I was curled up on the sofa in our family’s living room the day my mother sat down beside me and asked the question that would shatter my hopes for my sophomore year of high school. Her voice was gentle and the hand on my shoulder was calming. Her eyes searched mine for the truth,
“Kim, have you ever had sex?”
“No.” My response was immediate and reflexive. It was also a lie. I was sixteen years old, and although my mother had always encouraged me to come to her when I started thinking about having sex, that was just something moms said, right? What teenage girl actually wants to have that conversation? What mother, for that matter? My mom, however, was an ob/gyn. She knew the signs of pregnancy and recognized what I had not even been able to admit to myself.
“Honey, I think you’re pregnant.”
I felt my stomach drop, the way it does on a roller coaster. My heart beat faster, panicked. Me, pregnant? My mother is telling me I’m pregnant?! My head filled with all the reasons this couldn’t be. I’m 16. I’m a track star. I’m a straight A student. I never drink; I never go to high school parties. I don’t do drugs. I had sex with my boyfriend three times. You have got to be kidding me! As I sat on my living room sofa, I was speechless. I had been to a doctor in my mother’s ob/gyn practice earlier that day because my stomach had been hurting. I returned home after the appointment, but my mother had remained at work. Suspecting that my stomach problems might be the symptom of something other than a gastro-intestinal issue, she had asked that a pregnancy test be run.
One of her partners confirmed her suspicions, and now she was telling me.
I started screaming. I can’t remember what I screamed because all I could hear was the rushing in my ears, like a vacuum sucking up the life I had planned. After months of ignoring physical signs, my Catholic school uniform suddenly became unbearably tight with this news.
My thoughts turned to my birthmother. She had been 16 when she had me. I was adopted at three days old. Although I was thankful for her decision to give me up, I swore I was never going to turn out like her. I was special. I had plans for an incredible life. This was not part of my blueprint.
Hysterical, unable to accept this shift in my reality, I continued to scream. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” I jumped of the sofa and stormed into different rooms, as if I could physically move away from the truth. My mom followed me to the kitchen. The living room. The den. She tried to calm me, but I would not be calmed. Finally, still screaming with what strength I had left, my mom put her arm around me and brought me upstairs to my sister’s bedroom in the back of the house. I was so loud that I am sure the neighbors could hear. And if they couldn’t—Harry Norman could. Mr. Norman, a top Atlanta realtor, had just knocked on my parents’ door. He had come to meet my mom in order to discuss photographs of our home to be placed in a local magazine’s home section. My mom left me upstairs to answer the door. Today, she laughs when she describes the brief interview with Mr. Norman. She opened the door with a big smile while I continued to run around upstairs, crying and screaming. With characteristic Southern manners, she graciously informed him that “now is not a good time.” Then she gently closed the door in his stunned face.
After Mr. Norman left and my mom came back upstairs, she sat beside me on my sister’s bed while fearful tears rolled down my face. I could only imagine what my mom was thinking. Was she angry? Was she sorry she had ever adopted me? Was she ashamed? My parents were well-known in the community. My mom was the first female physician in the county and my dad was an attorney for one of the most prominent law firms in the nation. Now I was their pregnant sixteen year-old daughter.
As I calmed down, my mom listed my options. My first reaction to the news that I was pregnant was to get rid of the baby. Abortion would not be out of the question; I grew up in a liberal, well-to-do family. My mother supported planned-parenthood and was one of the few doctors in her practice that would perform a medically mandated abortion. Both mom and dad had discussed with me and my sister a woman’s right to choose. So my answer to what I was going to do about my pregnancy was “easy.” I was not going to have this baby. No one would have to know that I had even been pregnant- not my dad, not my sister, not my friends- no one. It was bad enough that my mom knew. My “easy” option, however, was made more difficult once my mom explained some details about just how pregnant I was.
“Kim, you have three choices. You can terminate this pregnancy. However, being that you are about 22 weeks along, you will need to deliver the aborted baby.” She had felt and measured my belly while we were downstairs on the living room sofa. I was 5 ½ months pregnant and had not even realized it.
I closed my eyes and let go of my original plan. I was pro-choice, but the idea of delivering an aborted baby…”No,” I said, knowing this was not an option for me.
“Your second option is to have and raise this baby.”
Just as quickly, I knew this was not going to work either. With a child now, how would I finish high school, graduate college, become a teacher and small business owner, marry the man of my dreams and have two children by age thirty-two?!
“Your third option is to have this baby and give it up for adoption.” She told me that she and dad would support whatever decision I made. But before she could even finish speaking, I had made up my mind. I would have this baby and give it up for adoption. I didn’t know what the Lord had planned for me, my baby, and our future, but I knew He would take care of us.
Within twenty-four hours my mom had flown my dad’s mom, Nana, in from Michigan. We quickly planned for me to return with Nana to attend a small high school for pregnant teens so that I could continue my studies and graduate on time.
