Sunlight on My Shadow (23 page)

While I sobbed I realized that I was just letting myself go to that crazy place of imagination. I could feel my rationality slipping away. I was afraid that I was losing it altogether. A voice inside said, “Let it go; let it be. Just go with it. You need this. It is good.” But what if I never came back to reality? Wasn’t this what it was like to be schizophrenic? Living in a world that only exists in your mind?

Lana said, “Go ahead, my child, it’s okay. Tell me what you see now. Tell me how you feel. It’s okay to cry. It’s good to go here. Feel it all. What are you feeling now?”

“I’m stewing with love for this child in my arms, rocking gently.”

As I lived this scene, I became inspired. This was the grace. I was inspired with the feeling that my Baby Helen was all perfect and all beautiful and her intent for birth was strong. Her existence was right and true. I was the vehicle that gave her the gift of life. It was something way beyond a simple accident with the prophylactic. Her life was sacred and I was simply her way to this world. Circumstances were inconsequential. This thought shed a light on me that sparkled away the shame and regret that had held me in its grip since 1967. I could feel the pain slowly spilling out of me, like water through a bucket hole. It was released, unplugged. I let it go. I let it flow where it may. It seeped into the earth. Gone. I felt free.

After Lana’s session in the basement of the old church in Salt Lake City, I walked outside. A thin coat of melting snow slushed under my feet; the full moon hung above Lone Peak and the air was warm with the hints of spring. It smelled like wet leaves on their way back to mother earth. I did it. I let myself go there. I relived the birth. I felt the pain like it was yesterday and I lived through it. I walked out feeling like I could flit on the tops of the cedar trees and hold the moon in my arms.

The session with Lana brought air to the smoldering leaves so they could burn away. The fire roared as I sobbed and felt every shred of loss and sorrow. Just-cooled cinders evidenced the passing pain, leaving me with peace and acceptance for what is and what was. In the end, it left me free. I found forgiveness for what I had done. Regret slipped away like dew on a summer morn.

I know the mind knows the difference between reality and fantasy, but I wonder if the body knows the difference. I experienced Helen’s birth in reality in 1967. Then, eighteen years later, I was able to go to a fantasy place that was fabricated in my mind. I relived the experience, changing it to be the way I always wished it had been. It was kind of like I was dreaming while awake. On some gut level, the rebirthing experience was as real as if I had travelled in a time machine and changed history.

With the aid of Lana, I felt safe enough to allow myself to revisit the painful memories. I gained new insight that eased my shame, guilt, and sorrow. It felt like real life, this rebirthing experience. How was it different from dreams? And how are dreams different from the real world? Does the psyche and body really know the difference?

In the middle of the night I have awakened crying, falling through space, laughing, or flying through the air: then I awake in a daze, like I have been on a trip somewhere. You know that stuff, the emotions, that carry from deep slumber and color the day? After many years of marriage, Dave and I were finding our goals and aspirations at odds. When we were in the thick of disagreements, I used to rise up, tied in a knot of anger. Although my rational mind understood that my emotional state was the repercussion of the dream, my gut didn’t know the difference, and I would spend the morning stewing in angst. My dreams often reflected the trials of my waking day.

Perhaps dreams help us iron it out, rework the problems. What if we can control these dreams and direct our images and thoughts to orchestrate healing, or to create the life we want: lucid dreaming at will? Do we create our own reality by our mindful images? And since we can control our own thoughts, can we control our own dreams and then our own reality? Sometimes we need a fresh outlook to realize we have this control. It can come in the form of a healer, like Lana; the form of an enlightening book; or the form of a compelling movie. The mind’s experiences are powerful enough to shape our future.

After the rebirthing, the shameful babysitting dreams lessened and I was able to talk more openly about my traumatic teenage pregnancy. I realized the silence of secrecy was harmful, because in speaking up, I was showing love, forgiveness, and acceptance of myself. It was only a few sparse words at first, and my palms would get sweaty and my heart would race. But I kept at it, knowing that speaking up was good for my soul.

I was taking baby steps. The first step was the Cabbage Patch doll, when I pretended she was Baby Helen and I could tell her everything I wanted to say back then. Then it was the rebirthing session with Lana, when I appreciated Baby Helen as a gift and found forgiveness for myself. The third step would be reconnecting with my adopted child. Perhaps the first two steps were getting me psychologically prepared to begin the search. My desire to know what happened to Baby Helen kept bubbling up like the springs at Yellowstone: quiet for a while, then a gurgle, then a bubbling spout, and then quiet again. Then the cycle renewed. What happened to my baby?

