two years later to move into a place of my own and begin my career, I had convinced myself that it did not matter whether or not I was adopted.
If someone else gave birth to me it makes no difference to my identity, the person I am, or what I want to achieve with my life.
I stubbornly dismissed the movies and books that portrayed adoptees as floundering drifters, who could not find direction in life until they knew the truth about their biological roots. Although naturally I didn’t realise it at the time, my stubbornness was probably largely motivated by denial.
Filmmakers and novelists will go to any lengths to dramatise their stories.
I dismissed as utter nonsense the notion that you have to know where you come from in order to know where you are going.
I knew who I am and what I want to achieve with my life. My mother and father love me and that is all that matters.
As my parents, they had experienced all the joys, sorrows, triumphs and sacrifices associated with raising a child. These were the qualities of “real” parents.
If another woman gave birth to me, that accomplishment does not make her my mother.
I told myself this over and over until I became convinced that I believed it. Finally, I felt assured that I had made peace with the issue and could put it behind me. I pushed all my questions out of my head. I stopped looking for clues.
Three years after marrying my husband Sean, I gave birth to our first child – a son. As I cradled him in my arms and gazed at his exquisitely formed face, I could not believe that I had given birth to a being so beautiful and perfect. As I looked at him, I couldn’t help thinking about the questions I had asked myself so many times about my family.
Statistics show that the birth of an adoptee’s own child often triggers questions relating to their biological identity and prompts them to initiate a search for their birth parents. But my questions were still about whether or not I was biologically connected to my family at all.
Are they really related to me? Do we share the same bloodline? The physical similarities between us – are they the result of genetics, or merely coincidence?
Then I realised I was holding someone who truly was mine, in every sense of the word. This child belonged to me and I would never have to speculate on whether or not we were biologically related. I had carried him for nine months and given birth to him. He even looked like me. There was no question that he was my son and I was his mother. Neither of us would ever have to experience doubt about his biological identity.
What’s more, he wouldn’t have to grow up with the same questions in his mind that had always bothered me. He was my son. I was his mother. Nothing and no one could ever, ever change that.
The unshakeable certainty of these facts filled me with indescribable joy – and overwhelming relief. I experienced the same elation when my daughter was born around four years later.
And so, with a loving husband and two beautiful children to take care of, I had every reason to be perfectly happy – and I was – except for that one question that continued to linger. Sometimes I would forget about it for months, and then I would happen to watch a movie with adoption as part of the plot, and the doubt would come rushing back again. Or a friend would make a casual remark on family likenesses during q conversation and the questions would flood my mind.
No matter how hard I tried to ignore it and make it go away, it was always there, hovering.
Psychologists agree that if you refuse to deal with any form of trauma or an unresolved issue, and live in a state of constant denial, it will eventually catch up with you in one way or another.
The question I had spent my whole life trying to avoid finally caught up with me, when at the age of 37 I was diagnosed with clinical depression.
Initially I thought my insomnia, tiredness, lack of appetite and weight loss was caused by iron deficiency anaemia, a condition I had been prone to since childhood, but subsequent blood tests showed that my iron levels were fine. I then put my symptoms down to work-related stress.
When a friend suggested I may be suffering from depression I laughed.
“I’m just tired,” I insisted. “All I need is a few good nights’ sleep and I’ll be fine.”
One morning I went grocery shopping, and arrived at the supermarket early, about 15 minutes before it opened. A mental health clinic from the surrounding area was running a promotion of its services and had set up a few desks outside the grocery store. One of the employees approached me and asked if I wouldn’t mind participating in a survey.
“It will only take a few minutes to answer a few questions.”
I had time to kill, so more out of politeness than a genuine interest in the survey, I agreed to fill out the questionnaire.
After completing the form I handed it back to the clinic representative. She studied my answers for several minutes, then approached me. I immediately noticed that her friendly smile had been replaced by a look of serious concern.
“You test very highly for depression,” she said gently. “Are you aware of this?”
I was surprised. “No.”
“I would strongly suggest that you follow it up. Our clinic would be more than willing to assist.”
She handed me a leaflet and began to elaborate on the services offered by the clinic, but I wasn’t listening.
Depression? What is she talking about?
I hurried through my shopping, eager to get home to carry out some research of my own on the Web. I logged onto the Internet and a quick Google search took me to numerous websites, some of which offered a self-test for depression. I completed two and each time the results were the same: “You show high levels of depression and are strongly advised to seek professional help”.
I sat back in my chair, shocked to the extent that I felt shaky. I couldn’t deny that everything I had just learned made sense. It all added up – but depression?
I decided to make an appointment with the psychologist who had been treating me for insomnia and who had also indicated I might be suffered from depression. She referred me to a psychiatrist, who confirmed her preliminary diagnosis.
At first I was reluctant to accept it. I considered myself an optimist, someone who always looked for the positive side in any situation. Furthermore, I was a Christian and as far as I was concerned God-loving people couldn’t become depressed. I soon learned, however, that this is completely untrue.