Together we waited anxiously for my dad to return home from a week long trip. My mom hadn’t mentioned any of this to my dad while he was away. He needed to be home when we told him.
I watched his arrival as my mom stopped him on the front porch and told him the news. Had he made it inside, he would have thought something was terribly wrong. My Nana never just popped in for a visit. Moments later my dad came inside with tears streaming down his face and hugged me tightly. I could barely look at him.
“Kimmy, everything is going to be okay. I love you. We will get through this together.”
I wasn’t the first pregnant teenager my father knew. He had practiced adoption law since I was born and even wrote the very first adoption laws for the state of Georgia. Never in a million years could he have imagined one of his own baby girls unwed and pregnant at age 16.
I was so far along by the time I discovered that I was pregnant that I had the opportunity to find out the baby’s sex.
When my mother asked me if I wanted to find out what I was having I didn’t hesitate to say, “Yes!” If I was going to carry this baby for the next three and a half months, I wanted to know what sex it was so that I could call him or her by name. Afterall, this baby was mine for a little while longer.
After my mom’s office had closed for the day, we drove out there so that she could perform an ultrasound on me. I was excited and nervous. Although I had not originally realized the gas in my stomach was actually a baby moving around inside me, now I was going to see this little thing!
Was it a boy or a girl? Whatever it was… what was I going to name it? I had never come up with a girl’s name growing up, but while playing on the monkey bars at recess in the fourth grade, I had figured what I was going to name my first son. Did I really want to give away my name?
I remember walking through the back door that I had walked through so many times before into my mom’s office. But this time I wasn’t there to meet my mom for lunch or pick up a prescription. This time I would find myself on an exam table, naked from the waist down anxiously waiting while my mother turned on the ultrasound machine and prepped the tools we would need. The gel my mom spread on my belly was cold.
Almost immediately I could see my baby on the screen. The head, eyes, and nose were perfect! I could see the feet crossed! The only thing left to see was if I was going to be having a boy or a girl. I closed my eyes as my mom searched around.
It didn’t take her long.
“Kimmy?”
“Yes?”
“It’s a boy!”
I cried. I’m not sure if I cried tears of joy, tears of sadness, or from thoughts of the son I was going to give away. My baby—my son—was real. This was one of those moments during this journey I will never forget.
I honestly thought that since I was over half way through my pregnancy when I found out I was pregnant, the bond would not be able to grow as strong as it would otherwise. I would later learn I could not have been more wrong. A mother’s bond is a mother’s bond.
Sometimes it’s funny the way life works itself out. Two weeks prior to this pivotal moment, my mom met with a couple from California who had come to Atlanta to adopt a baby. It didn’t work out. Overcome with sorrow and despair, they returned home with no child. My mom understood their pain because my parents had dealt with infertility too. Their longing to become parents led them to adoption. That’s how I came into the picture.
God had plans for this couple and for me. They would become parents. I would give them a son named Christopher and they would choose to keep his name. We set up a meeting while I was in Michigan with my Nana and attending school. My mom flew up to be with me the weekend I met this couple.
Because we had previously exchanged photos, I recognized Laura and Dave as soon as they walked off the plane. I stood there with a beautiful baby blue scrapbook and a bouquet of flowers to greet my special guests. I could see they were nervous. Who wouldn’t be? But what they didn’t know was that I had already decided they were the ones who would raise my son. I had learned to trust my mom’s instincts. When she told me they would be wonderful parents, I trusted her. I spoke with Laura and Dave on several occasions and exchanged photos before our meeting. We talked about our hobbies, favorite foods, lifelong dreams, interests and values. While we had very little in common other than our faith, I could not have hand-picked more suitable parents for my son. After our weekend together, my gut feelings were confirmed.
This month, June 2009, marks the 15th anniversary of Christopher’s adoption.
I remember so clearly when Christopher was born. My labor could not have been more perfect. He was so tiny: six pounds and seven ounces. He was so beautiful; I held him, memorizing his face, gently tracing the smooth silk of his skin with the pad of my finger. With my mom and my sister by my side, I held him tightly. I couldn’t stop staring at him. Nothing else around me mattered. This was my son.
I was his mother for now. I kept Christopher in the room with me the entire time I was in the hospital. I changed his diapers and fed him all of his bottles. He was not leaving my sight until it was time.
It was important for me to baptize my son before I said good-bye. Reverend Lori came out to the hospital to perform the ceremony. My mom, sister, dad and brother were all there along with Laura and Dave, Christopher’s adoptive parents. At the beginning of the Baptism, I clearly remember that I handed Laura Christopher for her to hold. It’s been 15 years and it is still painful to remember. I was sitting up in the hospital bed. Laura and Dave were to my right. I asked Laura if she wanted to hold him, and she said, “Yes.”
I gave him to her.
I began to weep silently, and when I handed Christopher to her, he started to cry. I remember thinking, “it’s because I’m his mother.”
After the baptism, Laura and Dave left to stay with family friends until the next day—the day when I would say good-bye, and they would become his parents.
