Evolution of an Adoptee: From Certainty to Ambivalence

As an adoptee my perspective of adoption, and international adoption in particular, has evolved drastically, albeit slowly, over the past several years.

I don't view adoption like I used to view it.

In my earlier years, I was basically a "poster child" for adoption. I would speak at adoption agency functions or at churches touting adoption--I would tell my story to pull on the heartstrings of the hearers--tears would trickle down cheeks--hoping that they would respond by wanting to adopt internationally.

Now I feel sick to my stomach when I think about the way I allowed myself to be used.

I'm not necessarily saying that agencies or churches purposely or manipulatively "used" me, but I will at least say that on certain occasions I was coached on what to say and how to say it. I was specifically told to edit out parts during which I spoke about my difficulties as an adoptee. Eventually, I learned simply to self-edit out the "darker side" of my adoption experience when I spoke at these functions.

And that makes me feel even more gross.

As I have forced myself to think critically about my adoption experience, my ideas about adoption have certainly evolved from positive to ambivalent. And as this evolution has taken place, I find my adoptee identity not as fully embraced by those who once embraced it, whether fellow adoptees or adoptive parents or friends and family. But I have learned that I can only accept this--it's inevitable, at least at this point.

The major point of divergence with many of these folks is my stance on international adoption. When it comes down to it, I am not an advocate for international adoption any more. But I once was. And hence, subsequently, this has led to discord at times.

My reasons for deciding to shift from "advocate" to "un-advocate" are complicated and many. And I have written soooo many posts trying to explain all the reasons, sometimes with success, other times to no avail.

But to share yet another practical yet poignant reason--words from my Omma and Imo:

"Thinking of my grandson, my eyes filled with a tear. As a mother, I should be there and help you recuperating but I can not. I'm really sorry...We can't speak each other's language so we can't talk on the phone..." -Omma

"I'm really sorry for you and your mother. I can't imagine how hard it is to have each other in mind and miss each other for that long time. It's really sad that we can't call each other because we can't speak each other's language even if we miss each other so much..." -Imo (maternal Aunt)

[I received the above words via translation, obviously, in letters written by my Korean mother and Aunt.]

If the above words are not reason enough to make us question International Adoption, then there's no point even bothering to share the host of other reasons...

Yes, I used to speak with certainty about how "lucky" I was to be adopted. I used to say with certainty that I had no desire to seek out my Korean origins and that being adopted had no ill effects on me or my life. And I said it all while smiling sincerely, because at the time I meant it all.

But, then, I had to go and peek inside that box, or open that door, or look over the wall...

And now, I linger in ambivalence. Now, I weep and hurt over the mess that adoption forces me to live.

Although I have an amazing life on one side of the fence, on the other side, I live a life filled with a seemingly relentless grief, sorrow, and aching.

Walking that fence is a balancing act to state the obvious--and I fall and crack open my head on almost a daily basis.

But, I also get back up, wipe away the blood, and hop back onto the fence, albeit dizzy and whirling, because a decision to choose one life over the other feels false and deceptive.

I will continue to evolve, no doubt. But I imagine it will be from one form of ambivalence to another. The only resolution I've come to expect these days is the resolution that I'll never be resolved...

Why I haven't been blogging much as of late:

The photos are explanation enough of why I have not been blogging much as of late. No doubt my hands, heart, and mind are full with getting to know one of the most amazing beings I have ever met. He makes me both weep and laugh like I never have before...

I cannot help but think of my Omma...

As of late, I look at my son and cannot help but think of my Omma...

I am overcome with grief when I look at my son and think of the lost relationship between my Omma and me.

I imagine that day--the day she relinquished me--and now that I have my own child, a new darkness enlightens my understanding. I don't know how I would go on living were I to lose our son. I would live only as a ghost among shadows. But then, in some ways, that is how I have lived my life as an adoptee.

There are yet again no words to describe to you what I feel. All I can say is that I am overcome with grief. I have gained so much but at such a heavy price. My joy is inextricably interlaced with sorrow.

No mother should ever have to face such a grave and maddening choice. No human being should be counted among the worthless so much so that she and her child matter not to their own people to be cast out and forgotten.

People like my Omma and me cannot help but live as women who feel simultaneously blessed and cursed.

