Last
week, on June 12, 2003, I went to my Grandmother's funeral.
She wasn't just any grandmother. In May of 1989 I was sitting
in my car looking up at her for the very first time.
I knew from the time I was five years old that I was adopted.
I had a good life. My mother and father loved me. I had brothers
and sisters like everyone else, but something was missing. I
wanted to look like someone. I asked my mother once when I was
eighteen who my biological mother was, but she wouldn't tell
me. I knew she felt threatened, and I didn't want to hurt her,
so I let it go.
I got married, had two children of my own, and one day while
watching Joan Lunden on TV interviewing adopted children and
their birth mothers, I decided I had to know. When I was sixteen
my aunt had told me my mother knew who my birth mother was,
and until now I didn't want to push the issue, but now was the
time for me to find out. I called my mother and told her I knew
she had my birth mother's name, and that I needed to know. Her
response was as I expected; she was upset and said she needed
some time.
A few days passed and my father showed up at my door with a
letter from my mother giving me some information on my birth
mother: her name before and after she married, and the fact
that she had children. My mother had kept tabs on her through
the newspaper all these years. She was understandably upset;
she had lost her own mother on Thanksgiving Day when she was
only sixteen, and later lost her nineteen-year-old son in an
automobile accident while he was serving in the Navy, stationed
in Africa. Now the thought that she might lose me to my birth
mother was a lot for her to handle. I was excited, scared, and
felt sorry for her, but this was something I needed to do.
I went to work the next day and my boss, Nancy, and I took
out the phone book and looked up Jacqui in the town where my
mother said she lived. Her ex-husband was listed, so Nancy dialed
the number as I nervously stood by. He told her that they had
been divorced for thirteen years, and he didn't know where she
lived; he said maybe somewhere in Manchester. I was selling
real estate at the time, so I knew how to use reference books
and soon found myself at the Manchester library. Book after
book I searched, but didn't find her name anywhere. I had been
adopted through Catholic Charity and called them, but naturally
their records were sealed, and it would be a long process to
go through the necessary red tape. Next I tried a private investigator.
Days of waiting finally turned up nothing from him either.
My next stop was a trip to the local library where Jacqui grew
up. My mother had told me She saw Jacqui's engagement in the
newspaper in February of 1958 so I went in search of the engagement
notice. Looking at microfilm until my eyes were red, I finally
found the announcement. There she was. It was like looking at
myself in the mirror. I finally looked like someone.
My next trip was to Methuen High School, where a very nice
woman showed me Jacqui's yearbook and actually looked in her
file and let me have a glimpse of her grades. She even made
copies of her yearbook picture for me.
From there I went to the Salem, New Hampshire Police Department,
thinking that if she lived in New Hampshire, I could figure
out what her license number should be by her birth date and
name, not knowing that after her divorce she had changed her
last name to the French spelling of her maiden name. I had a
hard time telling my story to the police officer I spoke to,
but seeing how desperate I was, he said he would try to find
her. He wouldn't be able to tell me anything, but he would contact
her if he found her. Because she had changed her name, he was
unable to find anything. (Another dead end!)
After three weeks of searching, I finally decided to go see
the house she was brought up in. As I pulled up to the house
on Russell Street, I saw her father's name on the mailbox. Imagine
my surprise; I never thought they would still be living there.
Because they had an unlisted phone, I hadn't found them in the
phone book. As I was sitting there in my car, I glanced up at
the house, and there in the window was the woman I would come
to know as "Gram" looking out at me. Well, there was
my chance! I got out of my car and went to the door. Four foot,
eleven inch, silver-haired Cecelia had a look of concern as
I asked her if Jacqui was her daughter. "Is she okay?"
she asked. I assured her she was fine and asked if she was alone.
She said her husband was also at home, and I asked if I could
come in. She immediately invited me in. Once inside, I didn't
know where I would find the right words, but I had to say something
fairly quickly so as not to alarm them any further.
"Did Jacqui have a baby in April of 1956 that she gave
up for adoption?" I asked. She hesitated, then said "Yes."
"Well," I said, "that baby is me." She immediately
embraced me and began to cry. My grandfather just sat there,
not knowing what to say. Gram then asked if she could write
my name in the family Bible. Of course, I was honored. She took
out the Bible and added my name, along with her other grandchildren.
