What is Open Adoption?

Lisa, a birthmother who placed her child in an open adoption, wrote the following story for a class assignment. She describes her experiences working with Open Adoption & Family Services.

On March 6, 2000, I gave birth to my second daughter, Mary Margaret Marie; and on March 8th, I gave her to the two most caring, wonderful people in the whole world to raise her. I know this was the best thing I could have ever done for this child.

Let me tell you a little bit about why I chose to give "Maggie" up for adoption. You see, I have not always made the best choices in my life. To say the least, until last year I just hadn't cared a whole lot about my life. Last year I decided I was through living like that. I also have a 2- year old daughter and I committed myself to changing our lives. Then, the next thing you know, I find out I am pregnant again. I didn't know what I was going to do. I have had an abortion before, and I would never do that again. It just wasn't for me. On the other hand, I already have a daughter; and I know how hard it is to raise a child as a single parent. I was really struggling as a single parent of just one child. I couldn't imagine how difficult it would be to raise two children by myself. If I was going to commit myself to fixing our old life, I knew that there was no way that I could try to raise two children (and raise them well), and do that at the same time. After three months of trying to decide what to do, there was really only one choice left, adoption.

At first, I struggled with this idea. How could I carry a child for nine months and then just hand him/her over to someone else to raise? Could I actually do this? What would happen to the child? Would I know who the people were who would become her parents? Would they call me and keep me updated about my child? Would I get to see her, or is she going to be gone forever? These were just some of the questions that went through my mind daily.

So, I got on the Internet and looked up adoption. I was surprised with the amount of information and how many different options there were to choose from on the topic of adoption. I was overwhelmed with information. I didn't know what to do.

The next day I went to talk to my caseworker at Adult and Family Services. She knew someone who was going to adopt before she accidentally got pregnant, and she knew of a good agency in Eugene. She showed me their Website; I copied some information from it and went home to read it. I really liked what I read so I gave them a call.

The name of the agency is Open Adoption & Family Services. When I called I asked a lot of those questions that I had been wondering about and these were the answers that I got.

Open Adoption is when you give up your rights to your child to someone else, but you are given the right to have contact with that child. Usually, or in my case, that contact is in the form of letters, phone calls, and visits. You get to choose the family that your child will go to, and you have meetings with that family called mediations before the placement. You do this so that you can form a bond with family and feel comfortable with them. I thought to myself, if adoption is what I am going to choose for my child, this is the way I want to do it.

For the next few months, I had meetings or counseling sessions with a woman named Jen. I told her my situation and why I chose adoption. We talked about everything. I was feeling good about my decision. Around the first of January, she gave a book of all of the families that I had to choose from. She told me to choose three and we would go over them during our next meeting. So I chose the three I like the most, and during our next meeting we narrowed it down to the one I liked the best, Mark, Susan, and Ben.

On January 21, 2000, I met with the family that I had chosen, for the first time. My counselor, Jen, was there to kind of "help" the meeting along. But, to my surprise, we didn't need any help at all. As soon as I saw Mark and Susan walk through the door, I knew for sure, they were the ones. Once we started talking there was no stopping us. I felt so comfortable with them that's how I knew they were the ones. It was like I had known them for a really long time, not like I had just met them.

We talked a lot after that first meeting. I even went down to Medford, where they live, and spent the weekend with them. It was a lot of fun. In just a little over a month, these people felt like family to me. I knew I was doing the right thing.

So, on March 6, 2000 I checked into the hospital for a repeat C-section. Mark and Susan were there to support me during the surgery and at 8:06 a.m. our little girl, Mary Margaret Marie was born, 7 pounds 10 ounces, 21 inches long, and very healthy. She stayed with me in the hospital so I could spend time with her. Mark and Susan were there also to help me recover and to keep me company. On March 8, 2000, they took her home, to a home with a mom, dad, and big brother. This was the hardest thing I have ever had to do, but I knew it was the best thing I could ever do for my precious little girl. As I sit here and write this, I am crying, not because I regret my decision, but because I know that I have not lost a little girl but gained a new family.

"Knowing that I can choose and form a close bond with the adoptive parents for my daughter gives me peace of mind. Her adoptive parents have become my friends, people I really trust. My daughter will know how much I love her, because I'm guaranteed visits with her as she grows up. This is a decision I can feel good about." (Comment from birthmother who placed a child for adoption through OA&FS)

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Emilie

Birthmother Brooke Holtzheimer wrote the following article for the Open Page, the newsletter of Open Adoption & Family Services.