The Biblical prophet Jeremiah, King David and the apostle Paul all suffered from recurring or chronic forms of depression. The book of Ruth relates the story of Naomi, who, judging from the words used by the writer, in all likelihood suffered from the illness following the loss of her husband and both her sons. No longer able to bear children, her future held no promise for her and she became bitter and angry, even wanting to isolate herself from her daughters-in-law. (Ruth 1)
King David describes depression aptly in one of his psalms: “I am lonely and afflicted. The troubles of my heart have multiplied.” He appeals to God to “free me from my anguish. Look upon my affliction and my distress…” (Psalm 25:16-18)
Sufferers of depression know that it is physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually debilitating. I do not wish on anyone.
Because it is unlike any physical illness, the immobilising and devastating effect depression has on your life is often difficult to convey to those who have not experienced it, but I like the explanation offered by the apostle Peter: “Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering, as though something strange were happening to you”. (1 Peter 4:12)
Yes, depression is particularly painful, and most days you feel completely alienated from the rest of the world, but even if you are suffering from its severest form, the Bible promises that until Christ comes, there will always be faith and hope, together with everlasting love. (1 Corinthians 13:13)
As happens with most sufferers, my depression crept up on me slowly and silently, beginning, as it usually does, with mild insomnia which over several months became progressively worse until I could no longer sleep at all.
Sleep is essential to our well being and the quality of our sleep is more important than the number of hours we spend sleeping. Not only does sleep provide rest from our daily activities, but during sleep the brain produces serotonin, commonly known as the “feel good” chemical. If, for some reason, you are deprived of sleep over an extended period, the brain eventually can no longer produce serotonin. This leads to the onset of depression.
It’s more than just experiencing a few bad days. Without the “feel good” chemical you begin to experience feelings of unhappiness, listlessness and lethargy, as well as increased anxiety. Proper and effective treatment in the form of medication and counselling is required. Without this the intensity of these feelings will continue to escalate and you may even become suicidal.
As my insomnia worsened my body eventually ran out of serotonin altogether and I had to rely on adrenalin in order to function. But this was not the euphoric high and excessive energy surge usually experienced when the body produces large quantities of adrenalin. This was my body drawing on its last remaining reserves to enable me to cope. Consequently, I felt shaky, almost feverish, and physically and emotionally weak.
When the adrenalin was finally depleted I hit rock bottom and could no longer get out of bed. It wasn’t a state of mind. I was physically incapable of doing so because my body was completely worn out. Even the distance from my bed to the bathroom was too far.
There were many days when I had to set myself one goal at a time, just to get going and face the day.
All you have to do is get dressed. Nothing else, just that.
As I sat on the edge of the bed, the thought of having to do more was too overwhelming to even contemplate. Once I was dressed, my next goal would be to eat, then brush my teeth, followed by washing my hair. By then, almost half the morning would have passed, but I would use what little remaining energy I had left to work. I was self-employed at the time and provided a freelance editorial service to a range of clients. My income was essential to our household and it was imperative that I worked. If I told a client I was unable to deliver, they would simply use another writer and I would lose them as a client. Most days I had to force myself to work, but were it not for this and, more importantly, the fact that I had a family to take care of, I probably would have allowed the depression to overwhelm me completely. On many days I was very tempted to do so.
At first I believed my depression was work-related. It was only when, at Sean’s suggestion, I started counselling sessions with Fred that I began to open up about other issues in my life and tentatively broached the question of whether or not I was adopted.
Fred was a long-standing family friend who had always been on hand to help me in times of need. Over the many years I had known him, I had come to regard him not only as a spiritual mentor, but also a guardian angel of sorts. I trusted him completely and was able to confide in him about almost anything.
Fred was also a respected elder and counsellor in the Church. He based his counseling on Biblical values and principles, and I knew without a doubt that if I explained my situation to him he would handle it with sensitivity, integrity and discretion.
Before asking Fred to help me find out the truth about my birth, I discussed it with Sean. He was a gentle, peace-loving person whom God had blessed with exceptional insight about people. Over the years of our marriage, we had often talked about the question of my suspected adoption. In fact, he frequently offered to approach my parents on my behalf, but I always said no.
I’m not exactly sure why I never took him up on his offer. Perhaps because I was afraid that if he knew I was adopted, it would change how he felt about me, even though he assured me constantly that it would make no difference at all to how he felt about me as a person. On some subconscious level, I don’t think I believed him.
“Perhaps it’s finally time to deal with it,” he said now. “Not knowing the truth about yourself could be an underlying reason for your depression.”
This made a lot of sense. Since being formally diagnosed with the illness, I had realised that I had experienced other episodes earlier in my life, but had always managed to overcome them, until now. My psychologist explained that this was because each subsequent episode of depression is more difficult to overcome without help – medication, counseling, preferably both.
Despite Sean’s encouragement, I still hesitated.
“I’m so afraid.”
“Of what?” he asked gently.
“The answer; that it will be painful.”
“If you do have to go through pain, it will only be for a little while, and then it will be gone forever.”