Twenty-four years ago tomorrow I met my son. Twenty four years ago tonight I talked to him for the first time on the telephone.
This December, on his birthday, will mark six years since the trouble started.
Things remain the same.
That picture was taken on the actual day we met. I still celebrate that day because to know is always better than not to know no matter what you find out and no matter what happens. And because as long as every one is still breathing there is hope that we will have another opportunity to enjoy each other’s company.
The picture below was also taken on April 10th. Sixteen years later. I went out to visit him. He showed me around his city, he introduced me to his colleagues, he cooked for me. He shared his hopes and dreams. We had a great visit.
( I have to say it’s funny how I have turned into such a nasty person since then. But I digress…)
Back to the real reason for this post. A celebration!
Here is my post from April 10, 2010. Thinking of that wonderful day still makes me smile.
THE DAY I MET MY SON
I set the alarm this morning because I wanted to try and have this post go live at exactly five a.m. because it was the time 23 years ago on this day, April 10th, that I first met – first saw – my son.
I wrote him a letter and mailed it on April 3rd becuase that was my secretary’s birthday. I actually mailed two letters: one to him and one to a friend who lived in the same area so I would know when it got there. The day my friend called to say that she had received hers and I still hadn’t heard from him was not a happy day. Separation and loss.
My husband said let’s go for a walk.
We did and when we came back there was a message from him. That was the old days with answering machines so I still have the tape.
I am smiling as I write this. Such a happy memory.
He said – This is Chris, I am very enthusiastic about getting together with you too. Here is how to reach me. He was eighteen. He wasn’t living with his adoptive parents because well don’t want to talk about that.
My husband made me a drink. I played “Somewhere Out there” from An American Tale. I stomped around the house – a little frightened, thinking how brave he was to make the call. His voice sounded a lot like my father’s.
Our first conversation went well. He said – I got to come down there. Actually he said, I better get my ass down there. I laughed. He said it was nice to be talking to someone who would laugh at that.
He took the bus to Toronto and one cold raining April morning I drove down to the bus station to meet him. He got off the bus and said “I only have to look at those eyes and I know you’re my mother. I literally felt my heart leave my body. I gave him a hug. How wonderful! I brought him home. How wonderful! I made him a sandwich. How wonderful! What a privilege. He’d been up all night so eventually he asked if he could go to bed. He was sleeping under my roof – What a feeling of peace, peace, peace.
I could say more but it’s five o’clock. Have to go live.