Adoption revelation; feelings of betrayal

My first post, just to get things started, is a journal entry which I wrote a few years ago. It was intended to be part of a first chapter of an autobiographical book that I eventually planned to write. I suppose a lot of us have a dream to write and publish a book about their experiences.

I am choosing to start this blog with my first traumatic experience which I recollect as vividly as if it were yesterday. This could possibly be the beginning of the "Indignant Elisha" which permanently resides within me.

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The first secret revealed – Adoption

On a brisk Autumn day way back in 1980, at the tender age of 10, my entire world, as I knew it, was turned upside down. I was suffering from a neurological disorder, recently diagnosed as Tourette Syndrome. I had many uncontrollable tics. Some tics were transient, such as jerking my neck, banging my knee, spinning around in a circle and eye blinking. My dominating tic was that I barked. I emitted a loud guttural yelp on the average of every 15 seconds. Sometimes I barked more, sometimes less. It all depended on my anxiety level.

Scientific knowledge and research about Tourette Syndrome was lacking in 1980. There were hardly any drugs that were known to treat Tourette Syndrome. Doctors were proscribing potent psychotropic drugs, such as Haldol to try to control the tics.

Haldol is predominantly used to treat manifestations of acute and chronic psychosis, including schizophrenia and manic states.

I did have some refuge from my tics, during this short 2 year time period due to this proscribed medication. Unfortunately, Haldol had severe side-effects. The most extreme side-effect for me, was lethargy. I was tired all the time. I’d fall asleep in class and when I got home from school, I had a snack and went to sleep, sometimes for the evening. I was barely functional.

Having Tourette Syndrome was also a detriment for me socially. Having tics made me an outcast and I was ostracized by the other children. I was constantly subjected to harassment.

Of course, they had no knowledge or understanding of Tourette Syndrome. But these kids were brutal to me. I was taunted and teased at every available opportunity when an adult wasn’t present to witness it. Of course, telling an adult then deemed me a “rat” or a “tattle tail,” so I couldn’t win either way.

I received a bit of leniency, however, from my teacher, Mrs. Kneer, with regard to homework assignments. She permitted me to be excused occasionally from the homework if my symptoms were exacerbated.

This reprieve had an interesting effect on the other children. They resented me for receiving, what they saw as, “special treatment,” from the teacher. I was teased for being different, I was teased for being a tattler and I was resented by my peers for what they perceived as favoritism from the teacher.

On this particular day in 1980, our class was outside for recess. The children were running around and playing on the jungle gym. I was sitting alone, by the flagpole, waiting for school to resume, when a girl from the fourth grade, approached me. I have seen her before, but we had never spoken.

She mocked me, “You are adopted.” She said this very slowly, placing emphasis on each word. When I didn’t respond to her, she started singing in a taunting manner. “Elisha is adopted, Elisha is adopted.” She was twirling around singing her new jingle, obviously enjoying herself.

I planned to ignore her, as I have been doing since kindergarten. Ignore it and it will go away, they say. However, ignoring it never worked. The kids were relentless. The teasing didn’t stop when I failed to acknowledge it. However, my lack of response prevented the teasing from going any further into a full blown argument. But I still did try to ignore the taunts, at that age, anyway.

Today, I just couldn’t contain myself. What the heck is she talking about? Adopted? Why would this virtual stranger approach me with this ridiculous revelation? Why is she lying and singing about it?

My curiosity got the better of me. I asked her, “Who told you that I was adopted? That’s crazy!”

She stopped twirling around and said with confidence, “Jill Edelstein told me, and she is telling everybody.”

Jill Edelstein is my sister, Jennifer’s, best friend. Jennifer is one year younger than me. (actually, 11 months) In 1980, she was in fourth grade and I was in the fifth. Jennifer and I subjected each other to a tremendous amount of sibling rivalry. We constantly bickered and fought for our parent’s attention.

Since we were so close in age, there was a lot jealousy between us. We fought over the usual kid stuff; toys, friends and attention. We never got along. Her door was always closed to me. We lived in the same house but we either fought with each other or ignored each other. There was never any sisterly bonding to balance it out. That was too bad, because the way we treated each other as children, remained a constant source of resentment, even as adults.

All afternoon in class, I wondered why Jill Edelstein would make up such a lie. I know she liked to spend time with Jennifer, but I didn’t think that she hated me. Jill was always pleasant to me. Does Jennifer know that Jill is spreading these rumors about me?