Do you remember what you were doing five years ago?

Perhaps you were walking down the aisle. Or experiencing the birth of your first child. Maybe you were celebrating your thirtieth anniversary.

Five years ago I was seventeen. I was living at home with my mom and sister and working part-time at a children's clothing store. I was also taking high school classes through a correspondence course so I could continue to work and still graduate. My life had direction and purpose. It only took an instant for my dreams to be shattered. I found out I was pregnant.

I was already three and a half months along when my suspicions were confirmed at Crisis Pregnancy Center. I stared at the sidewalk the entire way to the bus stop, afraid that anyone who looked into my eyes would know instantly that I was pregnant. I didn't want anyone to know about the baby. I didn't want anyone to see my shame.

Abortion wasn't an option, which meant I had two choices left; I could keep the baby or put it up for adoption. The first choice left me with nagging questions that kept me awake at night. How could I raise a baby? Where would I get the money? What would happen to my dreams of graduating from high school, going to college and establishing myself in a career? Would the baby's father marry me? If not, would anyone want to marry me if I kept the baby? It was only a few sleepless nights of unanswered questions that helped me decide that I wasn't emotionally, physically, or financially ready for the responsibility of a baby. I decided to put my baby up for adoption. A week later I started meeting with an adoption counselor.

My mother found out I was pregnant before I had the chance to tell her. I came home from work one day, and she met me in the living room. She stood next to the couch, staring at me with her arms folded across her chest. I knew she'd found out about my pregnancy. The first thing I told her was that I had decided to place the child up for adoption. I expected her to respond positively, but it just fueled her fire. She assumed that by putting the baby up for adoption I was shirking my responsibilities. She also thought that I had some moral obligation to raise the child. "How can you give away your own flesh and blood?" she said, with a hurt in her voice I felt across the room.

Although my mom wasn't being supportive, I knew in my heart putting the baby up for adoption was the right choice. It was a decision I made daily.

After I told my father and his wife about my pregnancy and plans for the baby, they wholeheartedly encouraged me to get an abortion. "Make it easy on yourself," my dad's wife said over the phone as my dad listened from another line, "don't ruin your life." I tried to explain to them that I couldn't live with myself if I had an abortion, but they didn't understand. I told them adoption was the best answer. They wished me luck and hung up the phone.

Besides the opposition I got from my family, I also got strong opposition from my boyfriend at the time, the baby's father. When I told him I was pregnant and planned to place the baby in an adoption, he told me that if I didn't get an abortion, he'd break up with me. Adoption meant a long process and a commitment, and he wanted the easy way out. Choosing adoption for me and my baby meant choosing rejection for him. I didn't waver for a moment. I chose adoption.

My growing belly forced me to tell two of the women at the children's clothing store where I worked that I was going to have a baby. I also told them I was putting the baby up for adoption. They didn't say anything positive or negative; they just listened politely and looked concerned. Both had children less than two years old, so the memories of pregnancy and childbirth were fresh in their minds. A reminiscent look came over both of their faces. I thought they were envisioning themselves holding their newborns in their arms for the first time, wondering how I could ever give up the life inside me.

The day finally came for the baby to be born. Many judging voices in my life silenced themselves when they saw me place my decision into the arms of two of the most wonderful people I'd met. Everyone who wanted to meet the adoptive parents got the opportunity to do so and see for themselves the choice I had made. Some still didn't agree, but I didn't care. It was what I needed to do.

Four years have gone by since I put Emilie up for adoption. I have never regretted what I did, not even for one moment. I'm in college now, working toward getting my diploma. I married a man almost a year ago who thinks what I did was wonderful. He often spontaneously hugs me and tells me how proud he is of me. He also looks forward to seeing Kevin and Chris, the adoptive parents. They often invite us to their house for dinner. Emilie shows us her favorite toys, her new outfit, and how she can count to ten. Then she and her dad serenade us with new songs they learned that week. She calls me Brooke and knows she came out of my tummy. But when she wants a toy her daddy said she couldn't have, there's no question who her mom is as she tugs on Chris' pant leg, squealing and pointing to the shelf that houses the forbidden toy.

