Tuesday, October 27, 2009

June 1991

Meeting new patients and making up their charts is one of the things in my current job that has made me realize how old my son is, that he is all grown up and all that. I've met patients, male and female, that are around his age ... a little older, a little younger.

Then the other day I had to make up a chart for a girl who was born in June 1991 as she sat in the waiting room with her 23 year-old boyfriend. I felt sick to my stomach. A full grown person with an adult life (she works and doesn't go to college) born the same month and year my son was. I HAVE MISSED EVERYTHING AND WILL NEVER, EVER HAVE IT. I don't know my son, he doesn't know me. There are no memories, no traditions, no nothing. I am not his family, I am no source of comfort and remembered love to him. If we ever do meet again, we will just be people who get to know each other. Boy did that come screaming home to me that day.

It was all I could do to make that chart and sit through the initial interview. I considered asking my coworker to do it but then thought, don't be such a coward, Jayne.

I have since had to do another chart for a boy born March 1991 and did not have that same reaction. Sure I noticed 1991 and did the math and all that, but it was just as removed as someone born in 1988 when my friend had a baby that her parents made her give up for adoption. (I had moved away and learned about it later. I talked to her shortly after placing my son, but I have lost touch with her. I keep looking for her on Facebook - and elsewhere - and can't find her. Damn our custom of women changing their last names after marriage.)

June 1991 is just a trigger for me I guess. Will it get easier? Probably not.