Forever 23: Reflections on a 36th Birthday and the Evolution of Grief

Tomorrow would have been Michael’s 36th birthday. Or, as I named him in that hospital room three and a half decades ago: Foster Cameron.

I spent years calling him Michael, the name his other parents chose. I used it so carefully, so consistently, that for a time I wondered if I had ever really named him at all. It wasn’t until I held his original birth certificate in my hands that I felt that truth settle in my bones: I named him. He was mine to name.

As I colored my hair this weekend, I was transported back to the day I prepared to meet him for the first time. He was twenty years old. I remember fretting over the stupidest things: the shade and “harshness” of the dye; the need for the perfect outfit; the desperate desire to look my best for a son who was, in many ways, a stranger.

When I finally held him, this “boy-man” who towered over me, I felt small and fragile – like a little girl again. I was that same young woman who once believed that walking away was the best thing she could do. Back then, I ignored the ache in my chest and the closing of my throat. I treated my body’s memories as dangerous things, fearing they would swallow me whole if I let them speak.

I writhed in pain for years; I just never let anyone see.

The Numbness and the “Now”

This year feels different (though I seem to say that every year). As this birthday arrives, I’ve been feeling a certain numbness. Everything feels so far in the past, yet so vividly in the “now.”

People often ask if the grief ever ends. I don’t feel the acute, sharp-edged pain I once did. Does that mean I’ve “processed” it? Maybe. But I’ve learned that grief is a tide; it recedes, but it never truly leaves the shore.

I find myself caught in the “what ifs.” My husband, Tom, and I mused recently about how this could have been the year Michael would have finally been ready to step into a real, adult relationship with me. But because he is gone, Michael is trapped in my mind at four, at eight, at twenty-three. I don’t know how to think of him beyond that.

From Blame to Compassion

In the past, I would have used his birthday to lash out – usually at myself. I lived in the shadow of being a “bad person” because I relinquished my child. But as I sit here today, I realize something has shifted. I am not blaming myself anymore. At least, not all the time.

That is progress. (I admit, though, that I am still developing the self-compassion the young woman in the hospital room didn’t know she deserved.)

Through my work with Concerned United Birthparents (CUB) and my writing, I’ve found a “why” for my pain. When I hear the stories of others just beginning this journey, I have a visceral reaction; I can feel their agony. It is a mirror that shows me exactly how far I’ve come. I’ve realized that I don’t just want to stay involved in this community; I need to. Hearing their stories is my “aha” moment. Even though Michael is gone, I can reach back and offer a hand to those coming down the line behind me.

Choosing Understanding

I may not be able to celebrate with Michael today, but I can celebrate the fact that I am no longer afraid of my own memories. I am no longer worried that the pain will swallow me. Instead, I’ve woven it into the fabric of my life – a life dedicated to making sure other birth parents and adoptees are seen, heard, and understood.

Happy Birthday, Michael Ryan/Foster Cameron. You are loved by every name and in every memory.

May you be happy. May you be healthy. May you be safe.

Candace