Hidden Grief

Did you know that adoptive moms grieve?

Let me try to explain. The last time I felt grief was last February when my wonderful grandpa died. I worked on a slide show for his funeral, and I cried. My heart hurt.

This morning as I stood in the shower and the warm water flowed over me, my heart hurt in the same way. And I cried in the same way. I wept for my little girl who, when she was supposed to have been taking her first steps toward a loving mother, was laying on a rocky street outside a front gate starving to death. I cried for that baby, MY baby. I grieved for her pain. I grieved for the child I didn't have, the one I could love and protect from her conception who never knew that kind of core-changing pain and fear. I grieve for her future self, the one where a confused girl or even woman asks why. Why did this happen to me?

The difference with this grief is that it's not acknowledged. When grandpa died, people looked at me with gentle eyes and gave me a hug. At his funeral, all those who loved him grieved with me, feeling the same sense of loss that I felt. The pain was shared.

But this grief, though it is just as strong for me is not shared. People give congratulations and look for joy in my face. They tell me how "wonderful" she is and how "normal" and how amazingly well she has settled in.

I have a friend who expected a multiple birth, but one of the babies was stillborn. I'm sure she must have struggled with similar feelings. People congratulated her on her beautiful babies and did not remember that her heart was breaking. There is a need to distance the loss. Enjoy what you do have. Count your blessings.

Yet nobody told me when grandpa died to stop grieving because I had so many wonderful years with him. Enjoy what I did have. People wept with me.

Now as I grieve what my daughter and I have lost, it occurs to me that I need to go ahead and feel this grief. I need to weep with her when she weeps. I need to weep for myself, for the pain only a mother can feel when she no longer has the power to shield her precious children from pain but instead hurts with them. I need to write about it and share, and try to help people to understand.

I know this will fade over time, as grief does. We will find our joy again.

Today, at our open house, intended to celebrate Abi's homecoming and share a little of the amazing culture from the country where we met her, I feel a little bit like I'm planning a wake instead, like I expect hushed voices and muted colors and tear-filled eyes. For in a way we are saying goodbye to her old life, and goodbye to the child we had unconsciously anticipated, as well as welcoming the child we have and opening a new chapter for her. It's a strange mix of emotions for me, and one that few people ever understand.