Then it hit me. I bet it was Jennifer who told Jill to say this about me, just to hurt me. She must have had Jill spread the rumor, to assure that it won’t be traced back to her and then she can still claim that she’s innocent.

I began to get angry. Jen is always manipulating situations and lying to our parents so I would get in trouble. My mother was constantly playing referee with us.

Later, it became obvious that this manipulative behavior from young Jennifer stemmed from her wanting more attention from my parents. She was envious of the time that my parents spent devoted to me and my medical problems.

Her child-like mind saw favoritism from my parents. She didn’t understand that for 5 years, we had no clue as to why I was experiencing tics. Jennifer believed that I could just stop my tics if I wanted to. She saw it as MY method to gain attention from my parents. My parents would tell her that she is not allowed to tease me about my tics, because that made my tics worse. But that didn’t stop her from rolling her eyes and making faces at me behind their backs.

On this day, I eagerly awaited the school bus to take me home so I could confront Jennifer. I was so angry. She was going to be in so much trouble when I tell Mom what she did. I was so sure that this was a devious plot thought up by my sister to make my life even more unbearable than it already was.

When the school bus let me off in front of our house, I ran up the lawn and burst into my house, ignoring my mother when she asked me about my day. I sprinted up the two flights of stairs and planned to barge into Jennifer’s room and start yelling at her, accusing her of starting the nasty rumor.

Instead, Jennifer was calmly waiting by her door for me. She was leaning on the railing. It looked like she had been crying. Her face was all splotchy and her eyes were watery.

“Elisha,” she said gently, “Come in here.”

What is going on? Jennifer and I never have any civil discussions. She has never, ever invited me in her room before. I was confused, so I decided to hear her out. I entered her room slowly.

She quietly closed the door behind us and sat on her bed. That was a switch. Usually she slams the door in my face, when I was still outside in the hallway.

I was standing there, staring at her, dumbfounded. She is acting really weird. I got a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

She kindly informs me, “Elisha, you are adopted.” That burst any bubble of hope I had for any calm conversation with her. After what I heard on the playground earlier, I was in no mood for her crap. I became defensive immediately.

“Shut up, Jennifer. I know it was you. I know that you are the one telling everybody that lie. I hate you. I’m telling Mom.” I yelled.

She didn’t get angry at me for threatening to tell on her, nor for telling her that I hate her, which was her typical reaction. Usually, we would race to find Mom, to be the first to tell on each other.

Instead, she calmly said, “Wait, don’t tell on me yet. Just listen to me first, please Elisha.” She pleaded. Her eyes expressed sadness and she looked at me with such pity. She was practically begging me to stay and listen to her.

“Ok,” I relented. I can always tell on her later, I thought.

She sat down on her bed and took a deep breath.

“Yesterday,” she began, “I was over at Jill’s house and we were sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine. One of the articles was about adoption. Jill asked her mother about it because she didn’t understand what it was.”

She goes on to tell me that Mrs. Edelstein explained to Jill what it meant to be adopted. But Jennifer already knew so she was not really paying attention to the conversation until Jill asked her mother if she, herself, was adopted.

Her mother replied, “Of course not.” Jill asked her mother about some of her cousins and if they were adopted. No, there are no adoptions in their family.

Determined to find someone that she knew who was adopted, Jill asked her mother if Jennifer was adopted.

Mrs. Edelstein replied, “No, but Elisha is.”

Jen told me that she was surprised to hear this, but after thinking about it, she believes it could be true.

“Look,” Jen said, “You are average height and weight, we are all small and round. You have blond hair and blue eyes, with very light skin. We all have brown hair, dark eyes and olive skin tone.”

“Mom already told me that I resemble Papa’s side of the family, so there.” I said, defensively.

She still remained calm. “You have to admit that it COULD be true. Just think about it. Plus, why would Jill’s mother lie?”

She had a point there. Why would Mrs. Edelstein make that up? But I still didn’t want to believe her.

My emotions took over again. I was unwilling to accept the possibility that I was adopted. It was a crazy idea.

I angrily yelled at Jennifer. “Stop it, it’s not true. Mom and Dad would never hide that from me.”

She was getting frustrated with me. She lowered her voice, and got real close to my face, and said, condescendingly, “You know it’s true. You just don’t want to face it. It explains everything, Elisha. You are not like us. You don’t look like us. And now that I know that you are not my REAL sister, I don’t have to like you.”

I had enough of this. Now she’s doing what she always does, saying anything to try to hurt me. I opened her door and announced, “ I’m telling on you, NOW. You are going to get in so much trouble”

I raced down the hallway toward the stairs. I flew down the stairs while wailing, “Mommy, tell Jennifer to stop telling everyone that I am adopted.”

