Considering adoption? The 'adoption story' is not all
happiness..
Bonnie Anderson - Swift Current, Saskatchewan
I have three children: Dwayne age 29, Erin age 23, and Thomas
age 22. Only 2 of those consider me to be their mother. To my first born
however I am simply referred to as Bonnie. He does not consider me to
be his mother in any way. I lost Dwayne to adoption when he was born.
I never saw my son, never held him, did not know the colour of his eyes
and hair until February of 2003. The following is an excerpt from a formal
document I have submitted to a private individual who is working on a
research project. It was written in May 2004, approximately 6 months ago.
Approximately a month after submitting this story, I attempted
suicide. I am still in treatment for PTSD and things are improving for
me. Currently my son and I are not communicating.
MY STORY
In 1974, when I was 17 and a minor, I gave birth to my eldest
son, Dwayne in Swift Current, Saskatchewan. Although it was my deepest
desire to keep my baby, I was not provided with an advocate to speak on
my behalf, to inform me of my rights, to apprise me of social or governmental
programs which existed at the time, or other assistance and options available
to me which would have enabled to keep the infant born to me on June 19th
of that year. I was made to feel helpless and disentitled to my son.
Consequently and ultimately, I surrendered to the pressure put upon me
to surrender him for adoption.
Although our adoption records were sealed, I searched for
and found my son, connecting with him for the first time ever in 2003.
I was required to interact with a host of authority figures
and agencies in 1974 whom, I was told were acting in my baby’s “best
interest”. These people/entities were:the Government of Saskatchewan
Department of Social Services, my son’s adoptive parents,the social
worker assigned to them by the Government of Saskatchewan Social Services
whose assigned task it was to secure them an infant, myObstetrician/Gynocologist,
the Swift Current Regional Hospital and its nursing staff.
In 1973, I was residing in Calgary. I grew up the product of
alchoholic parents and escaped from my abusive, dysfunctional home at
the earliest possible opportunity. I was 16 when I left home. It was only
a matter of months before I became pregnant. Just following my 17th
birthday, I discovered I was pregnant. Upon discovering I had become
pregnant, I contacted my parents, and asked that I be allowed to come
home. They refused to my request. They refused to support me in any way.
They instructed me to solve “my problem” and then I would welcomed
home.
I was literally cast out of the family and told I would have to provide
for myself by any means I saw fit. I was fortunate enough to find an estranged
family member to take me in. In return for caring for her home and children,
she provided me with room and board throughout the duration of my pregnancy.
It was while staying here that I would meet the people who would eventually
become the adoptive parents of the son I was forced to surrender for adoption.
Upon learning of my situation and discovering the extent to which
I was in turmoil over not only my future but that of my unborn son, they
befriended me. Over the course of the next few months, they made many
overtures of friendship. I learned that, after several miscarried pregnancies,
they had decided to adopt a child. They had, in fact, been trying to adopt
a child for a couple of years. Up until that time they had only been offered
children of First Nations heritage, they wanted to hold out for a white
infant. As my “friendship” with this woman grew, I confided
in her my anguish over the impending birth of my baby. I revealed to
her that I could not entertain the idea of “giving away” my
baby to strangers but did not know how I would ever be able to provide
for my yet unborn baby. I was indeed desperate and vulnerable. With no
family to support me, and the baby’s father having denied any responsibility,
the very real possibility of living destitute with a newborn weighed heavily
on my heart and my mind.
Approximately four weeks before the birth of my baby, Barbara
approached me asking me if I would consider allowing them to adopt my
baby. She felt that would indeed solve all my problems. The baby would
go to a safe secure home and I would in fact know who his parents were.
After much anguished deliberation, I agreed to meet with their social
worker. We met in Barbara’s home. The social worker sat beside me
and candidly told me that it was, in fact, unethical for her to handle
me as a client and that technically I should have a social worker assigned
to help me and that what she was about to do, in acting as advocate for
both myself and the adoptive parents, constituted a conflict of interest.
Being only 17 and not even having graduated from high school, I had no
idea what the term “conflict of interest” meant. Barbara assured
me that everything would be okay and that it would be more expedient if
one social worker handled everything. I realize now of course, that
I was legally entitled to my own social worker, as well as my own attorney.
This woman never acted as my advocate in any way. She was only
serving the interests of her primary clients, my son’s adopters.
On June 19,1974, I gave birth to my son. I was denied pain medication
during the course of my labour and delivery. An episiotomy was performed
without the benefit of even a local anesthetic. My baby was removed from
me immediately following his birth despite my frantic requests to see
him. Only then was I medicated. I was denied access to my son throughout
my stay in the hospital.
Three to five days following the birth of my son, the adopters’
social worker came to the hospital with all the necessary documents for
me to sign. She presented the documents, without explanation, directing
me where to sign. There was no other adult or witness present throughout
the signing of these documents. I signed where she directed me to. I
was then instructed by this social worker not to grieve the loss of my
child and to remember that his interests would in fact be far better served
being raised away from me and by his new parents.
I have no memory of the balance of the time I was in the hospital
although I was there for 7 days. Neither do I remember leaving the hospital.
I dissociated completely from this experience, my life forever altered.
It was as though my child died the day he was born. I was told to get
on with my life, to forget I had been pregnant and had given birth to
a child, and that it was in everyone’s best interest. As a result
of this lack of validation for my loss, I have experienced the debilitating
effects of disenfranchised grief and have been treated for severe clinical
depression for the last 12 years of my life. I have suffered from suicidal
tendencies and panic attacks for that period of time. I am currently
being treated by a clinical therapist for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
resulting from the loss of my son. Every day of my life now is a struggle
to make it from beginning to end. The loss of my child has formed the
framework for every decision for all my adult life. I have lived in terror
of losing the two children I subsequently gave birth to and raised. Reuniting
with my son in 2003 has awoken an inconsolable grief within me. I relive
the trauma of his loss every day. I cannot foresee a day when I will
be free of weight.
- More Adoption 'Counseling' and
Coercion Stories -
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