Part One: Let me backtrack just a bit ...
Growing up, my family would not have been considered a communicative family. There was no talk about the birds and the bees, no bearing my soul about teenage problems, no mother-daughter bedtime chats revealing hopes and dreams. That's why it's so amazing to me that I ALWAYS knew I was adopted. I don't remember any, "Sit down, Yvonne. Your mother and I have something important to tell you." I just always, always, always knew. And ... I was OK with it. We had our quirky dysfunctions but, all in all, I felt we were as "normal" as any other family, so being adopted wasn't half-bad.
Maureen searched for, and found, her birth family almost 30 years ago. At the time, I had no desire to find by birth mom. Perfectly content with the family I had, I said "No thank you!" when Maureen offered to do some digging for me as well. However, she sent me a card and, among other things, wrote down my birth mother's name and year of birth that she had found in our adoption papers. Tearing off that tiny piece of the card, I stuck it in a random file folder just in case I might ever want it. I moved that tiny piece of paper from home to home over the course of many years, not giving it more than a few seconds' thought each time I noticed it.
While cleaning out the filing cabinet for a move about 3 years ago, it was like that piece of paper jumped up and bit me. Instantly, I wanted to locate this woman who had given me life ... and then given me away. I have no idea where this desire came from after not wanting or needing her for 52 years. Even though this yearning was burning a hole in my heart, I did not voice it to anyone.
Several weeks after David and I were settled into our new home, he asked, "Have you ever thought about finding your birth mother? I think it would be a good idea." Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather! "Funny you should ask that!", I answered.
If David wasn't a forester and project manager, he could have been a very successful private investigator. He was excellent at knowing where to start the process and how to dig for information. Working from sketchy details contained on the birth record we secured from Chilliwack Hospital, David pieced together enough information to get a hold of my birth mother's brother. After a few conversations, we had my mother's married name and phone number. Now ... what to do with that information?? I realized it shouldn't be me who called -- if a call was to be made. After two days of thinking, processing, crying, and stressing, I asked David if he would call her on my behalf. I didn't want to be within earshot of his voice, not wanting to hear even his side of the conversation. The long and short of it is that she spoke with David for about 10 minutes, but told him she could never speak with me. You see, she had gotten married about two years after I was born, and her husband didn't know I existed.
Devastated, I cried and pouted for a few weeks. Wanting to give it one more shot, I wrote my mother a letter, telling her about the little piece of card, giving details about my life growing up, and including several pictures of me, David, and my four girls. I figured, "What have I got to lose?" -- maybe she'll read it, and maybe she won't, but at least I tried.
I honestly thought that would be the last contact I would ever have. I gave up all hope.
Cancer had other plans!
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