As I wrote to a friend who is a fellow Korean adoptee, I have stared down at CK so many times now, and have imagined how absolutely annihilating it would be to leave him as you and I were left...how precious and innocent and beautiful he is, and so all the more how to leave him now would darken and maim his little soul...

How can I not think of my Omma during this time? How can I not be fettered with grief and sorrow amidst joy and hope as I rock my son to sleep? How can I not shed tears of the deepest sadness as my son coos and smiles back at me? How can I not think of all the time lost with my Omma every moment that I am allowed to enjoy my son?

I hold him in my arms and stare down at his sweet face to be flooded with the reminder that my Omma and I were interrupted, ripped apart--that such tender moments were never ours to share...

Even though she remained with me for the first week of my life, even her joy was inevitably obscured by the grief of the knowledge that I was not hers, that too soon we would say good-bye, and both be expected to move on with our lives and forget...

But both she and I know, you never forget.

The Adoption Game: It's Craptastic

Honestly, I do start to feel like I'm a messenger of negativity at times. I start to grow weary and burdened by my own observations and discourse. I want to tell myself, "Okay, okay, enough already, just shut the heck up."

I look at my life and all the good in it, and I can't help but wonder whether what others accuse me of is true--maybe I am a whiny, self-centered ingrate? I begin to doubt whether I have the "right" to ask the questions I ask, to say the things I say. I begin to almost believe the critics and doubters to the point of internalization, and in turn become my own worst enemy.

And especially as of late, these doubts are surfacing fiercely as I try to manage my relationships with my four parents, specifically in the context of the recent birth of our son. The doubts creep in as I begin to question whether all of this "enlightenment and awareness" are worth it--is this "adoptee awareness" worth the strain and turmoil it brings to my relationships with my family, whether openly acknowledged or harbored within.

It gets so complicated and messy trying to emotionally triage the conflicting obligations and desires I face from within and without as an adoptee, and in my case, as an adoptee in reunion. All the sensitivities and offenses to consider tempt me to just give up and return to ignorance. Well, obviously, in reality that's impossible--so, more accurately, I am tempted to stop trying to work toward authenticity and just play the adoption game--the game I've played most of my life, the game with which I am all too familiar and hence, uncomfortably comfortable, if that makes any sense. I know the rules, and I'm a seasoned player. So, it's easy to just jump back in.

And to be honest, I haven't actually ever completely given up the game. I still throw on the uniform and run back onto the field when things get tense or awkward. It's easier to me at this point than trying to deal with the penalties and repercussions of not playing the game, of not abiding by the unspoken yet unquestionably enforced rules and regulations.

Fellow adoptees know the game to which I'm referring. It is the game that requires you to be the happy, compliant, bright-eyed adoptee with not a peep of criticism or dissatisfaction to utter regarding your experience as an adoptee. It's the game that expects you to gloss over everything with a thick layer of sticky sweet high fructose corn syrup to make certain that everything you say and do is pleasantly palatable, especially for your parents and family.

The game where you smile and laugh and play along--pretend that you're okay with the current dynamic, as though you're okay with not expressing how you're really feeling or what you're actually thinking--better yet, fake as though you have nothing to say or feel that might question the status quo.

It's the game where I am expected to be solely grateful. It's the game where I cannot express equal loyalties and affection for both my American and Korean families. It's the game where the regulations dictate that I must avoid referring to my Omma and Appa as Omma and Appa and must refer to them as "biological mother" and "biological father." It's the game where all my hopes and desires for having a merged family must remain unspoken, buried, because such wants and expressions are almost heretical.

And despite how awful playing the game can feel, I still find it easier and less frightening at times, than the alternative, to simply concede and comply and take my position on the field--where everyone else, including myself, knows my role and what to expect.

Even now I wish I could go into more detail to elucidate more clearly the context. But what's the point? I already feel defeated, because I know I would absolutely get red carded and be thrown out of the game once and for all, never able to return. Why try to reason with the ref, coach, or other players when it's clear that their understanding of the game is inflexible?

And you say, well, that would be a good thing--go for it, get yourself thrown out of the game.

But in my case, at this point, it's not so simple, it's not so easy. It might not turn out to be such a good thing, because--as much as some of you may cringe and cry out "coward!" or "hypocrite!" --playing the game seems to be the only way I can be close to those I love...and I do love them, all of them.

