15 Hours: Nothing to you; EVERYTHING to me (Part 2)

I saw the psychologist two more times.  We never discussed this again.  I think he knew it was a shock for me to hear this, and I didn't wish to discuss it further at that time.

I decided there was no way I could really get the information I needed to make an adequate assessment of the situation.  I was in reunion, I was happy, my son and I were building a relationship. In many ways, I felt freer than I had in years.  I had to put the past in the past and let it go.  Besides, what could I do about it?  Absolutely nothing.  It was 35 years ago. 

That worked for a few months.  I was happy, or so I thought.  Anger began to creep in as I realized all I had lost over the years.  Every time I thought about it, I always came back to the question - was I really drugged?  I woke up one night from a sound sleep with the thought "you were drugged - you know it" and decided that I could not continue without learning the truth.

I didn't fax a request to the hospital again.  This time I took my filled out request form in person to the records department of the hospital.  I handed them to the woman who looked at them and said, "these records have likely been destroyed."  I informed her that my friend's mother who was in the same home a decade earlier had received her records a few short months before, so I knew that wasn't true.  And I wanted mine. "I'm not sure we can find them."  My reply was polite, low key and respectful.  I told her, "Look.  I've requested this information twice before and received nothing.  I know those records exist.  I'm sure they are in some dark, dirty corner of a dusty file room in the lower bowels of this hospital.  But, if I don't receive the records in a timely manner - let's say two weeks - I will come back with an attorney and demand the records be found.  Now, neither one of us wants that.  All that means is you will be embarrassed and I will be out money.  Give it a try - please?"  Long pause.  "Would you like to pick them up?"  Oh yes please.  Just give me a call.

Better than that, a large envelope arrived about 5 days later.  It had the hospital name on the outside and I knew what it was.  I took the envelope, sat down, and opened it with shaking hands.   Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw on the top page.  I was staring at a copy of my son's footprints.  Tears.  I was in tears.  I was so completely thrown off, I had to stop and wipe my eyes.  I had to adjust my glasses to realize what I was really looking at.  It was the footprints of my newborn son who I had never held.  The baby that existed, but didn't exist.  The tiny prints of toes that I never got to count on little feet I never kissed.  Never touched.  Wasn't even allowed to see.  It was too much for me.  I got up, left the papers on the table and walked away. 

Later, I returned, ready to face the past.  I separated the papers into two stacks:  records dealing with me and records dealing with my son.  I began to read mine (it would be some time before I could look at his.  When I did, it was devastating to me.)  I found nothing remarkable.  No mention of any drugs other than copious amounts of demerol and some codeine.  Except for something called Tuinal* (how it appears on the records) with no doses listed.

All of the handwritten chart notes were positive, upbeat.  I had a good night.  I was sleeping now.  Blah, blah, blah.  No mention of any complaints, pain or anything really.  I assumed I was the model little beemommy - even though I couldn't remember a thing.  This was confusing to me.  How could I have just rolled over like the proverbial dog and let this happen?   Did I not fight?  Did I not object?  Did I not question?  Nothing in the notes indicated I had.  This made me feel worse about the situation.  So, clearly I wasn't drugged.  The psychologist was mistaken.  I was just another one of many who rolled over and took it.  Signed the papers.  Gave up.  OK, then.  That's my story.  Deal with it. 

If it is possible, the guilt I now felt over relinquishment was more than it was before.  I had given up.  Surrendered.  Ran the white flag up the pole, played the game, did the "right" thing.  Never stood up.  Never fought.  I was a loser.  A quitter.  I hated myself for it. 

Maybe my mother was right all along.  It was my idea, but I didn't remember it that way.  She insisted it was.  I. Gave. My. Child. Away.  What kind of person was I?  I thought of suicide.  A lot. But, I figured I would mess that up, too.  Then I would get locked in the place with the plastic tableware and have to deal with THAT on top of everything else.  

I had to move on.  I didn't want to ruin my marriage, my career and my reunion because I felt so bad about myself.  I had to deal with this and move on.  Fortunately, I was entering my last year of college and I literally threw myself into that.  My degree means more to me than just an education.  As far as I'm concerned, it saved my life.  We Mothers of Loss know that it is quite possible to disconnect from feelings, shut it away and not look at it, think about it.  Is that healthy?  Not at all.  But the human mind can only take so much at one time.  If we have learned anything it is to shut off that painful part of ourselves so that we may function in the everyday world.  Or at least think we can.......

Over the next year or so, I concentrated on school.  Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I had lots of group projects keeping me busy.  That plus a full time job and classes helped to keep my mind off my troubles.  I felt I made progress with acceptance of my past situation and I slowly began to feel more at peace with myself.