I hoped to find out that her life was good. This would ease my worry about whether I did the right thing. I wanted to know where she was and what she was doing. I dared to hope that I could bring her back into my life. Whatever that meant would be entirely up to her. I was afraid, though, that she didn’t want to know me, or that she had no interest in finding her birth mother. But unless I searched and found out, I would never know. It wasn’t like she was seeking me out. It had been twenty-three years now.

Then I read about an organization in Mothering Magazine called ALMA, which is the Spanish word for soul and stands for Adoptees’ Liberty Movement Association. The organization believes that, “The denial of an adult human being’s right to the truth of his origin creates a scar which is imbedded in his soul forever.” ALMA provides support to adoptees who are seeking their birth parents so they can solve their biological puzzle. I found out I could register as a searching birth parent, and if my child contacted ALMA, she could find me based on her birth date. I was excited to have a path that might solve my greatest mystery. I sent for the registration papers.

Since I hadn’t practiced revisiting my memories from 1967, they lay dormant in some tucked-away place. Trying to remember in 1990 was like walking through sticky, heavy mud. Perhaps I was suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome, but at first I couldn’t muster up the answers to basic, important questions, like the date of birth or even the year. Slowly, I navigated through my past, bumping into clues as I reactivated the memory links to past events. It was like stumbling on rocks in a meandering stream. Soon I had enough details to fill out the forms for ALMA.

Birthdate: June 30, 1967.
I remembered this because I recalled that the baby was born exactly nine months from the date I conceived, and I knew the fateful party was the last day of September. Time of birth? That was impossible. I thought it was in the afternoon, but I wasn’t sure of the time. So I left that one blank. I filled out the rest and carefully folded the forms into an envelope. I hoped this would be my ticket to finding my lost child. I licked the envelope, stamped it, and walked out to the end of our sidewalk. I slid it into the mailbox and flipped the red flag up for the postman to take it. I had taken my first step toward finding Helen.

Now there was a whirling in my belly, a vortex of hope. Any shred of information about her would satisfy my yearning to know of her whereabouts and her life. I hoped this whirl of hope would suck her back into my life someday soon.

It was now June of 1990. When I opened the front door on my daily trek out to the mailbox for news from ALMA, I was often taken aback by the surrounding beauty. I looked up and pulled the mountain air into my lungs, giddy with anticipation of news. The mountains looked different every day. Their massive panorama changed with the seasons, like a slow slideshow. In the fall, as the tree leaves changed from yellow and orange to red and brown, they looked like colored popcorn running along the ridges. By wintertime, the brown changed to a soft lacy white with the first snowfall. In spring, rain soaked the soil and the Wasatch Range became a velvety green. All through the seasons, I anticipated a note informing me that Baby Helen had registered in ALMA and wanted to meet me.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted from her: most of all I wanted to know she was okay and that I didn’t make a mistake giving her up for adoption. I didn’t want to be her mother; I knew she had one, and I had my own sweet children, but if I met her and she was okay and healthy and had good parents, then I would be at peace and be able to go on with my life. And if the meeting went okay, maybe we could develop a relationship. I remembered her baby face and how she looked like Mick, with that square jaw and her round brown eyes. I remembered that she looked Italian, with her dark hair and long lashes. Now that she was in her twenties, I wondered how she had changed into a woman. After hoping for a letter every day, my anticipation dampened as weeks and months went by without any news.

In February of 1991, when Baby Helen was twenty-four years old, I sent an inquiry to the Bureau of Health Statistics, Wisconsin Division of Health, using the wording provided from a searching service. I wrote:

February 24, 1991

Dear Registrar:

Please search for and provide a LONG FORM copy of the record of the birth of my daughter.

Name: Helen Liautaud

Born: June 30, 1967

Mother: Judith Ann Liautaud

Father:

Reason for request: Judicial need

A $5 check is enclosed. Sincere appreciation for any endeavor you extend to this request. Thank you, Judy Rodriguez.

I wasn’t sure what judicial need meant, but that is what I had found on a template for sending a search request. It sounded important, anyway. About a month later, I received a letter from the Department of Vital Statistics dated March 13, 1991. It was a form letter with two boxes checked.