My mother was at the stove and my Dad was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. They glanced at each other, looking very nervous all of a sudden. When I didn’t get the shock that I expected from Mom upon hearing what I was telling her, I felt that queasy feeling in my stomach again.

My father slowly rose from the table and said, “Come here, Elisha.”

“Nooooooooooooo,” I wailed. I tried to run back up the stairs to my room, but my feet were plastered to the floor.

My mother gently caressed my arm. “Come sit, Elisha.”

She led me into the dining room. She patted her lap to indicate that she wanted me to sit with her. I didn’t want to. I stood there sobbing.

My mother finally admitted, “Elisha, you are adopted. I am so sorry that you had to find out this way. But we love you as if I carried you in my womb. You are our daughter and nothing will ever change that.”

I had so many questions running through my head. The first one that popped out of my mouth was,“Who is my real mother?”

In retrospect, my mother’s response to this question was perfect. I have recited parts of it to other people, in the future, when they didn’t seem to understand the difference between a “real mother” and “biological or birth mother.”

“We are your real parents, Elisha.” Mom continued. “We love you and take care of you. We wake up with you when you have a bad dream. We take care of you when you are sick. We help you with your homework and take you to your friends’ houses. We feed you and clothe you and provide you with a warm bed to sleep in at night. This is what real parents do. You may not be our biological daughter, but you are no less our child than any of your sisters. Your birth mother was not able to do all these things for you, and she wanted you to have all the opportunities that the world can offer. Your father and I tried for four years to have a baby. When we heard that you were being born, we wanted you terribly. Our hearts ached for you. We couldn’t wait for your arrival. When the call came, we jumped on the next flight to Florida to pick you up and take you home. You, Elisha, made us a family. You are so special to us, and we love you so much.”

Her profound words didn’t resonate with my ten year old brain. All I heard, at that moment, was that my mother wasn’t my mother and everyone in my family is not related to me. My whole life has been a lie. Who am I?

“Ok, then who is my birth mother? Just tell me” I persisted.

Mom continued to try and reinforce the difference between a parent, who raises a child, and a birth parent. But I only focused on getting the name of my birth mother.

“I don’t know who she is Elisha, it was a closed adoption. A special agency handled all those details for us” She finally answered. (This turned out to be a fib. They had the adoption paperwork which provided her name and other limited information. I understand their reluctance to give me this information at such a young age.)

“So, how come my sisters aren’t adopted, if you couldn’t have babies? I asked.

Mom said that sometimes when a woman wants a baby so much, this desire overwhelms her entire life and she can’t think of anything except holding a new baby in her arms. When she can’t get pregnant, she gets discouraged and unhappy. It is hard for a women’s body to make a baby when she is always upset.

“Elisha,” Mom continued, “once we returned home with you, peacefully resting in my arms, our dream came true. I finally had my baby Elisha and I was happy again. I got pregnant right away after you came home.”

I was calming down. I sat on her lap. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.

Dad now chimed in, “We had intentions of telling you when you were a little older.”

“When?” I asked.

Mom and Dad looked at each other. They obviously had not determined a specific age in which they would have told me. “I don’t know.” Dad finally said, “Maybe when you were 13.”

This was all too much for me. It really didn’t sound as if they had any plans of telling me. I was getting mad again.

Why would they keep this from me? How could they lie to me?

I thought, at the time, that this was the ultimate betrayal; finding out that you are not who you thought you were.

“How did Jill’s mother know?” I asked.

“Well,” Mom began. “She lives around the block and she knew that we were adopting you.”

I felt betrayed. “How could you do this to me?” I pleaded with them.

“How could you not tell me?” Little did I know that this theme of keeping secrets, under the guise of “protecting” me would permeate our family for decades to come.

My father replied, “Originally, your mother and I had wanted to tell you when you were old enough to be able to understand, like in kindergarten or first grade. But then you started with the tics and we had difficulty finding out what was going on. You remember, Elisha, how many doctors we took you to? Some thought you were having an allergic reaction, others felt it was behavioral and you were just looking for attention. We were all struggling to figure out how to help you. We didn’t feel like we should burden you with anything else. We didn’t know how you would react.”

This revelation in 1980 was the event that triggered all my feelings of insecurity. It was always in the back of my head that I, somehow, didn’t belong in this family.

For a few months after the secret was revealed, I actually feared that my parents would send me back to the adoption agency, if I misbehaved.

That fear of being abandoned and rejected is a major part of my psychological make up, to this day.