In August of 2014, I had the opportunity to meet up with my cousin with whom I had been very close growing up.  She was the only person, besides my immediate family, that was around me when I was pregnant.  We had grown up together, but because of life situations, we lost touch with each other over the years.  She met my son for the first time and welcomed him with open arms.  We realized how much we missed each other over the years and made plans for dinner the next day to reconnect and fill in each other on our lives.

We discussed our childhoods, our times together, family members and just life in general.  At some point, the conversation turned to my son and his relinquishment.  I told her that I was basically at peace with the situation - I had to be, since I couldn't alter the past.  The one thing that still pained me, would always pain me, was that I could not remember being in labor.  I felt it sad that I had a child and did not have the memories of labor, good or bad, that I had with my subsequent daughters.

"Well, that's probably because they were giving you the same stuff they gave you when you were drugged and restrained for 3 days."

"What?  What did you just say?"  I heard, but I needed to make sure I heard it right.

"You were drugged and restrained for three days?  They probably gave you the same stuff."

Immediately, I started to cry.  My cousin realized in that instant what she hadn't known all along:

"You didn't know?"  Her eyes were huge.  She teared up looking at me.  She had  in one second delivered the truth and a blow at the same time.  And she knew it. 

"I thought, I mean, I wondered, I mean, the psychologist said, I don't...................how do you know this?"

"I overheard a conversation Mom (my mother's sister) had with one of the other sisters (there were two others).  I heard your name, I was worried about you, and I was trying to see if I could find out how you were.  Mom told me to get out.  So, like any rebellious teenager, I left, but hung out just outside the doorway.  I heard her tell whoever was on the other end of the phone that you had changed your mind, you were throwing a fit to see your baby, and they had to drug you and restrain you to the bed.  You kept it up for 3 days." 

Sick.  I was sick.  Heartbroken. But wait.........."You mean, I fought?  I fought them?"  She said yes, apparently really hard.  Hard enough to drug me into compliance.

I fought them.  I wasn't a quitter.  I didn't roll over and take it.  I FOUGHT them.  "Would you tell my son?  I don't think I can right now, but could you?  I want him to know I didn't give up - I fought.  I tried."  She said of course she would.  I pulled out my phone.

The tears began to flow freely as I waited for him to answer.  I'm not a silent crier.  I heave, I sob, can't talk, and sound like I'm gasping for air.  When he answered, I was trying to ask him if he would talk to my cousin.  But, I couldn't get it out.  He kept saying "Mom - are you ok?  Mom - what happened?"  I finally told him my cousin had something to tell him.

She relayed the story.  I couldn't watch.  I walked away, lit a cigarette, and tried to control myself.  I ventured back over just in time to see her crying, saying repeatedly, "I know.  I'm so sorry.  I know."  That got me started again.  She handed the phone back to me, and all I could say was "I DID fight.  I DIDN'T quit.  I DID fight."  I tried to console him.  It didn't work.  We were both devastated.

The nightmares began that night.  Dreams of hands on my throat, being unable to breath, unable to move.  Waking in a sweat with my heart racing, crying, gasping for air.  I was so incredibly angry at my parents I couldn't even think.  I knew that I wouldn't be able to pass this off to the background of my life again.  I would not be able to feel peace about a situation of which I had no choice.  We are talking about drugging a person into submission.  Stealing their child through force.  Taking away the right to parent their child without any reason to do so.  It was now a verified fact.  My parents stood by and let their 17 year old daughter be drugged and restrained into making the decision they wanted.  Maybe it was their idea to do it; maybe it was hospital  protocol; maybe the adoption agency was so desperate for babies they justified it.  I don't know.  BUT, they knew it was going on - my mother was the one who told her sister.  How could you allow that to happen to your daughter?  How could you be so intent on ridding yourself of your own grandson that you could stand by while this happened?  Oh yes, I forgot.  You went to Mexico for a vacation, what, the day after he was born?  Right.  You weren't there to witness the atrocity or the aftermath.  Out of sight; out of mind.  Thanks mom and dad. 

I knew what I had to do.  I had to pull that paperwork out and really see it, not just look at it.  I remembered what the psychologist said - don't look at what IS there; look at what ISN'T there based on your limited memory.  I would get as far with this as I could.  I had to - this is my life we are talking about.  I wanted it back, nightmare free with a clearer understanding of what really happened.  Painful or not, I had to begin again.  I also felt a call to that adoption agency was most certainly in order. I wanted whatever else there was in that file or files that pertained to me.