When it's time for us to leave, I pick Emilie up, and she wraps her little arms around my neck and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I tell her I'll see her soon as I smile at Kevin and Chris, thanking them quietly for all they've done. Chris gives me a big hug and whispers a small, "Thank you."

As my husband and I walk to the car in the darkness of the evening, I can see Emilie standing next to her mom in the doorway. The soft glow of the porch makes her little blue eyes sparkle. She waves wildly and shouts "Bye! Bye!" as loud as her four-year-old lungs can muster. My husband takes my hand and squeezes it gently. With my free hand I wave back to Emilie and smile at Chris. I know I made the right decision.

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Mending the Circle

Jen Dygert, LCSW is a Counselor/Mediator at Open Adoption & Family Services. She writes about placing her daughter for adoption in 1968 and their reunion in 1994.

The year was 1968. I waited in a room of six beds, all empty but mine. It was my fourth and last night in the hospital. I had just given birth to an 8 pound, 12 ounce baby girl with jet black hair that later I could compare to Don King's "do," but had no knowledge of yet. I had decided not to even see my baby, because I had thought that if I did, it would possibly be too difficult to "give her up," even though I firmly believed that a child should have two parents. As much as I loved her father, I was not ready to get married. I turned 18 that night. It was New Year's Eve, and the worst birthday I had ever had. To top it off, I had been given sleeping pills every night but this one. I was told that they didn't want me to get addicted. I cried myself to sleep, but sleep took a long time to come.

Once my baby was born, I felt compelled to see her, to make sure she was healthy. Once I saw her, I had to keep returning, to look through the glass window of the nursery. Now I felt that if I held her, it would be too difficult to leave her. She was not part of my plan for my future. I could have married her father. He had proposed after I told him I was pregnant. He even had a house in mind that we could move into, which his godmother owned. He drove me there to see it. His plan was to drive to North Carolina to get married. I was 17 and he was 18. I could get married in North Carolina without parents' consent at the age of 17. I thought I had no choice.

A friend of mine introduced me to an older woman who was married to a doctor. She told me I had to tell my parents. It was the last thing I wanted to do. My relationship with my father has never been the same since. My stepmother asked me if I wanted to get married. I said no. She said not to worry, that they would take care of everything. From then on, I was like a sleepwalker. I just went through the motions. My stepmother made all the plans, and I wasn't really included. I spent 5 months in an "unwed mother's home" in the Bronx of New York City. I was not to tell anyone that I was pregnant; not my friends nor my brothers and sister. I later felt that this was really to protect my parents more than to protect me. The plan was that I was going to check out an "all-girl's school" in Ohio, to see if I would like it, as I was going to apply to an "all-girl's college" in Virginia. My mail was sent to a post office box in Ohio, where someone put it in a manila envelope and mailed it to me in New York City. I sent my mail in an envelope to that post office box, and the person there put it in the mail for me. This worked fine until someone in my hometown wrote to say that she was coming to this town in Ohio (I can't even remember which one), and would love to stop by to visit. I had to make up some story about being away with a friend that particular weekend.

The "home" was attached to a hospital, which made it convenient for the time of birth, to simply get wheeled over in a wheelchair through an attached corridor. I never saw that corridor; the door was locked, until it was my time to go. There were all kinds of stories about what it would be like, to "go over," about what labor would be like, about what was the best choice for anesthesia, but nothing prepared me for the reality. I now know that one's labor is certainly a reflection of the amount of education, support, and happiness one is feeling about the coming of the baby. My later births were nothing like the first, which is shrouded in a nightmarish haze of a woman screaming horribly in the background, while I waited for hours on my back alone in a room. I peed on myself once because I couldn't get up without assistance. When I was wheeled into the labor room, an intern was laughing and saying, "Don't push! The doctor isn't here yet!" I couldn't help myself, pushing was the only way to relieve the pain. I remember thinking, "I will never go through this again!" Someone was screaming. It was probably me. I woke up vomiting.

It wasn't until I was attending an international death and dying conference in Seattle, Washington, in 1991 that I realized for the first time that I felt severed completely from my female roots and my female legacy. My mother had died when I was 13, and I "lost" my daughter at the age of 4 days, 23 years prior. I stood alone. My mother's mother had died when I was 24, my mother's only sister had died when I was 26, and I had never known my father's mother. She died 8 days before her first grandchild was born. I had never really acknowledged the loss of my daughter before that. We were invited to write letters to lost loved ones, and put them in a cedar basket to be taken to the top of Mt. Rainier by a native American shaman to be burned in a ritual. I wrote letters to my mother and my daughter.