I held Christopher all night long. The nurses would come in urging me to put him down so I could sleep. There would be plenty of time to sleep later. Putting him down was unthinkable. I stared at him while he slept. I stared at him while he ate. I stared at him staring right back at me.
He knew who I was. He knew that I loved him more than anything else in the world.
Morning came quickly. I had been dreading this day for months. I had my mom and my sister at my side with me in my final moments with my son. My dad remained at home. He had witnessed a birthmother’s good-bye many times. He could not watch his daughter say good-bye to his grandson. It was too painful.
Before I even began getting ready for the day, Dr. Campbell, my physician, came in at my mom’s request to make sure that I wanted to give Christopher up for adoption. She asked if this was my decision and if I felt comfortable with it.
Grateful that she had taken this time for me, I assured her that this was what I wanted to do. I knew I was doing what was best for me and my baby.
I remember taking a shower and my mom blow-drying my hair. We had picked out my going home outfit weeks before. It wasn’t a maternity outfit, but it was a beautiful, comfortable dark red shorts and shirt set. I had plans to wear it again. After I was ready, we dressed Christopher in his going home outfit.
I had picked it out just for him. I tucked his tiny hands and feet into the baby blue and white baseball sleep n’ play, then placed the matching hat on his head. He looked handsome. It pleased me to think they would think he was handsome too. We took pictures of Christopher with us. My mom took a Polaroid of me and Christopher so we could leave it with him.
It is incredibly painful, even now, to remember my good-bye. Holding him that last time—knowing it was the last time—felt as if someone had ripped out all my insides and I had nothing left. I knew this pain would linger, not just disappear.
I was about to lose my first child.
I remember walking out of the hospital room so composed; I chose not to look back. The walk down the hallway seemed like eternity.
I remember getting to the car.
My sister and mom helped me put my bags in the car. My mom said, “All right girls, I have to drive home. We’ll cry when we get there.”
And so we did.
In the darkness that followed Christopher’s birth, I believed that this was all a part of a larger plan the Lord had for me. This faith is what got me through the difficult times that followed. There were numerous nights that I cried myself to sleep.
Though Christopher was out of sight, the reminders of his birth were still with me. For most women, the experience of having their baby’s milk come in provides tangible, physical validation of their role as mother. For me, it was painful. I remember stretching an ace bandage around my breasts for days to stop milk from producing. But this takes time. When I took showers, the hot water would stimulate milk production, and I would stand under the stream watching milk flow freely down my chest, down my legs and into the drain.
It was a physical reminder that couldn’t be denied. I had given birth to a son who would never need my nourishment.
For the first few days following Christopher’s birth, I carried around a box with his things. I had his first pacifier, first blanket, hospital bracelets and first pictures. They were mine, and no one was going to take them away from me. In time, my baby box went from the top of the fireplace in my bedroom, to my bookshelf, to the bottom of my bookshelf, and finally to my closet where it remained for many years.
I started running three days after his birth and was back to my pre-pregnancy weight within two weeks. Running was my medicine. When I returned to my Catholic high school, I had a cross-country season ahead of me and less than two months to prepare. I planned to make sure I had my best season yet. Fellow classmates could whisper all they wanted, but I worked to be skinny and fast. There would be no physical clues from the past to give people more reason to talk.
I survived high school. The journey of Christopher’s adoption brought me a strength that could not have been granted me otherwise. In fact, I excelled. I received numerous athletic and academic awards during my high school career. One of my greatest accomplishments was being chosen as one of two graduates in my class to be an Olympic Torch Escort Runner in the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games. I had won. I was a winner.
I went on to graduate college with a Bachelor’s Degree in Business and marry the man of my dreams. My husband Shawn and I became pregnant with our first son shortly after we married, and I began teaching. I can’t remember ever being more excited! I was pregnant with my baby. A baby that would be mine forever. A son that I was going to raise. I would see his first step. I would see his first little league game. I would someday watch his graduations and his walk down the aisle with his new bride.
The entire family waited with anticipation for the arrival of our little man, Shawn-Michael, Jr. He would be the first grandbaby on either side of the family. Ironically, he was born in June, the same month as Christopher. I would return to the very hospital I had been to nine years before. However, this time would be a celebration.
On the day he was born, the room was packed. I had my sister and mother-in-law on my right side with my father-in-law behind them with the video camera. Shawn was to my left with my father behind him to catch him if he fell. My mom stood at the foot of the delivery table. She would be the first to welcome my son into the world.
I remember looking at my mom as she guided me through. She never stopped smiling at me. After less than fifteen minutes of pushing my son was born. My mom stood up and laid him on my tummy, but not before she kissed her new grandson on the forehead. He was beautiful, perfect, and mine! Shawn’s pulse felt as though it would jump out of his body. My dad stood speechless. My father-in-law cheered. My sister laughed and wept. My mother-in-law grinned from ear to ear. And I cried the most joyful tears. I felt fulfilled. Complete. Nothing could take this moment away from me.