Sunlight on My Shadow

by Judy Liautaud

  I know the mind knows the difference between reality and fantasy, but I wonder if the body knows the difference. I experienced Helen’s birth in reality in 1967. Then, eighteen years later, I was able to go to a fantasy place that was fabricated in my mind. I relived the experience, changing it to be the way I always wished it had been. It was kind of like I was dreaming while awake. On some gut level, the rebirthing experience was as real as if I had travelled in a time machine and changed history.

  With the aid of Lana, I felt safe enough to allow myself to revisit the painful memories. I gained new insight that eased my shame, guilt, and sorrow. It felt like real life, this rebirthing experience. How was it different from dreams? And how are dreams different from the real world? Does the psyche and body really know the difference?

  In the middle of the night I have awakened crying, falling through space, laughing, or flying through the air: then I awake in a daze, like I have been on a trip somewhere. You know that stuff, the emotions, that carry from deep slumber and color the day? After many years of marriage, Dave and I were finding our goals and aspirations at odds. When we were in the thick of disagreements, I used to rise up, tied in a knot of anger. Although my rational mind understood that my emotional state was the repercussion of the dream, my gut didn’t know the difference, and I would spend the morning stewing in angst. My dreams often reflected the trials of my waking day.

  Perhaps dreams help us iron it out, rework the problems. What if we can control these dreams and direct our images and thoughts to orchestrate healing, or to create the life we want: lucid dreaming at will? Do we create our own reality by our mindful images? And since we can control our own thoughts, can we control our own dreams and then our own reality? Sometimes we need a fresh outlook to realize we have this control. It can come in the form of a healer, like Lana; the form of an enlightening book; or the form of a compelling movie. The mind’s experiences are powerful enough to shape our future.

  After the rebirthing, the shameful babysitting dreams lessened and I was able to talk more openly about my traumatic teenage pregnancy. I realized the silence of secrecy was harmful, because in speaking up, I was showing love, forgiveness, and acceptance of myself. It was only a few sparse words at first, and my palms would get sweaty and my heart would race. But I kept at it, knowing that speaking up was good for my soul.

  I was taking baby steps. The first step was the Cabbage Patch doll, when I pretended she was Baby Helen and I could tell her everything I wanted to say back then. Then it was the rebirthing session with Lana, when I appreciated Baby Helen as a gift and found forgiveness for myself. The third step would be reconnecting with my adopted child. Perhaps the first two steps were getting me psychologically prepared to begin the search. My desire to know what happened to Baby Helen kept bubbling up like the springs at Yellowstone: quiet for a while, then a gurgle, then a bubbling spout, and then quiet again. Then the cycle renewed. What happened to my baby?

  I hoped to find out that her life was good. This would ease my worry about whether I did the right thing. I wanted to know where she was and what she was doing. I dared to hope that I could bring her back into my life. Whatever that meant would be entirely up to her. I was afraid, though, that she didn’t want to know me, or that she had no interest in finding her birth mother. But unless I searched and found out, I would never know. It wasn’t like she was seeking me out. It had been twenty-three years now.

  Then I read about an organization in Mothering Magazine called ALMA, which is the Spanish word for soul and stands for Adoptees’ Liberty Movement Association. The organization believes that, “The denial of an adult human being’s right to the truth of his origin creates a scar which is imbedded in his soul forever.” ALMA provides support to adoptees who are seeking their birth parents so they can solve their biological puzzle. I found out I could register as a searching birth parent, and if my child contacted ALMA, she could find me based on her birth date. I was excited to have a path that might solve my greatest mystery. I sent for the registration papers.

  Since I hadn’t practiced revisiting my memories from 1967, they lay dormant in some tucked-away place. Trying to remember in 1990 was like walking through sticky, heavy mud. Perhaps I was suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome, but at first I couldn’t muster up the answers to basic, important questions, like the date of birth or even the year. Slowly, I navigated through my past, bumping into clues as I reactivated the memory links to past events. It was like stumbling on rocks in a meandering stream. Soon I had enough details to fill out the forms for ALMA.

  Birthdate: June 30, 1967. I remembered this because I recalled that the baby was born exactly nine months from the date I conceived, and I knew the fateful party was the last day of September. Time of birth? That was impossible. I thought it was in the afternoon, but I wasn’t sure of the time. So I left that one blank. I filled out the rest and carefully folded the forms into an envelope. I hoped this would be my ticket to finding my lost child. I licked the envelope, stamped it, and walked out to the end of our sidewalk. I slid it into the mailbox and flipped the red flag up for the postman to take it. I had taken my first step toward finding Helen.

  Now there was a whirling in my belly, a vortex of hope. Any shred of information about her would satisfy my yearning to know of her whereabouts and her life. I hoped this whirl of hope would suck her back into my life someday soon.

  It was now June of 1990. When I opened the front door on my daily trek out to the mailbox for news from ALMA, I was often taken aback by the surrounding beauty. I looked up and pulled the mountain air into my lungs, giddy with anticipation of news. The mountains looked different every day. Their massive panorama changed with the seasons, like a slow slideshow. In the fall, as the tree leaves changed from yellow and orange to red and brown, they looked like colored popcorn running along the ridges. By wintertime, the brown changed to a soft lacy white with the first snowfall. In spring, rain soaked the soil and the Wasatch Range became a velvety green. All through the seasons, I anticipated a note informing me that Baby Helen had registered in ALMA and wanted to meet me.