In April of 1994, I received a phone call from a woman in Nevada. She said, "I think I have found your daughter." This was the beginning of a journey of discovery. I met my daughter for the first time in October that same year, when I went to Washington, D.C. to attend a national hospice convention. This seemed appropriate to me, in light of my earlier realization of having the right to grieve about the loss. I had named her Noelle; her adoptive parents had named her Melissa. Melissa had told me that she didn't want to cry when we saw each other. I wanted to respect this need of hers, so I prepared myself for the first sight of her, as I came off the airplane. We spent a wonderful weekend together, before the convention began. She had invited me to stay at her apartment, with herself and her boyfriend. We got together again the Friday night before I left, and stayed up until 3:00 in the morning!

Since "meeting" my daughter, we have written about five times and phoned each other a couple of times. I never wanted to intrude upon her life. I never regretted my decision to place her for adoption, and still feel that I made the best choice, for both of us. I just needed her to know that if she wanted to contact me, she could. I also had a need to know that she was healthy and happy. I wanted to leave a letter in her file after she was born, giving her permission to find me, with my home address. After she had turned 18, I approached the adoption agency, to request that they put such a letter in the file. I was asked suspiciously, "why?" and was told that there was no way to do this. The agency had told me that she had gone to a couple in North Carolina. I found out later that they may lie about the location, and often the baby is placed nearby. Melissa grew up less than 100 miles away.

In 1968, the only option for adoption was closed adoption. The notion of "open adoption" was unheard of. So were single parents, unless you had lost a spouse through death. I didn't even know anyone who had divorced. I never realized the amount of impact the placing of my child for adoption had on my emotional psyche until my daughter and I "found" each other. I experienced a profound sense of joy and wholeness after seeing her. I did not need to raise her, I know that her adoptive parents gave her a life I could not have at that point in my life, but I needed to know that she was okay, and to acknowledge the loss.

I first heard about open adoptions 15 years ago, when friends of mine started a family through open adoption. I have watched their children grow, happy and healthy. Their daughter was the flower girl for my wedding. Now, I feel thankful that we are coming out of the "Dark Ages" of adoption and into the light in a much healthier way, to dispel fears around what adoption can mean. The children I have raised are not my property, even though they are my responsibility. They deserve all the love of anyone in their lives willing to love them.Would I have chosen open adoption if it had been available in 1968? I don't think society was ready for it yet. "If I knew then what I know now, ...." It wasn't an option then, but it is an option now. And I am glad for that.

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My Boys: Their Story

Birthmother Crystal placed her twin sons for adoption in 1996. In this story she reflects back on her experience.

One of the most significant experiences in my short life was the process of giving my twin boys this world, and up for adoption. I learned a lot about what it truly means to love someone, the sacrifices one must make in order to do the right thing, and the emotions one must bear along that road. Not everyone would agree with my decision I’m sure, but for me, I did the right thing.

I learned I was pregnant in early November of 1996. I was fourteen, everyone around me was disappointed, and I really could not understand what the big deal was. I guess I hadn’t thought much about the situation yet. My boyfriend (the father), and I, nonchalantly agreed that adoption would be the best course of action.

My very first prenatal check-up was the scariest. With the help of a sonogram the doctor listened to the heartbeat inside my tummy. She kept moving it back and forth across my stomach with a puzzled look upon her face. As I was getting up from the table I asked her what was wrong. She looked at me with concern, saying that she didn’t want to alarm me, but she had heard two heartbeats inside me. Well, to be sure I was relieved that the baby’s heartbeat was normal, at least up until I realized what she had actually said. Then it hit me. My entire head became fuzzy with disbelief and my heart stopped. The only thing I could clearly focus on was the possibility of me being pregnant with twins. As I attended the ultra-sound, my mother and boyfriend accompanying me for support; the doctor-like lady gently moved the little camera around my stomach. After a minute, she asked me if my doctor had warned me about twins.

I remember thinking in my head, “Duh! If you had read my chart you would have known that.” But all I managed to say was yes.

