Relinquishment Anniversary

Today is the anniversary of the relinquishment of my first son.  It is a somber, tragic remembrance, a time when I unknowingly, deeply hurt a child, my child.  The piece I have selected in tribute to the day, the time, the loss is Jane G.

JANE G.

A Birthmother, Awaiting Reunion

By

Jane Guttman

     Jane G.  Pain.  Dark.  Alone. Lost.  Afraid.  Memories stir. I have no resistance, only sorrow.  I watch.  I wait.  I wonder. 

     Jane G.  Who is she?  Someone in my present life shares with her friend about me, about my work, about my gifts.  She asks, "Do you know Jane G?"  I smile at the warmth and appreciation for me, who I am, what I do, what I give.

     Jane G.  I remember.  No one has called me "Jane G" for over thirty-five years.  I shudder in recollection.  I cringe at the memories.  I feel the silent and stunned acknowledgment of that time, that anguish and that grief.

     It is 1963.  I am at St. Anne's Maternity Home in Los Angeles.  Eighteen and pregnant.  Married but single.  Passive and perplexed.  Frightened, abandoned.  In the midst of this darkness, I prepare for the ultimate tragedy. Relinquishing my child. 

     The nuns circle with rules and condemnation.  Unwed mothers shuffle in that late pregnancy walk.  There are no sounds of life here.  All souls are subdued by the harshness of the nuns and by the truth of our collective tragedy.

     The housemother likes me.  Everyone has always liked me.  I follow the rules.  I comply.

     The peacemaker.  For eighteen years I have given up myself to please others.  Now I prepare to give up the most precious thing of all, my child.  To keep the peace.  To do what is right.  To do what is best.  To reclaim the favor of my father.  To align with the rules of society.  To clear the mark I have cast on my family, to ease into the place of respectability and honor.

     I am Jane G.  The name singes.  The name scorches.  A nurse screams at me.  I am walking a urine specimen to the area as is required.  It is 7 a.m.  She screeches out her disapproval.  I am in the wrong hall.  "Someone" from the world may see me.  My "cover" will be destroyed.  I will be seen.  "Someone" will know.  My sin will be revealed.  In this moment of fear, confusion, sorrow and despair I am shattered.  Her words rip through me, tears sting, my throat tightens.  What can I do?  Shall I disappear?  I continue to the designated area, drop my specimen off and walk back to my room, diminished and degraded.

     It is 2000.  I can walk down any hall, unafraid.  I can speak my truth, clearly and compassionately.  I still value peace;  but not at the expense of my integrity.

My life is respectable.  It is honorable.  My father would be proud.  His daughter has claimed her place in the halls of achievement and acceptability.  A teacher.   A doctor.  An author.  I have measured up to the standards held with a clutching hand by my parents.  They would be pleased.

     The cost has been great.  I look at the photo of my grandchildren beside my desk.  I feel the yearning stir.  I want to see them.  I want to hold them.  I want to let my eyes rest on the face of their father.  I want this more than anything I have ever wanted. 

    One dark November day, in 1963, Jane G. signed a document that would forever interrupt the flow of love between mother and child.  All my longing will never bring him back.

 1998