My parents’ tendency to withhold important information from me becomes a reoccurring theme in my life. They consistently underestimated my capacity to deal with painful or unpleasant experiences. They thought that by keeping certain things hidden from me, they are shielding me from feeling the pain that would evidently arise when faced with certain truths.

For years and years, during my childhood, I would ask my parents for information about my birth mother and birth father and their families. I would ask for the name of the adoption agency which handled the adoption. I even requested the name of the lawyer they retained to oversee it.

I must admit that many of the occurrences where I requested this information stemmed from arguments that I had with them. My requests for information were designed to hurt them. I wanted them to feel that I wished that I could live with a different family.

But there were a few times where I had actually sat down calmly with my mother and pleaded with her for any information that she has regarding my birth family. She was adamant. There was no information since the adoption was closed.

Legally, she said, to protect all parties involved, this personal information remains sealed. Mom told me that my birth mother was not given any of our names nor were my parent’s privy to any of her personal information.

That never seemed right to me. Obviously there must have been hospital files for me and my birth mother, since I was born in a hospital not a barn. There must have been some kind of signed contract between all parties; making this entire transaction legal. My birth mother’s name MUST be on that, right?

Did my parents just take a baby home to claim as their own with absolutely no paperwork to prove the validity of the adoption? I don’t think so.

In 1987, at the age of 17, I picked the lock in my parent’s room for the secret cabinet. I located my adoption papers, hidden all the way in the back. I grabbed my purse, not even taking care to lock the cabinet back up or closing their bedroom door.

I raced to the Smithtown library to make photo copies, because I knew that my parents would make me give the documents back to them, once they came home and found them missing.

After making the copies, I sat down on a comfortable sofa in the library and perused the documents. There were pink and yellow hospital receipts for services rendered. All the names were redacted. These papers indicated that all the hospital expenses were paid by my parents.

There was a legal contract written entirely in Spanish, stamped from Juarez Mexico, signed by a -------- Gonzalez Esq. and endorsed by a judge from a court in Mexico.

I found a letter from the Helen Tanos Hope adoption agency, informing my parents that they are on their list and adoption placement is pending. And another paid receipt to the adoption agency, from my parents.

Where is the name of my birth mother? Why is all the pertinent information blacked out? Could my parents be telling me the truth, that they really do not have any information about my birth family?

But I have the name of the adoption agency. So, I knew that the records were out there somewhere. I was aware that once I was 18 years old, I could begin to start seeking out this information.

I searched this manila envelope for more clues. I read the hospital records more thoroughly trying to decipher the medical jargon.

Stapled to this mass of colored papers was a small rectangular pink receipt. It was delicate in texture, like tracing paper or tissue paper. I could barely make out the print. It was the hospital television rental bill for $7.50. This was for television usage for the three days that my birth mother stayed in the hospital after giving birth to me. It, also, was paid by my parents.

Looking closely, I was able to read some information. The name of the hospital was North Shore University Hospital in Dade County, Miami, Florida. My birth mother’s name is Rosalie Franke and her address was listed. Her current phone number was also revealed.

Bingo. Now I know her name and where I can possibly find her.

Resting against the inner walls of the large file envelope was a smaller, business sized envelope. It was slightly stuck to the sides but was easily pried free.

It was addressed to my parents from the Helen Tanos Hope adoption agency. Inside, was one page of information about my birth mother. She was unmarried and thirty years old at the time of my birth. (1970) She had placed another female baby up for adoption in 1968, two years prior to my birth, using the same adoption agency. Both babies were born by cesarean. She is of Irish descent with blond hair and blue eyes. She is 5’3” and 120 pounds. Her religion is listed as Protestant. In 1970, she worked at a brokerage firm in Miami.

Under the heading, “special requests,” it was written that my birth mother wanted the baby (me) to be adopted by a Jewish family. That was an odd request considering that her religion was listed as Protestant. Why would she specifically request placement in a Jewish family?

When the form specified “birth father,” the following information was given: Married, 30 years old, undisclosed name, brown hair and green eyes, 5’6”, 180 pounds. Religion: Protestant. He worked at a warehouse.

That was all the information in the files about my birth parents. Why was my birth father’s name not disclosed? Why is there almost nothing about him?

I reread the letter. He was married, but not to my birth mother because she is listed as being unmarried. Wow. What a revelation.

The only conclusion that I can come to was that I was the product of an affair between my birth mother and this married man. It was probably a long term affair since she had a previous child who she also gave up for adoption, probably by this same man.