A few weeks after my son’s homecoming in February 2015, he would have his 25th birthday. I was so excited to be able to celebrate his birthday with him for the very first time. I always thought about him on his birthday, and it was always a hard day. I remembered my labour and delivery, and the three short days we had together. There was nothing that separated the events of his birth from that of my three kept children. The depth of love I had for each of my babies was the same. Each one was a part of me, my own flesh and blood. Yet my firstborn had become a genetic stranger. I knew nothing of his whereabouts or well-being over the years. I just knew that my baby, now an adult, was out there, somewhere. Finally being together on his 25th birthday was an incredible, indescribable gift.

We had made plans along with his adoptive parents for us all to celebrate his birthday together. I watched keenly as my four children talked and laughed together with such ease. They appeared to enjoy each other’s company immensely. I am so grateful for the bond they shared that endured through years of separation. It touched my heart in a way I can’t even explain.

After the dinner dishes had been cleared from the table, and the birthday cake set out, my four children huddled together around the cake for a picture. Their smiles and the happiness displayed on each of their faces was the most beautiful sight to behold. I felt as though my heart would burst. This is a precious memory I still treasure to this day.

Then, without warning or invitation, intense sadness welled up inside me. I actually didn’t fully understand my emotions at the time, and I really didn’t want anything to take away from this wonderful time of celebration together. I feared I might lose control, so I excused myself and went into the washroom. In there I tried to regain my composure. I didn’t want the tears to start for fear they may never stop. I didn’t want anyone to know I was crying, and I definitely could not let my tears cause mascara to run down my face. This was pretty much the best day ever and I was getting angry with myself for my uncontrollable emotions. I felt like I was coming untethered, and completely falling apart. I dug my fingernails into my forearms to feel a physical pain that would detract from the pain in my heart. Once I felt that I could safely hold it together, I dabbed away the tears that had escaped, and rejoined the party.

I struggled to be fully present after that, needing to put a tremendous amount of energy into controlling my emotions. The painful realization of all the birthdays, all the years, I missed out on with my son was almost unbearable. I felt a love for my son so deep, it hurt. The pain of all that was lost was extremely emotional and deeply physical. The despair and heartbreak so visceral I felt it in my chest.

This would become a common theme for me in the coming months. Feelings of such joy and elation while my family was together. Feelings of deep gratitude that my family had been reunited. I was beyond grateful that my children had connected in such a beautiful and special way, as if they had grown up together. I experienced unimaginable happiness. But each time we had to say goodbye, each and every time we were separated, I would be overcome with sorrow. I felt like I was losing my son all over again.

We would drop him off at the bus station to catch the Grey Hound back to Toronto. After we hugged, he would get on the bus, and we would watch until the bus drove away. In an instant excruciating grief and sorrow would stab my heart and soul. Our commute back home was always quiet as I sat in the passenger seat staring out the window, silent tears streaming down my face. I would scold myself “What is wrong with you? Get a grip! Be grateful! This is exactly what you’ve dreamed about, exactly what you’ve prayed for”.

No matter how hard I tried to convince myself, the pain would not go away.

I had fought hard over the years to guard my heart and keep part of it safely closed. The part that belonged to my firstborn. Though somehow, thankfully, I managed to keep another part of my heart open and tender for my three kept children. I had learned how to compartmentalize my heart and mind, while not consenting to my reality. I had been able to live a lie and pretend I was fine. I managed to survive the most profound heartbreak, and deepest grief I’ve ever experienced. And no one knew. There was so much I could not let my heart feel, or my mind think.

But now, as I was becoming untethered and undone, I was starting to break. I could no longer live in denial of what I had lost, of who I had lost. The sorrow, pain, and anguish that I had tried so hard to bury, to put in a box and lock away deep in the recess of my heart, was now beginning to crack. The hurt places were breaking open. And I was not prepared at all.