Dominic held his grandfather’s hand as he navigated the grass in his backyard. His little eyes focused on the ground in front of him and his moving feet, which were donned with puppy face shoes. His grandfather was ready to steady him if he stumbled.
I watched from the other side of the lush lawn, trying to concentrate on the conversation with Dominic’s two grandmothers. But I was very distracted by the thoughts echoing in my empty heart.
“That’s my son walking with that stranger,” I tried to stifle the words in my mind. “I just met this man, but already he has a relationship with my baby — a relationship I am not part of.”
I clenched my jaw and quickly looked away, swallowing the tears building behind my eyes. I suppose my motherly instinct was crying out in that moment; but like I chose to do almost a year ago, I set it aside and accepted my adoption choice.
For the rest of the evening, I emotionally removed myself. I was glad to be meeting Dominic’s adoptive grandparents for the first time, but I was struggling in ways I could not comprehend. I put those feelings in a box, trying to relish the rest of my visit.
I visited Dominic, Robby and Marie twice in March: once to meet some of their family and friends, and once to join them on a desert camping trip. I feel utterly spoiled.
But during those two visits — the first one, especially — I noticed a growing emotional distance between me and Dominic.
I love my visits with Dominic so much, but I am finding that in order to enjoy them, I have to numb myself while I’m there. I shut down the grieving so I can laugh and play with my baby. I lock away all jealousy so I can rejoice in the flourishing of Robby and Marie’s little family. I pretend my heart doesn’t break when it’s time to say goodbye.
Numbing has become a necessary evil. But it is not selective.
My shared laughter with Dominic is hollow. My pride in his accelerated development is stunted. My love for him is muted.
The words of a fellow birthmother, Tammy, continue to rattle around in my brain. I interviewed her about her denial, and she said,
Denial is sometimes the only way to cope when you have no other way and life must go on.”
My numbness is a form of denial. I deny my feelings so I can function in the moment.
Next month is Dominic’s first birthday. Neil and I were invited and have made plans to attend his birthday party. Being there to celebrate is very important to me: I want Dominic to see in later years that his two families — birth and adoptive — have fused together over our love for him. I want to be there when he eats cake for the first time. I want to mark the anniversary of the beginning of his adoption.
However, I expect that my attendance will require lots of emotional numbing. For now, I see no other way. And life must go on.
Do you agree with Tammy’s observation of denial? Have you ever felt numb while experiencing a very difficult, emotional time? Leave a reply in the comment box below. Please review our comment policy here.
