ROSE AND MARY RUTH

By Beth O’Malley M.Ed, author of Lifebooks: Creating a Treasure for the Adopted Child,; 1-800-469-9666, lifebooks@earthlink.net; sign up for free lifebook tips at www.adoptionlifebooks.com

    Dr. Joyce Maguire Pavao says that an adopted person will have to give up five to ten years to the process of search and reunion. She’s right. I lost five years of my life when I found my birth mother—but I gained new dimensions of identity.
I was not a fully committed, die-hard searcher. But when I obtained some rudimentary, non-identifying information from foster care notes, those simple facts altered me on a most basic level.

    For example, my nationality: Me, Beth O’Malley, who grew up on baked potatoes, doing the Irish Jig. I even look Irish—strong blue eyes, freckles     and, back in the day, long braids. At the age of 23 it came as a great surprise to discover that my birth father was dark and Polish. And my birth mother was French Canadian, not Irish. Not one bit Irish. Yet I didn’t feel French Canadian. I certainly didn’t know how French Canadians acted or what holidays French Canadians celebrated. How could I not be Irish?

    Years later, when my sister thought I should search, I said, “Forget it. Who knows what I might find?” But, being the oldest, she nagged and bullied me into believing that this would be a good thing. In hindsight, it was.

    I used a nonprofit search organization in Massachusetts. I wrote out a check and filled out the paperwork. Six months later the agency wrote back and said it could find only one person, an in-law. The trail to my birth mother petered out in Michigan.

    Within ten minutes I had the unlisted telephone number of my birth mother. When she answered the phone, I knew who it was. I heard my voice.

We have the same soft voice.

“Rose? Is this Rose?” I asked.

She said, “Yes,” very quietly.

“Rose, are you sitting down?” I asked.

She must have gulped, and when she spoke her octave had risen: “Yes, I’m sitting.”

“Rose, this is your daughter, calling from Boston.”

Her cry of joy could be heard all around the world. We both let loose.

After things settled down, she told me the story of what had happened—through her eyes, at least. I listened. We made plans to meet. I didn’t know the word slow.

When we met, it was life altering. My world shifted; I felt connected in a new way to the universe. Meeting someone who shared my genes felt like the most intimate embrace. I saw my eyes, my skin. I again heard my voice. So this is what most people experience daily. I know they take it for granted.

My birth mother wanted to make up for lost time. Rose wanted me at all family events, to sit at the family table, and to belong there. Hardest of all was that she wanted me to call her ‘Mom.’

Twelve years ago there was no Internet; there were no support groups for people on the search and reunion path. Few had gone through the experience or had any wisdom to share. The language to use in these situations was unknown. Often I would find that I knew something was wrong, but couldn’t find the words to describe it.

Lucky for me, I knew someone with experience: Corinne Rayburn, who had been an adoption therapist for 25 years. Corinne was able to give me some direction and explained that I didn’t have to call Rose ‘Mom,’ ‘Mother,’ etc. I could simply call my birth mother by her first name. What a relief. The Mom and Dad I had known my whole life fully earned those syllables. I was a tough teen who continued into my 20s to drive them crazy. (That’s another identity story.) So I called my birth mother Rose.

Meanwhile, I gave my birth family members permission to call me by the name they had given me, Mary Ruth.

I knew that my birth mother was crushed by my decision to call her Rose. There was nothing she wanted more than to have me in her life as a full daughter. She was driven by grief and loss after she placed me for adoption. But it was too late. I had a Mom and a Dad.

Rose would send me cards and refuse to sign her name. For 12 years this went on, and then she switched to, ‘Love, Me.’ I never gave in and neither did she. Is it possible that stubbornness is a genetic trait? I think I might have a lot of those genes.

Rose had many health problems. In 2002 she ended up on dialysis. The plan at Christmas was that she and my birth sisters were going to Florida. Going where the sun keeps shining…I would see her when they returned.

One night, December 19th 2002, I woke up at 2:00AM and could not go back to sleep. When I went downstairs, the message machine was blinking. I had received a call from Sally, my birth sister: “Mary Ruth, Mom is ‘bleeding out’ and isn’t expected to make it through the night.” I called right away.
Sally put my birth mother on the phone and said, “It’s Mary Ruth; tell her you love her.”

I waited on the other end and could hear nothing for several minutes. Then I heard Rose murmur something.

Sally spoke in the background: “Rose says she has been telling you that all night.”

Words came out of my mouth: “Rose, I love you, too.”

All I could do was call her Rose. I knew what she wanted to hear. What was the matter with me?

It happened way too fast. In the previous 24 hours Rose had been saying goodbye to all the family members. She had been waiting, said Sally, to hear from me.

I knew. I knew what Mary Ruth had to do. I reached into my soul and pulled for the words.

“Mom—it’s me, Mary Ruth. I do love you and want you to know that you did good things for me. Thank you, Mom.” That was all I could say before the sobs came.

As Rose died, I realized I was no longer simply Beth.

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