12/20/2025
Featured story in latest WARM Journeys Newsletter:
The Last Birthday Card
Thanks to WARM I was reunited with my birth mother in 1985. She saw me through marriage, childbirth, divorce, and all the usual turmoil life can bring. I was 21 when she became my mother again, and she did so with respect for my adoptive parents, never trying to replace them.
Dementia slowly took her sense of reality in her final decades, but she never forgot any of her children. We cared for her until she passed, and in her final, fleeting moment of lucidity, she looked around at her children gathered near and exclaimed, “Look at you! You are here, and you are all so beautiful.” For me, this encapsulated my mother Francella’s essence: an accomplished woman completely committed to each of her children, putting them before herself even on her deathbed.
Our 40 years together was not enough. Just like the 14 years with my gentle adoptive mother Dorothy was not enough. But that is the fallout of adoption – no matter how “good” the adoption or how great the reunion, adoptees live split lives, never belonging exclusively in any one world.
A pivotal point in my search took place five years before it began. I helplessly watched my adoptive mother decline for 18 months after a devastating stroke, finally succumbing just before I started high school. Christmas that year was bleak, and my birthday just prior was largely forgotten as the entire family grieved. I knew then that I would search – not for a “new mommy,” but because I understood how life could change or end with no warning. I wasn’t going to miss my chance. I had not heard of WARM, but since I was underage they couldn’t help me regardless.
Instead, as my birthday drew near, I pored over the personal ads in the newspaper. I had heard people who were looking for someone would sometimes find them this way. For unexplainable reasons, I was positive my birth mother would send me a message in the daily paper. But I found nothing. I had no idea I was just looking in the wrong place.
The News Tribune ran a contest called, “My Most Memorable Christmas.” The day after my birthday, the following was published, edited here for length:
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Editor’s note: The following entry contains no byline—as its writer noted—“for obvious reasons.” But, she added, “I hope it is printed. It is true.”
As Christmas drew near, so did my due date. “Why me, Lord?” was all I could think. Little did it matter; I was trying to do what was best. I couldn’t forgive myself and thus wanted God to share the blame. She arrived a few days before Christmas. As I came out of the anesthetic, a nurse came and asked if I had seen the baby. I said, “No.” Her expression changed from smiling to shock. I didn’t know what s*x the baby was, if it was alright, or anything about it. I’d received a general anesthetic so I wasn’t awake during the birth.
It was terrible, this depression. When the doctor came in, I asked the baby’s s*x. “A girl.” Could I see her? A pause as the doctor searched my eyes and said, “Usually it’s best not to.” I shook my head. He added, “If you’re sure you aren’t going to change your mind…” I shook my head again. “Well, I’ll see,” he said, and left. I’d made my decision long before this moment. I felt like King Solomon. A wise decision had to be made for her future.
Many factors had to be considered, but the one which tipped the scale was the choice of whether she would be raised in an atmosphere of shame or one of pride. Attitudes were much different then. I don’t know who the doctor had to convince, or if he was the one who had to be convinced, but after a time a nurse walked in carrying a tiny bundle. My baby!
My depression immediately changed to unbridled joy. What a beautiful, perfect baby! The nurse left the room, trusting me with this little creature. And fifteen years ago this was unheard of. Those five days in the hospital turned from utter despair to unparalleled joy, even though I knew it was temporary. I savored every minute with her, drinking in her sweet aroma. Hour after hour, I gazed into her tiny face and whispered, “I love you…enough to give you up.”
What a wrenching. Elated with the miracle of birth and the precious baby I now balanced in my hands—while devastated by not being able to give her the home and life she deserved. Did she understand? Would she ever understand? How can anyone who has not been through this know how much love it takes to give up the beloved? As I sat searching her face, mentally trying to touch her innermost soul, her little eyes opened. She was looking straight at me! Dear Lord, maybe she does know; maybe somehow, someway, beyond which we on earth can comprehend, she knows.
I said goodbye to my baby later that day, leaving her in the care of the nurses until her adoptive parents came to take her home. Christmas was a little sad that year. However, I was thankful there was someone who would take my baby and love her. Each year the return of the “Joyous Season” brings back memories of those days in the hospital, when I said goodbye, making a total commitment to the secret I’d have to live with forever.
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(In case you were wondering, she won the contest.)
At the most recent WARM Board meeting we discussed who could do the featured piece for the holiday newsletter. Without thinking, I offered to write around my mother’s article from 47 years ago. She had been gone a year by this time so I thought it would be easy. It was not. Day after day I sat staring at a blank computer screen, hoping the words would come to me. But instead of being inspired by Mom’s words, I just felt alone. Even her oft-used phrase, “Life doesn’t stop,” provided no comfort.
Then, on Halloween, when the veil is thin, she gave me the epilogue by way of my youngest daughter (who taps into the spiritual world on a regular basis). She asked if I had any tea lights for her jack-o-lantern. I knew there was a box of candles in the garage because in recent years I’ve had reason to clean out the entire basement several times – including twice last winter. Every time I did, I purged, so every box had been searched and reorganized more than once.
I opened the box marked “Candles” and lifted out a small tray of tea lights. After blowing off the dust, I noticed a tiny card tucked in the corner of the tray. Unfolding it, I saw Francella’s unmistakable handwriting:
“Dear Valerie, Mere words can’t express my thots this Dec 20th and on thru Christmas. I hope this article conveys the message. Now it is a Joyous Season. Love always, Mom” She gave me this along with the original newspaper clipping for my first birthday with her in 1985. That this precious scrap of paper found its way into a box of candles in my garage and rediscovered on Samhain was weirdly perfect. The veil is thin. Life doesn’t stop.
I love you and miss you, Mom. See you in the morning.