Still, as far as "processing" and "speaking up" as an adoptee, I can't stop, despite the danger it poses to my relationships. I am compelled to press on even though I wonder why I do.

And yet ironically enough, as a result, I get so weary and so insecure, so full of doubt and uncertainty that it becomes easier at times to play the game than to fight for authenticity--despite the fact that playing the game is equivalent to choosing to be a hypocrite and a liar for the sake of maintaining a pretense that has caused me a lifetime of confusion and strife. Talk about contradicting myself. It's like I'm taking crazy pills (and too many metaphors).

Just another way in which being an adoptee--to borrow a word from my husband--is the most "craptastic" endless cycle of that wonderfully contentious state of quandary we all hate to feel-- Catch 22.

And there I go again--being "aware" as the "messenger of negativity"...I guess I just can't help myself...because I suppose I just can't stop being an adoptee, and more specifically, an adoptee who simultaneously loathes and embraces--well, of course--being an adoptee.

Two Months Already!

Yes, I am completely reveling in our son.

These are just a few of my favorite photos taken over the past two months. I love the bottom one--he looks like he's shredding the air guitar and wailing out hard core to ACDC or Black Sabbath.

It really does go by fast, and I know this is only the beginning. Our little guy has been here for two months already. Unbelievable.

He makes me laugh and cry and everything in between.

Love you, sweet pea.

The human infant

Our newborn son is going on one month. As I learn to care for him, I am dumbfounded, startled, overwhelmed by how utterly helpless and dependent he is. I dare to observe that there was never a more vulnerable, more fragile little being than the human infant, and particularly the newborn.

How desperately he begins to whimper or wail as soon as he realizes he is no longer in my arms or on my lap...that there are no other warm embraces or soothing voices that seem able to comfort him as do mine or my husband's.

And yet, still it is commonplace for people to continue to presume that being adopted as an infant, or more accurately, being separated from one's own mother as an infant somehow diminishes or even nullifies the loss and grief of such an event and the ensuing lifetime consequences.

How anyone concludes that being an infant at the time of relinquishment and adoption indubitably prevents or somehow negates and neutralizes, some would even suggest, counteracts the consequences of such losses is even more perplexing and disturbing to me now than it was before--as I experience my own newborn firsthand.

How can any mother or father or fellow human who has ever cared for a newborn or infant so casually dismiss how profoundly consequential separation from one's mother would be, is?

My son knows me. Our bodies know one another. Our sounds and scents know each other. Our skin, our touch. And although if, God-forbid, he were to be separated from me now and forever (I can barely stand such a thought without going into tearful convulsions), it's true that he would have no tangible memories of me--and yet, I still have no doubt that he would feel the loss of such a premature and unnatural separation for the rest of his life...as have I, emotionally and physiologically.

And certainly, as his mother, I would be haunted by an insatiable emptiness and deep sorrow for the rest of my existence. How abysmal and vast the abyss of grief and angst would be. And yet, how often the consequences experienced by the mother who has lost her child in this way are ignored, denied, disregarded.

Sure, my assessment is emotional and subjective. Yet, are we not human beings? We are not quantities and statistics to be assessed and evaluated (although such measurements have their place and value, they cannot be our sole resource when it comes to the human experience).

There is indeed a place for emotion and subjectivity, and if not among and within the losses and griefs of humanity, then where?

To me, it should be obvious and even logical that a person separated from his or her mother and subsequently adopted as an infant would experience both undeniable short-term and long-term consequences. The fact that when I was a child and up through young adulthood, I, myself was someone that proclaimed I was unscathed by adoption should have been an indication of something askew rather than something aligned.

And yet, if I do not quote research and study upon study, my perspective, my experience is considered nothing but childish and inconsequential anecdote. Everything must bow down to science and its methods. Again, I love science and furthermore, my degree is in the science of psychology.

But it saddens me that the heart is no longer treated as worthy evidence.

Still, I cannot honestly look at my son as I hold him in my arms or watch him sleep or nurse, and coldly conclude that his life, his being would not be affected, changed, altered in profound ways were we to be torn apart...

And hopefully, he will never know such grief...

Our son is here...

Just a very short post to announce that our son is finally here!