After that, I began looking a little into adoption; I took it about as seriously as a fourteen-year-old can. It all felt like a dream, like it wasn’t really happening to me. Of course I have always been one to procrastinate, but I now believe it was mostly denial. There was also that childish voice in me saying, “Look at me, I’m pregnant, I must be an adult.” I suppose I enjoyed being pregnant because everyone gave me so much attention. I never really thought of the consequences though. Then my boyfriend went to jail for a parole violation, and for a brief moment I thought about keeping them. I realized it wasn’t a dream anymore. It was like I had been yanked out my green, flowery childhood world, to a dreary land, covered in cement. One that grown-ups call “reality.” I went through all the options in my head, but soon realized there wasn’t much I could do with twins. For me, abortion wasn’t an option either; I couldn’t justify it. So I went back looking into adoption.

I turned to my teacher, Nancy, also my best friend, for help and support. Without her I would have been lost. She thought it would be a good idea to get some books on adoption before I went to an agency. I collected several books, read them all, and easily chose what form of adoption I wanted. Open. In an open adoption you continue to be part of the baby’s life. An open adoption is not a required form of adoption; rather, both parties choose it willingly, for the sake of the child. With open adoption, the children have access to their entire history. They can find out who they are, where exactly they came from, and even the remarkable story of their birth-mother’s pregnancy with them, one that will be told for many generations.

With that decision out of the way, the only thing I needed to find now was an adoption agency I liked. That proved to be a very difficult task. Nancy and I sat down and phoned all the agencies that did open adoptions; all but one was rude to me over the phone. Open Adoption and Family Services were kind and helpful to me over the phone and they specialized in open adoptions.

The first meeting I attended was with a wonderful lady by the name of Danielle. She was the counselor/mediator for the adoption agency. We talked about a lot of different things; among them were things like health history, a summary of my life, why I chose adoption, etc. She also informed me of the entire process I would be going through, and gave me plenty of opportunities to ask questions I might have had. Once she decided that I was serious about adoption, she gave me a booklet with a bunch of letters from adoptive parents. I was to go through them and choose about three or four that I liked.

At our second meeting, I gave her the four letters I had chosen, and in return she handed me full-size packets on each of the families. It was a long and tedious process, but as I was looking through them I came across one couple that I felt drawn to. I didn’t even finish reading the rest of the packets. Their names were Tim and Judi, and for some reason I just clicked with them. To me, they felt right. So at the next visit I came tumbling in, excited at the thought of Tim and Judi adopting my twins. All smiles, I informed Danielle who I had selected, and we set up a time to meet with the future parents.

I’m sure everyone was nervous, but at the time I couldn’t help feeling I was the only one. I was so impressed with the two of them; they turned out to be perfect. It only took the one meeting for both parties to agree that this was right, that we were going to be a part of each other’s lives for a very long time. They were going to adopt my boys. We were supposed to meet a few more times to arrange all the legal stuff, but on April 2nd at only 31 weeks gestation, I went into labor, preventing that. I was moved several times from different hospitals to different rooms, and all along the way being given drugs I could hardly pronounce to stop the contractions. I remember Tim and Judi there; Tim is a surgeon so he was always checking my pulse and questioning the nurses’ judgment of my medications. He did it so seriously that sometimes I couldn’t contain my laughter. He would then look at me as if I had gone absolutely insane, and I would have to laugh even harder.

Once settled, after about a week, I started to get very sick. The doctors had no clue as to what was wrong with me, so after trying exceedingly hard to keep the twins in me, they had to induce the labor. Epidural medication was pumped into me in case I needed to have a cesarean. But, at 12:32 a.m. on April 8th the first baby was born, the second, born breech, at 12:35 a.m. They were barely over three pounds and only 32 weeks gestation.

After labor I was still having problems. I had a very high fever, blood pressure, pulse, and was having enough trouble breathing that they needed to put me on oxygen. I barely remember what happened that night, but I know I scared a lot of people. I remember being told my identical baby boys were doing better than I was. Finally they were able to determine the problems, fix them, and send me on my way. I was released on the 11th very glad to return home, and with the satisfaction that my being pregnant had brought an entire group of people together, that probably never would have met otherwise.

I still see my boys as much as possible. I know I could have taken the “easy way out,” just given them to a family and had nothing more to do with them. Or I could have been selfish; kept them, and watched them grow up in a dysfunctional family. But I love them more than that. I wanted to give them the best possible life; and by making the choices I did, I truly believe they have it. I did a lot of growing up during this whole ordeal too, but if I had the choice to do it again, I would.

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