  I wasn’t sure what I wanted from her: most of all I wanted to know she was okay and that I didn’t make a mistake giving her up for adoption. I didn’t want to be her mother; I knew she had one, and I had my own sweet children, but if I met her and she was okay and healthy and had good parents, then I would be at peace and be able to go on with my life. And if the meeting went okay, maybe we could develop a relationship. I remembered her baby face and how she looked like Mick, with that square jaw and her round brown eyes. I remembered that she looked Italian, with her dark hair and long lashes. Now that she was in her twenties, I wondered how she had changed into a woman. After hoping for a letter every day, my anticipation dampened as weeks and months went by without any news.

  In February of 1991, when Baby Helen was twenty-four years old, I sent an inquiry to the Bureau of Health Statistics, Wisconsin Division of Health, using the wording provided from a searching service. I wrote:

  February 24, 1991

  Dear Registrar:

  Please search for and provide a LONG FORM copy of the record of the birth of my daughter.

  Name: Helen Liautaud

  Born: June 30, 1967

  Mother: Judith Ann Liautaud

  Father:

  Reason for request: Judicial need

  A $5 check is enclosed. Sincere appreciation for any endeavor you extend to this request. Thank you, Judy Rodriguez.

  I wasn’t sure what judicial need meant, but that is what I had found on a template for sending a search request. It sounded important, anyway. About a month later, I received a letter from the Department of Vital Statistics dated March 13, 1991. It was a form letter with two boxes checked.

  In regard to your request:

  1. No record has been found from the information given. Is it possible the record has been filed with a different name?

  2. We have sear
ched our statewide birth/death/marriage/divorce indexes for the years 1965–1969. No record of the event could be located.

  Signed: Section of Vital Statistics: Request #M202174-00.

  CHAPTER 43

  THE NEXT STEP

  The following October, I contacted a support group for birthparents called CUB, Concerned United Birthparents. This is when I learned that Wisconsin is a state with sealed adoption records, which means that the original birth certificate with my name as the birthing mother and Helen’s name, date, time, and location of birth is kept in a sealed vault. No wonder my request to the Bureau of Health Statistics came back with no evidence of the birth.

  At the time of adoption, the original certificate is replaced by the legal certificate naming the adoptive parents. No mention is made of the adoption. In almost every case, the adoptive parents rename the child, so there is no easy way to find out the child’s name or whereabouts. In the rare case of a medical emergency, if genetic information might be needed, the original certificate can be extracted from the vault and released by court order. I didn’t see how I would ever find my child.

  It seemed like another dead end. However, I did find out that there was a form you could fill out and submit to the courthouse, showing your willingness to be contacted in case the child would request it. It was called a mutual consent form.

  I was excited to have something new to try. I hand-printed four pages of medical history and submitted the following:

  November 27, 1991

  Adoption Unit

  State of Wisconsin

  Dear Sirs:

  In June of 1967, I relinquished a child for adoption. Since that child is now an adult, I would like to file a Waiver of Confidentiality with the proper Court of Jurisdiction in the event that she desires to contact me regarding her biological background or inherited medical problems. Also, please advise the name of the placing agency.

  If you would please supply my information to the Proper Court of Jurisdiction for the following relinquished person it would be gratefully appreciated:

  Birth Name: Helen Liautaud

  Date of birth: June 30, 1967

  Place of Birth: [Wauwatosa] Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  Hospital: Salvation Army Home/Booth Memorial Hospital

  Physician: Dr. Wigglesworth

  Agency Caseworker: Catherine Cavanaugh

  Relinquished by: Judy Liautaud DOB May 1, 1950

  Thank you for your assistance.

  Now I had two sticks in the fire: the registration with ALMA and the Adoption Unit with the waiver of confidentiality. If Baby Helen, now an adult, contacted either one, she could get my information. My bucket of hope was replenished.

  Even though I knew these attempts were shots in the dark, I held on as the months clicked by. I worried that perhaps she had no interest in me. I knew that adopted children were on both ends of the spectrum. Some cared deeply and wanted to meet their birthparents, while others couldn’t care less. I had no way of knowing how Baby Helen felt. The lack of response brought recurring doubts. Perhaps I didn’t really deserve to meet her. I had given her away, along with my rights to know anything about her. But yet, I couldn’t ignore the yearning inside to reconnect with this child.

  After another year of no news, in May of 1992, I called the Salvation Army headquarters to see if I could get any clues to help my search, like the name of the adoption placing agency, or details of the birth. I called the New York office and found out that the Booth Memorial Hospital/Home in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin, was closed in 1982. All of the records had been transferred to an office in Des Plaines, Illinois. I called this number and asked to have the adoption and medical records related to my stay at the Booth Hospital in 1967 released to me.

  “No, we don’t give out those records,” she said. “They are sealed to protect the privacy of the girls who attended the home and the adoptive parents.”

