Snapshots of a reunion

My favorite response to give when someone asks what it is like to be adopted is "You cannot understand unless you have experienced it.”

On a May afternoon on my way to visit my birth mother for the first time, I wonder if I even understand it anymore. My cell phone rings and I hear her voice. Her voice has become familiar to me in the past month. I hear her anxiety and assure her that I haven’t changed my mind. That I am simply a victim of the irregular traffic patterns that lie between my home in Cherry Hill, New Jersey and her sister's home in West Chester, Pennsylvania.

I click off my cell phone and stare at the cars ahead of me. So much of my past flashing in my head that I begin to worry if any of this is real. I see snapshots of my life. I see my father smiling proudly at I hit my first home run. Then years later there is me, smiling through tears, as he retires a hero from the fire department. I see my mother hugging me in bed after my first boyfriend broke my heart. Then I see me embracing my mother, as a first generation college graduate, with my diploma in hand. I see myself as a little girl sitting in my Grand mom Annie's kitchen, smelling the sweet aroma of homemade pasta sauce and then suddenly sitting in shock at her funeral missing her smell of clean linen and powder. I watch me dance with my favorite cousin to the newest Madonna song and then see us dancing in a bookstore when she told me she was pregnant with her first child. Finally I envision my beautiful wedding which leads to more snapshots of arguments and hurtful words that remind me my marriage is failing.

I think of how the lifetime seizes of panic that something is lost have subsided significantly since I first spoke to my birth mother, only to be replaced with pangs of guilt wondering how I can tell my parents I have found her. They were supportive of my search. Comforted me through eight years of dead ends and obstacles and tried so hard to hide their relief when I announced that I stopped trying. Then one night my birth mother and I found each other. I had logged onto an old internet site when I realized that I could not let go of this search so easily.

I make my way through the beautiful farms and trees that line West Chester and pull up to a charming old home surrounded by a colorful array of foliage that deeply contrasts the brick row homes that lined my childhood home in South Philadelphia. I see this beautiful woman run from the house. My breath catches in my chest. I have seen pictures but nothing prepares me to look at a mirror image of myself 16 years from now. She hugs me and I involuntarily step back trying to take it all in. "Hi," I say. I choose this weak word so not to let loose the flurry of emotions inside of me. I hand her the wine I have picked up for our lunch and follow her into the house. I note the similarity in our shape and in our walk.

We sit on the couch and our conversation begins slowly. She touches my face a lot and slips and calls me Katie-- the name she wanted me to have. She looks through the pictures I have brought to share and I do the same. I tell her about my crazy Italian family as she jokes about her six Irish siblings. I let loose the tears I have held back as I see pictures of my sister and hear stories of her childhood. We share the struggles of searching with non identifying information, but keep the emotions that surround every adoption quietly locked away. We eat and we laugh. We discuss failed and failing marriages only to realize that we have the same problems with intimacy. We talk about our mutual passions including dogs that we have rescued. She cries when I tell her that my middle name is coincidentally the same as her first name and that my favorite city to visit is Chicago which is now her home town. "I never wanted to give you up," she says. Those simple words leave me feeling validated and secure.

I realize that it is getting late and stand to leave. "My mother calls every night at nine," I explain. "I am not ready to tell her yet". I am filled with so much happiness tinged with guilt. I feel guilt over saying the word mother to her and then more guilt knowing the daunting task of telling mom and dad lies ahead.

We walk to my car holding hands. We have the same hands. She embraces me and I feel a wave of love. It is the love she instilled in me by giving me life. It is the same love that my parents have cherished and encouraged to grow. I know I can tell them. I know they will be ok. My bond with my family is strong and love filled. Extending it to fit another will only strengthen that bond. We promise to stay in touch and I cry as I drive away. I have just realized what a gift love is. That at 31 years of age I have finally become a woman.