He was born about 2 weeks ago, after a long and tumultuous labor, on a Saturday morning. We spent a week in the hospital while he was treated for a pesky, persistent case of jaundice (although, I joke that the dude is half Asian and a quarter Greek, so he's always going to have a little tinge of yellow and olive, eh? *smilewink*)

I'm so in love as I wander through his face and every little sound and moment...as I try to find my way through this new life, this new beginning...as my husband and I enter into this profound adventure...

For now, I am content and mystified to be lost in his world...

While I allow myself to be lost from the outside world, I am being found in a world that was once lost to me yet is now being slowly yet beautifully rediscovered, as though for the first time...

And really to lose oneself is to find oneself...

Or it could just be the misty nebula of oblivion and confusion brought about by severe sleep deprivation and constant feedings...Ha.

I'm letting go...

[I wrote the following on January 5, 2011]

Over the months, something within me has been building or dismantling, whatever way one wants to view it. I feel as though I have been living life harder and fuller than ever before--feeling and thinking, experiencing and encountering, to the deepest depths and to the highest heights.

And with that, I think I am ready, or just about, to let go.

Let go of what?

I'm ready to let go of the pain.

Scary words to utter--that is, at least for me. Frightening, really. And I'll explain why, for me, the "letting go" of the pain associated with my adoption is a scary thing, and even exactly what the "letting go" means, because I have no doubt it will be misunderstood and misinterpreted by many.

First of all, let me state what I DO NOT mean. When I say that I'm ready to let go of the pain, it does not mean that the pain is gone. It does not mean that the pain doesn't still affect my life. It does not mean that somehow magically I've "gotten over" it all. And it does not mean that suddenly I love being adopted and think it's the most fabulous thing to come along since the horseless carriage.

It does not mean that I will no longer need to talk about the pain or feel the pain. It does not mean that I still don't cry about all that has happened and continues to unfold. It does not mean that I feel as though I am finished or that I have arrived. It does not mean the journey is anywhere near completion. It does not mean that I no longer deal with the ongoing consequences of my adoption. And it certainly does not mean that everything is now resolved with my Korean and American families.

What I do mean is that I am ready to allow the pain to no longer threaten or control me. I am ready to accept the good and the healing as well as the pain and the sorrow.

I think for a while now, I have needed the time to dwell in the pain, in the sorrow, because I have needed the time and the opportunity to grieve--unabashedly, without constraint. I was and have been denied all of my life the "right" to grieve, to deal with and face the pain and sorrow. And even still there are those who continue to deny me--but, I am ready to let go of them, too.

And now, after having time to seize the grief and finally making it my own, I feel that I can finally be at peace with it. Being at peace with the pain, however, does not mean that it is gone or that it does not still affect who I am and who I am becoming. The pain will always be a part of me. The sorrow and grief is always in me and with me. But it is not all of who I am, and it is not what compels me to live.

Yet the reason I fear letting go of of it, and even more so attempting to share this with all of you is because of the danger of misunderstanding and misinterpretation that likely comes with expressing my desire to let go of the pain.

I've had enough encounters with folks who say things to me that discount and invalidate the depth, intensity, and longevity of the pain, sorrow, and grief inherent to being an adoptee. By expressing I am ready to let go of the pain, I fear that doing so will only increase such ignorance and presumption.

I fear that by letting go of the pain, adoptive parents and the like will use it against us--against adult adoptees--to justify adoption by saying the ends legitimize the means.

I can hear it now--sighs of relief among adoptive parents and the like, brushing their brows with the backs of their hands, thinking to themselves or uttering softly, "Thank God, another adult adoptee who finally came around, got over herself, realized all the good adoption does."

Or, "See, Melissa, everything has worked out great for you. It all came out in the wash in the end. Sure, you've had some hardship. But ultimately, you were adopted into a great American family, and later, when the time was right, you got to reunite with your Korean family. Now, the picture is complete. The void is gone. Your family is coming to completion, especially now that you have an amazing husband, a son only days away, and an amazing life. We're so glad you finally realized all that adoption has done for you!"

Again, this is NOT what it means to let go of the pain. And this is not what adoption is or ever will be for me personally--an end to justify the means.

I know this sounds harsh and judgmental to some. I do not intend it to be that way. To be clear, for me personally, adoption is not solely evil. I am not purely anti-adoption.