  “What about the medical records: can I have access to those?” I asked.

  “These can only be released by request from a medical doctor.”

  “If I had the request, where should I send it?”

  The lady gave me the address.

  I called my doctor, Val Loggsdon, and asked her to send for my records. They arrived two weeks later. Val said that she had to promise that she would not copy these records or give them to me, but I was free to come in and take a look. I hoped there might be something that said the name of the adoption agency or maybe even the people who adopted my baby. The notes pertained strictly to the medical event. This is what I copied it down:

  Baby presented posterior. Second stage labor, pushing, two hours. Delivered by forceps. Baby girl born at 3:07 pm. Date: June 30, 1967, in Wauwatosa at Booth Memorial Hospital. Attending physician: Dr. Wigglesworth. Active labor 17 hours. Baby’s weight: 8 lb. 4oz. Episiotomy.

  There was no mention as to what happened to the baby. It seemed so real to see these words, written on yellowed paper from over twenty years ago. A few tears spilled on the sheet. There it was in black and white. I did not know it then, but the exact time of birth was the clue that would lead to finding Baby Helen.

  MOM AND DAD 1970

  CHAPTER 44

  LOSS

  While I was living in Colorado, my mom’s health continued to decline. She ended up in a nursing home; Jeff would visit her and take her out for an ice-cream cone. On one trip Mom had probably just taken her narcotic pill for pain relief and was talking nonstop. Jeff turned to her and said, “Mom, I’ll give you a nickel if you can stop talking for five minutes.” Mom said, “You cheapskate, keep your nickel. I’d rather talk.”

  By the time Kiona was a toddler, Mom suffered serious complications from the steroids she had taken to relieve her arthritic pain. She lingered in the hospital for several days and died peacefully at Passavant Hospital at the young age of sixty-eight. I was thankful that Jeff and my sister-in-law, Mary Ann, were with her. The nurse told them to go out and get some fresh air; when they got back Mom’s breath was labored. They prayed and held Mom’s hand as she took her last breath.

  I regret that, after it was all over, I was never able to talk to Mom about my teen pregnancy. I know she felt responsible because of her illness and absence in the home. I wanted to tell her again that it wasn’t her fault and that I made my own choices. But thirty years ago I wasn’t ready for such conversations, since I was still protecting the secret. I took comfort in the memories I have of caring for her, answering the buzzer at night, and helping her to the bathroom. I was able to give a bit to atone for the problems I had caused her. In the end, she still called me her blessing in disguise, so I believe that she had forgiven me long before I was able to do that for myself.

  It was about eight years after Mom’s death and a few winters before Dad died that I went down to visit him in his Florida home.

  “The doctor says I have congestive heart failure,” Dad said. “That’s my ace in the hole.” I didn’t know what he meant. His ticket to death? An ace in the hole is a good thing. How could congestive heart failure be good? I took it to mean he was ready to die.

  He might have been ready, but I wasn’t. I longed to get closer to Dad and believed that nursing him or caring for him could be a good way to do that. We had never talked about my teenage pregnancy. It stayed as he wished, like it had never happened. I could feel the wall between us. I knew he was disappointed in me, and it was just another example of my not being able to live up to his expectations. It ran like an underground river in our relationship. The unease hurt me. I longed to be close.

  If I could just spend some quiet afternoons with him—maybe tuck the covers around him or bring him a drink of water—it would have been comforting to me. I would then be the person giving, and Dad would be admitting his vulnerable side. It could bring us close. I offered several times to come and stay with him, but he wouldn’t have any part of it.

  He told me, “Judy, your children should never have to take
care of you. It isn’t right. It should be the other way around.”

  “But what if your children want to take care of you?” I asked.

  “You don’t want to do that. You have your own family. You need to tend to them,” he said.

  I was angry at him for not understanding that I was the one who needed and wanted to help him. Dad could give and give, but he was very uncomfortable with receiving. He hated depending on others. Getting closer to Dad was something I needed, but I didn’t quite know how to get there.

  Dad used a heavy dose of hard work as his antidepressant. He often said, “When you get down in the dumps, you just get busy working and before you know it, you feel better.”

  In his lively years, he spent hours in his tool house by the cabin, cleaning, organizing, or making gadgets out of wood and metal. He cared for his workshop like a baby. Rows of gray cardboard boxes were lined up on his homemade pine shelves, each box numbered with a black Magic Marker. Next to the shelves, tacked to the wall, and protected by a plastic sheath, was an alphabetical list of assorted screws, nails, and hinges, with the box number indexing their location.

  As his health began to fail, the muscles in Dad’s legs weakened; he couldn’t stand long enough to complete a workshop project nor could he get in and out of his fishing boat. Dad’s responsibilities at the factory diminished, as my brother John no longer depended on his advice in business matters. By the time Dad was eighty-three, he was often feeling down in the dumps, but he was no longer able to rely on his “get-busy-and-get-to-work” method to help him snap out of it. In his last few years, Dad told me several times, “All my friends are gone. I’m way overdue.” Like death would be a relief. I hated it when he said that.