# 31: MOTHER'S DAY (THE UNSENT LETTERS)

PAGE # 31

Saturday

5/12/12
The Night Before Mother's Day

Dear Birth Mother,


I've been thinking about you a lot, especially with Mother's Day being tomorrow.  I checked your Facebook page recently, and even though we are not friends there and your page is not public, I could see your profile picture and your friend list.


It looks like you changed your profile pic to one from when you were pregnant with Lily.  There is a man seated next to you, but the picture is cropped, so I can only see a fraction of his face.  I can't tell for sure, but it looks like it is Lily's biological father.


You look beautiful and happy in this picture.


Then, my gaze shifted down toward your friend list--I didn't click on it--I just saw the "featured friends" that a viewer sees on the side.  And I saw your name again, so I clicked on that.


I guess you have two Facebook accounts. 


This profile page, unlike the other, has the updated timeline feature.  The inset photo is one of you, your husband, and your two boys.  The large photo is a picture of a beautiful flower.  It's a lily.  Of course.


I started to feel a bit of panic, because having a therapist background, and a significant knowledge of complex trauma (both personal & professional), I could not help but view this as proof of dissociative phenomena.  NOT something severe like a multiple personality disorder.  Just that you might be fragmented now.  Like the pregnant mother you were got split off from the person you have to be now.  The mother you have to be without Lily.


I've felt a lot of anxiety since this Facebook discovery.  It's hard for me to figure out whether my concerns for you are accurate, or whether this is just some manifestation of my own PTSD.  My own transference issues, so to speak.  Perhaps it doesn't really matter.  Maybe it's a bit of both.


I had a vivid dream a few nights after this Facebook discovery.


In the dream, I had found Lily.  I was running with her.  I held her close; I was worried I might drop her by accident.  The landscape kept changing and it was hard to stay balanced.  I ran through fields of tall grass, through parking lots of empty cars.  I was looking for you.  I was trying to bring Lily back to you.  But I couldn't find you.  


When I woke up, it was still the middle of the night.  I was sweating and my toes were rounded and clenched.  My body felt weighted, like I was pinned down by some unseen force.  I wake up like this a lot nowadays, and I have to work really hard from launching into a full blown panic attack.  I'm usually okay during the daytime.  The panic episodes mostly happen at night.


My therapist has pointed out that my concern for you is a bit obsessive.  Perhaps.  I acknowledge that on some level, focusing on you has maybe protected me from feeling my own pain.  It is hard for me to give myself permission to cry about Lily.  I feel like I'd be usurping your grief somehow.  But during that therapy session, I was able to cry.  And I guess that's okay too.


Just today, the whole family was out shopping.  We were in the kids' department, buying new shoes for Sara.  I saw a baby--she had to be the same age Lily is now--so I got up real close to see if maybe she was Lily.  Remember the birthmarks Lily had under her nose?  The ones the nurse said were called stork bites?  I always look for those when I smile at babies.  The nurse said they would fade away eventually, but you never know.  


I guess I feel forever linked to you.  We both lost the same baby girl to the world of adoption.  She is your daughter, and I want you to know that we loved her too.


Happy Mother's Day to both of us.  


Jennifer