However, when others frame adoption in such a way as to dismiss the loss and the grief of the original mothers and adoptees affected or to discount or even justify the circumstances and questionable practices that often lead to adoption, because they believe the "end results" are all that are worth considering or all that matter, not only is my heart pained, but I believe that to do so is dishonest and cruel.

Ultimately, I know folks won't understand what I mean or where I'm coming from--they'll interpret what I say as they wish. And that's in part, why at times, I just want to walk away from trying to share my experiences and views--because they get twisted, warped, and picked apart in ways that I never intended.

But again, that is part of the letting go for me--to understand that just as the pain will always be with me, so also will the misunderstandings and misconceptions.

I'm sharing this both for others and because it is emancipating for me. And I'm sharing it ultimately, because I know what I mean, and I am beginning to feel more and more secure in that, regardless of what others imply or assume. And then, of course, there are the few who actually do understand, and they are a great comfort to me.

Furthermore, and perhaps more importantly, I am sharing this, because I want our son to grow up with a mom who is secure--who isn't driven by her pain, but rather is driven by her hope--the same hope that Helen Keller so concisely yet powerfully expressed, because, well, the woman lived it:

"...although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it."

Meaningful words written by someone who knew what it was to suffer, who knew what it was to be trapped in darkness, who knew all too well what it means when life is unfair and circumstances beyond one's control take away what every human takes for granted...and yet, she overcame.

I want to overcome. But overcoming does not mean forgetting. Overcoming is not one-sided. It is complex. Overcoming the pain, the grief does not mean ignoring it or discounting it--no, rather, it means embracing it and recognizing that it will always be there. And yet, it need not threaten me--not any longer.

It need not be something I try to control or suppress or minimize or hide.

And that's what I mean by letting go of the pain--to no longer fear it, to no longer be uncomfortable with it, to no longer try to control it, but simply to let it be what it is.

And I suppose by letting go of the pain, I am also letting go of the fear, ultimately. Pain often causes fear, and in healthy amounts both can help us.

But when pain and fear become so overwhelming and so dominant that they take over one's life and obscure everything in darkness, then they have lost the glory and beauty of their purpose.

So, I am ready--although I will still feel fear, I am ready to no longer give way to fear--to no longer fear that those I love will leave me, to no longer fear that those I love will be taken from me, to no longer fear that I was never enough.

Not that these things cannot happen, but that I need not fear should they happen, because what has made me weak has also made me strong. What has alienated me and isolated me has also surrounded me and filled me--with a depth and richness of life and people that although at times I forget, I cannot deny.

And again, I want my son to be able to grow up trusting that he can overcome his fears and his pain, that he can overcome the injustice and unfairness of life--not by ignoring it or by suppressing it, but by facing it, embracing it, and allowing it to teach him that he can make a difference in this world.

I don't want him growing up with a mom who is always afraid, because she is ashamed of her pain, of her sorrow, of her story. Conversely, I also don't want him to grow up with a mom who is too proud and so calloused, because she has chosen to harden her heart and deny her pain, and hence, the pain of others.

Rather, I want him to have a mother who although knows pain and shame and sorrow, she also knows healing, redemption, and hope. I want him to have a mother who lives life with certainty--not a certainty that life itself is certain, but a certainty that life is worth living and feeling deeply and fully, whether it be pain or joy, tragedy or victory. I want him to know he need not fear neither the heights nor the depths of life, but that he can face them honestly and truthfully.

And that is what it means, to me, to let go...

And that is the truth that I hope our son will grow to know and to trust...

My Omma's Words...

Excerpted from a letter I recently received from my Omma as we await the birth of my husband's and my first child:

"I don't know whose mercy helps us to meet...I can't describe any words to express how I feel gratitude to see my grandchild. You may lived full of sadness, and to me, it was uncomfortable to live day by day until this day comes...Even though we live separately, but I always be with you. Although the baby isn't born yet still, he may feel good because your happiness is also baby's happiness...Your bad mother always pray for you and now I can give happiness to you...I love you so much my daughter, take care. Thank you, dear Melissa and Michael..."

* * *

My Omma's words speak for themselves--even through the broken and strained translation, her words tell us what needs to be heard, what needs to be felt...For anyone who doubts or questions the complexities surrounding adoption and reunion--the simultaneous grief and hope--her words make clear that although we have found one another, it is so only because we first lost each other...

And although her words tell us so much, as both she and I anticipate the birth of my husband's and my first child, there still remains so much emotion, profundity, and depth unspoken that all the words in the world could never even begin to express or illuminate...

