Second Chances

There's always talk of loss in adoption: loss of identity, loss of your child, sometimes a loss of a dream of having biological children. I've come to realize that there are many different levels of loss in adoption. It's a choice that alters the course of your entire existance, not many come out unscathed. Some casualties are not obviously related to adoption itself, but the person you become as a result.

Such is the case of Bertha and I. (Forgive me, I'm running out of initials, and Bertha was one of my pet names for her) She was my closest friend from the day we ended up in almost every single seventh grade class together, all through high school. Class schedules weren't the only thing that we shared, we liked the same clothes, the same music, the same subjects. We even had handwriting that was nearly identical, since we practiced imitating eachothers writing in the thousands of notes we passed back and forth every single day. There were very few memories that I have of my early teen years without Bertha being a part of it. Towards the end of high school, we were both engrossed in our respective boyfriends and didn't spend quite as much time together on the weekends, but every day she picked me up for school, despite the fact that I didn't live on the way. We went out for lunch together, became co-editors on the newspaper staff together. We worked our part time jobs together. Summers through high school and beyond were spent at the beach almost every day, slathering ourselves in baby oil to maximize the few hours we may have had in the sun before work. Our first few really drunk experiences were together, memorizing the Budweiser labels and downing Jack Daniels.

Bertha went to college 800 miles away also, but in the other direction. We frequently called eachother despite the distance. However, I never told her about my secret, my plans to place my child for adoption. She knew of my pregnancy, but I don't remember talking much about it with her. For as close as we were, there were things we didn't talk about, like emotions. We both mantained a nice big wall from our innermost, vulnerable thoughts. Real deep things, like losing our virginity, her dad's death from a short term illness, M, we just didn't talk about. The other thing we never did was refer to eachother as "best" friends. We were partners in crime, thick as thieves. People saw us as a package deal. But never did we call eachother besties. Even if we were.

Bertha met her husband her first week of college. It was not surprising, she was one of those girls that pretty much had a serious boyfriend since the day she started to date. As their relationship grew more serious and she began to settle down, quit smoking and become responsible, I was floundering in my on again/ off again relationship with B, and withdrawing into clubbing and serial dating. I kept everyone at an arms length, afraid that they might figure out or learn of my secret. And it was an easy secret to keep from Bertha, because she was only home for the summers and breaks. Yet, I felt guilty keeping it from her. It wasn't that I thought she wouldn't understand. I just didn't want to talk about it. Still I wanted to tell her, to know what I had been through. It created a wedge between us

I had been asked to be a bridesmaid in Bertha's wedding, even though by that point we hadn't spoken in a while. I was barely involved in the planning, not by choice either. She did include me in the picking of the dresses, but that was all. Her other bridesmaids were all at the same point in their lives as Bertha was, seriously dating their boyfriends, on the cusp of engagement. I can't even begin to remember who I was dating at the time, as I went to her wedding alone. The other girls palled around planning her shower and her bachelorette, letting me know at the very last minute. I didn't get a chance to contribute. I was slightly aware of what the other girls thought about me: stuck in the past, still hanging around her high school boy toy, college dropout who spent her weekends bar hopping. I withdrew more and more, at that time I had little self esteem. I believed the hype. But what they didn't know was that I had absolutely no ability to get close to anyone, nor did they know why.

I remember the last few times Bertha and I spoke, it was awkward. For two girls that started out carbon copies of one another, we couldn't be more different at that point. We went out to dinner, me, Bertha and her husband, and spent the majority of the time reminiscing about the past, because that was all we had. I remember at the time I drove home and wondered when she got so "lame" and domestic. Deep down, I knew that I really didn't think that way, I was jealous of her for staying "on track" as she always did. She had the white picket fence . I was truly happy for her, in fact of all my friends who were marrying their boyfriends, I knew her and her hubby would make it. They had it all together. I didn't. I was at a baddish point, living the life of a guilty birthmother, sabotaging my relationships and sheltering myself from anyone who would get too close.

Our relationships dwindled to sporadic Christmas cards from Bertha. Some of them I didn't even open because I just felt too awful that I pushed her away. I got a birth announcement from her when she had her first child, and I didn't even know she was pregnant. The years went on, and I got a second birth anouncement when she had her second. By that time, I had been in a better place, living on my own, going back to school, and dating my husband to be. I realized I missed her, missed out on all the things we didn't talk about but assumed we would be a part of, and curious as to why we hadn't talked, yet I still got her announcements. I called her and left a message, but didn't hear back. A few years went by and I got another Christmas card. I sent her a card later that year for her birthday with my contact info, but didn't hear back from her. I felt terrible. I knew I let the relationship go, and I knew why. I built up too many walls. To this day, there isn't a week that goes by that something doesn't remind me of her, whether it's a song, a word or phrase we warped or a sarcastic joke about, a rite of passage that we shared. And I wished I could tell her about M, about how if she felt ignored or slighted, it wasn't her, it was me. Not too long ago, I had found myself driving through her neighborhood, detoured past her block, and wondered if I knocked, would she answer?

And then a strange twist happened just yesterday. I had gotten an e-mail to set up a meeting for my boss, and one of the people who were copied on the e-mail was Bertha. I knew she had once worked in the same industry, but since I hadn't crossed paths with her, I had assumed she had moved on. Usually, I respond to just the originator of the message, but since I knew the other people who were copied fairly well, I replied all with my response. She didn't know my married name, so I wasn't sure if she would know it was me. I wanted to e-mail her, but in the professional setting I wasn't sure how it would go over. She knew it was me. She e-mailed me tentatively, asking my maiden name. When I confirmed it was indeed her best friend from high school, she responded in an excited e-mail about how much she was sad that we drifted apart, and how she would love to see me. I'm going to call her this weekend, and hopefully we can start to build the relationship back.

Sometimes, despite the loss we feel, we need to break down those walls, as scary as they are, and let people we care about in. And when we get the opportunity to bridge the gap, we need to take it, before that chance slips away.

Food for thought......