An Inconvenient Appendage

During our ten years of reunion, my surrendered daughter Megan and I have had many good moments but we have also had sharp disagreements, primarily over the nature of adoption. I believe--and the more I delve into adoption--the more firmly I believe that natural families are cast. The bond between family members can be stretched but never severed. No matter how much we dislike--even detest--our relatives, there is always a connection, those eerie similarities of expression and thought which pop out like moles in a game machine. We have an obligation to protect family members; ultimately, when all else fails, it is our blood which sustains us.

To Megan, a proper family is a husband, wife, and children. Her views come from – or at least are reinforced -- by her strong Mormon beliefs. If the natural family does not fit this “Ozzie and Harriet”/“Leave It to Beaver”/“I Remember Mama” mold, a new family must be created through adoption. This is the pattern God established for families.

Children adopted by Mormon parents are sealed for eternity to their adoptive parents through a temple ceremony. The LDS church discourages adoptees from searching for their natural families. Church Handbook of Instructions, 2006.)  Despite this teaching and her adoptive parents disapproval, Megan searched for me for over ten years.

The Church encourages its members to prepare a family history – in the case of adoption – it is the adopted family’s history although, according to Megan, they may also research their birth family if moved to do so. Genealogy is rooted in the Church’s requirement that its members baptize their deceased forebears in order to pave their way to a higher place after death. Genealogy has nothing to do with learning one's genetic heritage.

I am an inconvenient appendage -- a line on a genealogy chart that does not connote lineage.

Megan tells me that her adoption was part of God's plan for her although (thank goodness) she doesn’t go as far as Rosie O’Donnell to assert that God put her in the wrong woman’s tummy.

Although our quarrels over adoption have resulted in periods of silence, we have had a continuing line of communication through her four children. Early in our reunion, I asked Megan if I could send the children presents for their birthdays and Christmas to which she agreed. Over the years, I selected small items, often books or videos which I or the three daughters I raised had enjoyed as children. Occasionally I sent more expensive  items-–a scooter, a camera-–the price of which might exceed her family’s budget. When the older children reached 13, I sent checks on their birthdays, $5 for every year of age. I always signed the cards which accompanied the gifts "Jane," never "Grandma" not wishing to usurp Megan's adoptive mother's role. Megan participated in the giving, advising me on what her children would like or telling me their sizes when clothing seemed in order. Megan often sent emails thanking me. On rare occasions the children sent thank you notes.

This week Megan sent me the following email.

“Hi Jane,
Hope your summer's been fine. Aaron's birthday is coming up in a few weeks, and I would like to ask you not to send anything for it. We've always really enjoyed your thoughtful presents, and really appreciated them, but at times I've felt a bit uncomfortable about them. I wasn't really sure how to deal with it, but I've decided just to take the direct approach and ask you to stop.

I'm sorry. I don't mean to offend you. Thanks.

Megan”

Aaron, Megan’s youngest child is almost ten and I have been sending him gifts since he was born.

I replay conversations and actions over the past several months but can only guess at what precipitated Megan’s email.

I debate what action to take. Ignore her, end our relationship, or ask her what’s behind her decision. If I received a similar letter from one of my raised daughters, I would call her immediately. We are family.

It’s different with Megan. In the eyes of the LDS Church and the law we’re not family. Although painful, perhaps it’s best if I let it go. If she wants to extinguish this cord between us, so be it. We will still be connected: She was cast from my body.

What will her children think if I don’t send them presents? I was planning to send Aaron, who loves history, Charles Dickens’ “A Child’s History of England.” He won’t miss it but he may miss knowing that I thought about him. And even if the children are not sentimental about gifts, a teenager can always use cash. Will Megan tell them it was she who stopped the presents?