Twelve more days, Omma, and your grandson will be here, awaiting your arms, carrying within him a piece of you--along with all the hope that you and I never knew until now...

The Profundity of Pregnancy as an Adoptee, Post-Reunion

Eleven more weeks. Approximately eleven more weeks, and our firstborn child will be here--in my arms, face to face.

My Omma and I and my Appa and I have continued to correspond via letters over the past six to seven months.

It has been almost two years since I first received the news that each of my Korean parents had emerged. Yet it still feels so surreal--so startling--so unbelievable.

It is overwhelming to try to grasp fully the depth, the meaning, the reality of the current circumstances.

There is something so profound and so indescribable about the fact that my son has already had the opportunity to connect with my Appa and Omma, before even being born, in ways that I never have. And yet indirectly, I know that what they are doing for my son, they are doing for me. Redemption at its fullest, I suppose.

My Omma has sent gifts and letters.

My Appa has mailed two giant boxes from Korea packed and bulging with clothes, socks, hats, and blankets for our son--his grandson.

This will be his first grandchild.

My Appa never had the opportunity to meet me or provide for me, and yet now, with the upcoming birth of my husband's and my son, my Appa is lavishing all that he has upon this child.

And it floods me with emotion that I cannot grasp or articulate. It is neither joy nor sorrow, but some inexplicable, incomprehensible plexus of joy and sorrow and everything in between.

I smile through my tears, and I weep through my smile.

I am simply speechless when I try to utter exactly how this experience affects me and how I try to make sense of it all.

I cannot wait to meet our son. I anticipate with eagerness the day that he will meet his American grandparents and one day his Korean grandparents. I anticipate my American parents and brothers meeting our son and being a part of his life.

And what an unfathomable moment it will be to witness my Omma embracing my son in her own arms...to see my Appa holding our son and gazing into his face--an opportunity my Appa lost with me...and yet somehow, now that we have found one another again, there is hope for absolution.

There is no doubt that this child is loved, deeply.

Although the division that remains between my families pierces me deeply, like a thorn plunged irretrievably into my side, I try to cling to the hope that endures, the hope of what may be possible.

And certainly, I want to be able to rejoice over the tiny yet profound life that will soon emerge--the one who will teach me things that I have never known.

Precious, Painful Treasure: The First 5 days of My Life with Omma

[Just a note: There has been an ongoing discussion in response to a post entitled, "The choice to adopt is a luxury choice." Some significant comments have been made to which I need to respond, and furthermore, I, not surprisingly, simply have more that I'd like to share regarding this discussion. I actually have a completed entry that I will post soon. But, for now, I had to take a break from the discussion due to a letter I received from my Omma just two days ago...]

I just received one of the most intense letters from my Omma thus far. She opened up to me for the first time about her memories of her pregnancy and giving birth to me. I learned details about my beginnings, about our beginnings—that is, my Omma’s and my beginnings as mother and daughter—that I have never known.

When I traveled to Korea at the end of June last year to reunite with her for the first time in 30+ years, I had asked her what she remembered from that time. I asked her if she could share with me what it was like for her when she was pregnant with me.

What were her circumstances? What was life like for her during that time?

When she gave birth to me, was she alone or was someone with her?

Did she ever get to hold me?

She choked up with tears and answered that she could not talk about that time in her life because it was too painful. That was over a year ago.

Perhaps she has chosen to finally open up because she feels more secure, more hopeful that I will be able to better understand her and her circumstances, now that I myself am preparing to give birth.

Perhaps she hopes that my own experience of carrying a child and giving birth will help me to grasp with more compassion and humility, less judgment and condemnation, what and why things unfolded as they did.

But the truth is that I never sought her out to judge her or to condemn her. I never sought her out to accuse or to demand recompense. I sought her out because she and I have always been a part of each other. I sought her out because I wanted to have hope that it is never too late. I sought her out because I wanted to know her and to have a relationship with her, fully aware that pain and sorrow would remain, yet hoping that healing and redemption would overcome.

And now that we are here, now that I have sought her and found her, we both must be patient with one another. Although it is not too late, although we can now know one another and have a relationship with each other, the pain and sorrow that remain make the process of healing and redemption slow and fragile.