I was anxious to meet my birth mother at that point. Jacqui
had a job working second shift, so she was at work at the time
of my visit. Gram said she would call her and tell her of my
visit. It was a very emotional visit, so I cut it short. I went
home to take in all that happened that day in May, 1989. The
next day Jacqui called me on the phone. My heart skipped a beat
when she told me who she was.
We made plans to meet that weekend at my grandparents' house,
so on Saturday I drove to the house where I had seen my grandmother
looking out at me for the first time. Jacqui and I hugged and
just looked at each other for a very long time. I had found
out that her birthday was in February, and wanting to give her
a special gift that first time we met, I had purchased an amethyst
(her birthstone) pendant. She had the same idea, because she
gave me a locket with her picture in it. I have treasured that
gift ever since. We spent the rest of the day showing each other
pictures of our families and telling stories of our lives while
my grandparents looked on with their hearts filled with love.
From then on, they treated me like one of the family. Gram
never missed a birthday, Christmas, Easter; she always sent
a card. I went to visit as often as I could. When I look back
now, I wish it had been more often, but you know how it is:
work, kids, you get busy with your life and sometimes put things
off.
When my children were small, I volunteered to deliver meals
to seniors from the Senior Center in the town where my grandparents
lived. They would be at the Center dancing sometimes when I
would be there preparing the meals. They looked so cute dancing
together.
I always felt comfortable in Gram's house. The piano was covered
with pictures of all the family. Gram made sure there was room
for my children's photos. Her bedroom was my favorite part of
the house. It was filled with all the things her family had
given her over the years. It seemed as though she saved everything,
cherishing every single gift, large or small, that anyone gave
her.
For the last few years Gram was having a hard time hearing,
and then her sight started to go. It was hard for me to see
her struggle to hear me or look at pictures or read, things
she loved to do. She liked to sew and knit, but once she started
losing her sight, she was unable to do those things also. She
never complained, though. At first, she was a little depressed,
but she always had a smile and a hug for me.
Gram loved the beach. Her sisters would have a cottage every
summer, and Jacqui would always take Gram to visit. This last
summer Gram was not able to walk much, but Jacqui got a wheelchair
and took Gram to the beach to see Aunt Rita and Aunt Bertha.
I met them there and we took Gram down on the beach. She was
so happy to be there, and so was I.
A few months after that visit at the beach, Gram needed more
care than Jacqui could give her, so she went to live at Villa
Crest. As usual, Gram did not complain. Yes, she missed being
with her husband and her family, but they went to visit her
as often as they could, and so did I. At first, it was hard
to see her there, wishing she was back at the white house on
Russell Street where I had first seen her 14 years ago, but
after a while it was okay. Gramps would go to visit her every
week. He would sit next to her and look at her with so much
love in his eyes. He would say to me, "I love my wife."
I would tell her what he said, and she would say, "I love
him, too". I felt so lucky to have found them. Gramps would
tell me he loved me, too, and that was very special. I loved
them as any granddaughter would love her grandparents. All of
Jacqui's family: her siblings, her children, and their children
all made me feel special, and were all special to me.
On that Wednesday afternoon on May 28th, 2003, I got a call
from Jacqui. "Gram has taken a turn for the worse."
I got in my car and headed for Villa Crest. She was in her bed
with family around her when I arrived. She was weak, but still
able to talk. I sat holding her hand for a while. Over the next
week, everyone spent as much time as they could, with her knowing
the end was near. This beautiful woman who loved her five children,
ten grandchildren, fourteen great-grandchildren, and four great-great-grandchildren
and we all loved her as well. As she began to get weaker, she
held on for us, calling out, "Go with God" and then
calling for her husband of 68 years. That last Sunday I sat
and watched Gramps hold Gram's hand and look at her with all
the love of a newlywed. As I was about to leave, I kissed Gram
goodbye and told her I loved her. I hugged Jacqui and told her
I didn't really want to leave, because I knew this would be
the last time I would see Gram. We cried and I left, and at
2:00 a.m. Jacqui called and said she had gone. Ninety years
she lived, but she will live in our hearts forever!
