The rain has moved out for a few days. It was no surprise to hear this was the wettest February on record. I have the mud on the kitchen floor to prove it. No matter how often I mop, our fur babies seem to require “outside” duties immediately after I clean the floor. I really hope it dries out soon.

Last Friday would’ve been my Mom’s 88th birthday. I had a moment in that morning. I pulled out my phone to call and wish her happy birthday. Then it hit me: I couldn’t. Grief comes in strange and unpredictable waves. Even though it’s been several months, it still comes and goes. I know it will be the same with my friend Jim. February simply isn’t on the Top Ten list of my favorite months. Thank God it’s over…

I was out on the porch, reminiscing about Mom and Dad this morning. Dad passed in 2002 and I still think of him often. I’ve heard many horror stories of extreme dysfunctional family life over the years: abuse, neglect, and alcoholic or addicted parents. It breaks my heart to hear them. I was adopted and my earliest memories are of my parents telling me how much they loved me and desired me. Such terrible tales simply aren’t my story. Later in life, my memories are of the pain my addiction caused them and how they loved me anyway. In both cases I count myself blessed. Not everyone can say that…

I’m eternally grateful for the two people who became my parents and in many ways, for my birth mother who gave me up for adoption. When I was born in 1958, Eisenhower was President, rock & roll was probably the cause of all societal ills, and good girls didn’t have babies out of wedlock. Abortion wasn’t legal and adoption was the option “good” families chose for their daughters. I know very little about my birth mother. I do know she was 16 when I was born, so it’s likely they sent her off to the VOA to live out her pregnancy. Such things should be hidden from polite society. 

I’d like to think giving me up was one of the hardest things she ever did. I’ve talked to women who have given up children for adoption. They’ve all shared about how they think about them: especially on their birthdays. I’d like to think she still thinks of me. Though Mom and Dad are, without question, my parents, there’s still this lingering question about my biological mother. I guess it hasn’t been pressing enough to do the work necessary for the answers. Yet. However, I sometimes wonder if there are half-brothers and half-sisters out there that share the same DNA…

I suppose there’s a bit of grief in all that as well: a Mom and Dad who loved me and a birth mother I never even knew. Grief knows no time limits. Grief comes in some strange and often unrealistic ways. And sometimes, grief shows up in what could’ve been. No matter how it comes, real or imagined, it has to be felt, dealt with, and walked through. I’m just grateful it doesn’t have to be walked through alone.