Although I begin to feel more assured that things will not again suddenly break apart, the insecurity, the fear of such happening are always there. Hence, there is a timidity and a trepidation with which we both proceed that is not easily overcome. Yet, what matters is that we continue on.

What matters is that she is now allowing herself to open up. And what sorrow and suffering she has known. My heart aches with her as I read her words over and over.

To those who have always known how their lives began, it’s easy to take for granted that they can know seemingly mundane details about their beginnings. They can forget how meaningful it is to know that their own mothers held them and nursed them in those first days. They can forget how significant it is to be able to know that they were kissed and caressed by the one who gave them birth. Such details are nothing noteworthy or unique to them, because they have always been assumed.

But to people like me, it is precious, painful treasure. To people like me, it is knowledge that is not so easily assumed but rather questioned and received with angst and hopeful tears.

To discover that I was born by Caesarean is like a golden shard lodged in my throat. To learn for the first time that my Omma and I actually spent the first five days of my life together, as she recovered, is like rubbing jagged jewels in my eyes. Discovering that she nursed me during our brief time together is like a bittersweet elixir sinking into my stomach with the weight of an anvil.

Knowing that we had any time together at all—no matter how short or brief those moments —blankets me as though I am both cold and hot.

And there are deep, secret thoughts that she uttered with her written words that I am not inclined to share.

But to those who would say that the only women who relinquish their children are those who have brought it upon themselves, I would first want to shake you with tears of sorrow and grief choking my rage, pleading with you to open your eyes and mind and heart. But I know that you would not hear me. I know that you would simply dismiss me as crazed and unenlightened. I know that my Omma’s story, my Omma’s truth would mean nothing to you, because she is only one woman, only one person. And it seems that one is never enough to convince the many.

Instead, life after life must be forfeited until the trail is a grave of losses and sorrows upon sorrows. And even then, the world may continue to pass by, muttering exceptions and rationalizations as it steps over those who have tried time and time again to rise up, but have found no one to believe in them.

It is not to say that there are not those who have been so willing to reach out and grasp onto to those who cannot make it alone. But there are still those who remain ignored and despised.

My Omma has had to endure such a life.

Of course, she is not perfect. She has not lived a blameless life. But who of us has?

If only the world had been so willing to believe in her as it had been so willing to believe in me. The world saw me as a helpless, innocent child, with no responsibility for the situation thrust upon me. But, ultimately, not one of us is innocent. And ultimately, we all long for mercy rather than judgment.

So, now, every time I feel my son moving in my womb, every time I touch my hand to my abdomen—taut and hard—to feel him pressing against it with a tiny foot or the crown of his head, I think of my Omma. I think of all her sorrow, all her grief, all the pain that she has endured year after year, day after day—a grief and sorrow that both assails and comforts me, because I know, at least I hope I know, that neither my son nor I will ever have to suffer such a fate. And this gives me both a sadness and a pleasure that by knowing the suffering that my Omma and I share, our son will be able to know a depth of wholeness that neither my Omma nor I have ever known.

Expecting: Experiencing Pregnancy as an Adoptee

So, I've been keeping a secret for the past several months. As many of you noted in your responses to the entry previous to this one, I've been pretty absent for a while.

Overall, I've been less active on my blog and in the general blogosphere over the past several months. But I have a great excuse and one that will probably fuel several new entries in the months and years to come.

My husband and I are actually expecting. As you've probably guessed from the title of this post, it's not a package in the mail or an inheritance that we're expecting, but a person. To spell it out, we're pregnant. And this is my, our first.

In large part, my decreased activity in the blogging world can be attributed to being bedridden for almost two months due to severe nausea and pregnancy sickness. As I have entered the second trimester (I'll be 17 weeks tomorrow), the sickness is beginning to ebb ever so slightly. I still feel nauseous 24/7, but it's not as severe, meaning that I can actually move around now and sit up straight for an extended period. Yay.

So, that's the big news.

As you can imagine, being pregnant and the prospect of being a mother opens up a whole new realm within the--to utilize some psychobabble--adoptee psyche.

In some ways, I haven't wanted to think about what I'm feeling or what this means to me. But of course, it's inevitable. I can't not think about it. In one way, I was so sick that I couldn't think about it. In another way, I think I needed my own time to process, to linger, to ruminate.

