think of your mother and your mind conjures a million images. how we choose to think of her has a great deal to with maternal friction. the one who installs the buttons most often pushes them. after all, they are our mothers. this bathing beauty circa 1946 is my mom, dolores henderson duross at the jersey shore. you just know she was a heartbreaker.

who were the girls at sixteen that were to become our mothers? how changed would they have been by a world steeped in social media? and what kind of media would be left behind once they are gone? time will certainly tell as an entire generation of moms-to-be take on the role with years of videos, pic and selfies forever available on the internet. who we become is often colored by how we are remembered. i hope the next generation has a great sense of humor ’cause the jig is up. luckily i have this treasured pic as a window to my mother’s youth.

this year i’m choosing to remember my mother in a very personal and powerful way. i can only hope that she would approve. in as much as i only allow myself about one day a year to really feel the pain of my loss, i carry her with me every day. i miss her love and pride. i mourn the woman i knew and the girl i could never know. anyone who has had a powerful loss thinks the same thing: if only i could have just ten minutes more…

a little over fifty years ago my family legally adopted me. they made me an equal partner in the unit with a favored place as the “baby” of the family. there are moments when my older siblings still think they know better because they are older, but that is another blog entirely. the tale i tell is about the journey from discovery to attempting to uncover what i can of my past. i continually look for opportunity to honor my parents, my family’s contribution really, and to touch a part of myself that i don’t often choose to view. while alive, i honored my mother’s request by not looking for answers about my origins. it worried her so that i did not wish to cause her any pain. in many ways i belonged to her and her alone.

a few years ago i received a phone call from my birth mother. it could not have come at a worse time. i was in the middle of sorting a painful end to my marriage, and as it should happen, my birth mother had just buried the love of her life. certainly not an auspicious beginning. once the holidays were over and i had time to gather my thoughts, i met her in san francisco for one day. perhaps i was being selfish. it wasn’t much time for anything, but the whole thing gave me an enormous feeling of discomfort that i gave what little i could.

up to the time i became involved in my work, i looked for myself in another person. a mirror image that so many siblings had the good fortune to share. i belong with you because we are alike. that has never been my experience. to most observers, it’s immediately obvious that i look different than my siblings. though my sister and two brothers never made feel as though i was different, my imagination was bound to this idea of sameness by naturally curiosity. at some point in my adolescence, i discovered i had a biological brother. at a time in our lives when many of us begin to feel different or outside the norm, this piece of news offered me the possibility of that oneness. there was no where to go with this hope. it was the seventies. the idea of openness did not exist in the world of adoption. the nuns guarded the secrets of my birth as closely as they guarded their virtue. they were rather mean about it as well.

finally the day arrived when i would meet the woman who gave me life. we spoke a few times on the phone prior to meeting. small conversations where i listened to her speak about her life and the man she had loved. i quickly disassociated from the whole experience, as if this were happening to someone else. it felt somehow a betrayal of the woman i loved. the one who raised me. intellectually i understood that one had nothing to do with the other, but feelings are what they are, and as history continues to prove, something as realistic and tangible as facts cannot dissuade people from following their feelings. we met in the elevator lobby outside my suite. immediately i saw what i thought had wanted all my life. a mirrored image. though she was an older, female version of me. not quite the romanticized fraternal link i once imagined, and now when i look in the mirror at my reflection, there is something more there than what used to be. once done it cannot be undone. we embraced and quickly got to work examining the span of forty-eight years. as skillfully as a prosecutor, i began to litigate the facts of my biological history. where was i born? who was my father? how did it happen? what family medical history could she offer? tangentially, imagine not filling out five of the six forms of medical information you need to for everything in life. i knew nothing. even on my quietest days i can be a bit much. the ton of information i was essentially demanding could have stunned a team of oxen. but fear not. we are both products of our environment as well as what nature has imbued through the DNA. this little lady could hold her own with me. she had her own agenda for our visit. it was altogether inconsistent to my own. while i sought a specific factual, almost clinical line of questioning surrounding the pronoun what, she wanted to explain why.

in the end, i could not get the answers i was seeking, and i could only offer her the redemption of the choice she had regretted her entire life. the sadness i initially felt remained for a while in the background of my psyche, though i am no longer plagued by the little niggling things that i once felt were left undone. a conversation with becky fawcett, founder of helpusadopt.org has brought me to the jarring realization that most of today’s adopted kids have access and/or relationships to their birth mother. the sense of wonder, regret and sadness is softened (if not eliminated) by the child’s ability to construct an entire picture. why as an adult would i deny myself this opportunity? because i closed the door on it a long time ago. i am at peace with my past. whatever occurred, it’s led me to today, and to a family i love. learning that i biologically have two brothers and a sister reminds me that for better or worse, biology doesn’t mean diddly. i was raised by two brothers and a sister, and with all things being equal at the blackjack table of families, i’ll stick. i’m good.

every year since my mom died, mother’s day has only been about baskets and little gift boxes and wonderful things tied up with ribbon. hopefully you can make your mom smile with some of my soap and plenty of your love. i work to make it special because i know how much those little pleasures meant to my mom. this year will be no different. so when you see your mom, please hold her like you will never let her go. hug tightly to that sixteen year old girl who left many of her dreams along the journey to becoming your mother, and don’t forget to thank her for every sacrifice. after all, we would be nothing without her.