In regard to your request:

1. No record has been found from the information given. Is it
possible the record has been filed with a different name?

2. We have searched our statewide birth/death/marriage/divorce indexes for the years 1965–1969. No record of the event could be located.

Signed: Section of Vital Statistics: Request #M202174-00.

The following October, I contacted a support group for birthparents called CUB, Concerned United Birthparents. This is when I learned that Wisconsin is a state with sealed adoption records, which means that the original birth certificate with my name as the birthing mother and Helen’s name, date, time, and location of birth is kept in a sealed vault. No wonder my request to the Bureau of Health Statistics came back with no evidence of the birth.

At the time of adoption, the original certificate is replaced by the legal certificate naming the adoptive parents. No mention is made of the adoption. In almost every case, the adoptive parents rename the child, so there is no easy way to find out the child’s name or whereabouts. In the rare case of a medical emergency, if genetic information might be needed, the original certificate can be extracted from the vault and released by court order. I didn’t see how I would ever find my child.

It seemed like another dead end. However, I did find out that there was a form you could fill out and submit to the courthouse, showing your willingness to be contacted in case the child would request it. It was called a mutual consent form.

I was excited to have something new to try. I hand-printed four pages of medical history and submitted the following:

November 27, 1991

Adoption Unit

State of Wisconsin

Dear Sirs:

In June of 1967, I relinquished a child for adoption. Since that child is now an adult, I would like to file a Waiver of Confidentiality with the proper Court of Jurisdiction in the event that she desires to contact me regarding her biological background or inherited medical problems. Also, please advise the name of the placing agency.

If you would please supply my information to the Proper Court of Jurisdiction for the following relinquished person it would be gratefully appreciated:

Birth Name: Helen Liautaud

Date of birth: June 30, 1967

Place of Birth: [Wauwatosa] Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Hospital: Salvation Army Home/Booth Memorial Hospital

Physician: Dr. Wigglesworth

Agency Caseworker: Catherine Cavanaugh

Relinquished by: Judy Liautaud DOB May 1, 1950

Thank you for your assistance.

Now I had two sticks in the fire: the registration with ALMA and the Adoption Unit with the waiver of confidentiality. If Baby Helen, now an adult, contacted either one, she could get my information. My bucket of hope was replenished.

Even though I knew these attempts were shots in the dark, I held on as the months clicked by. I worried that perhaps she had no interest in me. I knew that adopted children were on both ends of the spectrum. Some cared deeply and wanted to meet their birthparents, while others couldn’t care less. I had no way of knowing how Baby Helen felt. The lack of response brought recurring doubts. Perhaps I didn’t really deserve to meet her. I had given her away, along with my rights to know anything about her. But yet, I couldn’t ignore the yearning inside to reconnect with this child.

After another year of no news, in May of 1992, I called the Salvation Army headquarters to see if I could get any clues to help my search, like the name of the adoption placing agency, or details of the birth. I called the New York office and found out that the Booth Memorial Hospital/Home in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin, was closed in 1982. All of the records had been transferred to an office in Des Plaines, Illinois. I called this number and asked to have the adoption and medical records related to my stay at the Booth Hospital in 1967 released to me.

“No, we don’t give out those records,” she said. “They are sealed to protect the privacy of the girls who attended the home and the adoptive parents.”

“What about the medical records: can I have access to those?” I asked.

“These can only be released by request from a medical doctor.”

“If I had the request, where should I send it?”

The lady gave me the address.

I called my doctor, Val Loggsdon, and asked her to send for my records. They arrived two weeks later. Val said that she had to promise that she would not copy these records or give them to me, but I was free to come in and take a look. I hoped there might be something that said the name of the adoption agency or maybe even the people who adopted my baby. The notes pertained strictly to the medical event. This is what I copied it down:

Baby presented posterior. Second stage labor, pushing, two hours. Delivered by forceps. Baby girl born at 3:07 pm. Date: June 30, 1967, in Wauwatosa at Booth Memorial Hospital. Attending physician: Dr. Wigglesworth. Active labor 17 hours. Baby’s weight: 8 lb. 4oz. Episiotomy.

There was no mention as to what happened to the baby. It seemed so real to see these words, written on yellowed paper from over twenty years ago. A few tears spilled on the sheet. There it was in black and white. I did not know it then, but the exact time of birth was the clue that would lead to finding Baby Helen.