But now that the misery of pregnancy sickness is beginning to lift and as I'm getting more in touch with what I'm feeling, the emotions are flooding forth.

In all honesty, it is not easy to find the words to express how profound this experience is for me. Giving birth is profound for any human being. Yet I do believe there is an added profundity that is unique to the adoptee.

First of all, for the longest time, I never imagined myself having children. And well, with that said, I never thought I'd get married. Well, obviously, I got married. And now, I'm going to give birth to a child in less than six months. As an adoptee, at least for me, both of these experiences are incredibly startling and transformative.

A while back I posted an entry titled, "Did meeting my biological parents diminish my desire to conceive biological children?", in which I began to delve into the psychological reasons--both the healthy and not so healthy reasons--as an adoptee specifically, of wanting to have children.

Now that I'm here, pregnant and awaiting the arrival of our child, it becomes so evident--as usual--that you just can't ever be fully "prepared" for certain life events, whether marriage or reunion, whether death or birth. No matter how much I tried before the fact to imagine or anticipate what I would be feeling and how being pregnant would affect my life, and in particular as an adoptee, none of it could substitute for the reality of being in the midst of it all.

I find myself thinking of my Omma and feeling this inextricable connection to her as I experience pregnancy. I can imagine all the more clearly what she must have been feeling--all the fear, the loneliness, the isolation. I asked her in a letter if she suffered serious pregnancy sickness while she was pregnant with me. Indeed she says she did. Knowing her now and experiencing pregnancy help me to have a depth of understanding that otherwise eluded me.

And then, of course, there are my own fears that begin to seep out. I am having recurring dreams of an eery and despairing vividness, in which I find myself weeping and pleading with my husband, Michael. I'm on my hands and knees, gripping his pant cuffs in my hands, begging him not to leave me, as he stands there so unlike himself--cold and aloof, unmoved by my pleas. A deep and unshakable sense of doom and desperation permeates the dreams making them feel so real and so true.

Fortunately, I slowly awaken to the sound of my own audible sobbing and to the embrace and consolation of my husband, telling me that it was only a dream and that he will never leave me. Although I've had dreams in the past of Michael and me getting into arguments, they have been few and far between and did not involve him leaving me. Yet ever since becoming pregnant, such dreams have increased in frequency and intensity, each time, Michael is leaving me, his decision inevitable and unchanged.

It is no surprise to me, however, that I am harassed by such dreams. I have had conscious thoughts in which I fear experiencing the same fate as my Omma--that some unanticipated event will unfold resulting in the tragic separation of Michael and me, and ultimately, leading to the demise of our dreamed future together as a family...

Yet simultaneously, I experience awe and wonder that I am carrying a child within who will bear my DNA and hence the DNA of my Omma and Appa, of their mothers and fathers, that will emerge with likenesses and characteristics that only those of the same flesh and blood can share. My eyes fill with tears when I contemplate that this child will be the biological child of my husband and me--that this child will be able to know from whom and where he or she comes--and in full.

I cannot wholly grasp how profound it is that this child of ours will know both his or her American and Korean grandparents. Our child will have the fortune of growing up knowing who he or she is. Our child will not know what it is like to not know the basics of his or her identity. And this brings me to tears in a way that it would not if I were not an adoptee.

I cannot fully comprehend what this means to my Omma and Appa, who lost me over three decades ago, and yet to whom I have now returned. They will now know the child of their lost child in ways that they could not know me. And our child will know my Omma and Appa in ways that I could not know them. Just the simple fact that our child will grow up knowing that my Omma and Appa exist and who they are is surreal and incomprehensible at the moment...

I ponder how I automatically think that I will need to explain to our child why "Mommy" has both Caucasian and Korean parents, yet realizing that initially our child won't think anything of it--to him or her this will be normal, this will be the way it has always been. Life will always have included Grandpa and Grandma and Haraboji and Halmoni. To our little toddler, it will be simple and uncomplicated. It will just be.

Realizing this makes me wish that it could be so simple and so innocent in my mind, in everyone's mind.

It brings forth even more poignantly and more urgently the deep longing, the relentless hope onto which I hold that all of the ones I love could be one family one day. I imagine our child, still innocent and unaware of man-made divisions and discriminating love, playing in a room where all of my family, both the Americans and Koreans, have gathered together to overcome the separation and fears that I hope our child will never have to know...