Letting Go, a birth mothers story, pt. 5

      On Thursday, February 22, Emily became jaundiced and had to spend 24 hours in an incubator. We weren’t allowed to hold her any longer than it took to feed or change her. The build-up of biliruben in her system forced the first step of separation. It was torture. Out last 24 hours as a family and we couldn’t even hold our darling Emily. Chaz and I watched her, holding each other, trying to be strong.
      On Friday, we said our final goodbyes to our daughter. I kept telling myself that we were doing the right thing, but I was dying inside. All I wanted to do was disappear, to simply vanish into solitary loneliness. Instead, legal protocol mandated that we take the final and hardest step. We drove from the hospital to Jewish Family Services, and through our tears, signed the adoption papers. Another birth certificate was issued. I listed Todd and Shelly as the parents. Her name was now Sarah Emily Torset.
      I was a puddle for days. Not happy, not sad, simply existing. My body was confused, producing milk that would never nourish, screaming for completion. Chaz was my strength, holding me, never admitting his own fragility. I felt closer to him during those following weeks than ever before. We’d grieve together silently, no need to speak, understanding one another's feelings in a way that no one else ever could. We were all we had, essential for our healing.

      A month and a half after Sarah’s birth, my body was strong enough to escape on a two and a half week road trip. I visited friends in California, returned to my beloved Portland stomping grounds, and spent days releasing emotion and recharging myself at the Oregon Coast. My family’s ranch in southern Washington provided room to scream. During the week following Sarah’s birth, my father began a heartfelt project- to plant a tree for each person that loved Sarah. He said that he ran out of saplings. During my visit, I sat for hours on end in that grove, crying, and watching the trees grow. I decided to spend 3 days with the Torsets. I witnessed their joy, fell in love with their completed family, saw Sarah’s moments of sadness, acknowledged the conflicting feelings which arose within me as her new mother soothed her tears, and cried myself to sleep in the darkness of the guest bedroom. I wasn’t sure that I could say goodbye again. I did though, and released my pain in the comfort of my car. Photography and music became my therapy, passing the miles between Seattle and Las Vegas.

     Now two years later, I re-live the pain.  It floods me, cripples me.  I have no control.  The tears begin to well, and soon my shirt is spotted with sorrow.  I’ve seen her six times since she was born.  The first time that Chaz and I met, his eyes were the first things I noticed: huge, deep, dark brown eyes that sucked me in instantly.  She has his eyes.  My lips.  Our hair.  I have felt her laugh, watched her learn, and held her.
     My body still calls for her, but my mind is unquestioning.  I will never regret the decision that we made.  Even now, as my daughter nears 259,200 minutes old, and my abdominal scar begins to pulse, I feel no regret.  It’s human nature to imaging what might have been.  I see Chaz as a loving father, holding her, and always able to coax a giggle.  I hear myself as a mother, teaching her all I can about ho to move through her life.  I encounter children her age in my daily routine, and begin to feel twinges of remorse.  Tracking her development vicariously, I pick and choose my moments of tenderness carefully.  I work hard not to become weighed down by sorrow.  This week of the year may always be difficult—each day awakens remembrances.  I feel a welling of sadness that I can’t repress.  I draw a deep breath, light a cigarette, and ask for the strength to persevere.
     As the pain subsides and the words flow, I know that she and I are exactly where we both need to be.  With no regret, only tenderhearted love.  730 days have passed since she became a Torset.  730 days have created the person I am today.  I light two candles in silent celebration.  Happy Birthday, Sarah Emily.