Not Exactly As Planned

by Linda Rosenbaum

  Not Exactly

  As Planned

  Not Exactly

  As Planned

  A Memoir of Adoption,

  Secrets and Abiding Love

  Linda Rosenbaum

  DEMETER PRESS, BRADFORD, ONTARIO

  Copyright © 2014 Demeter Press

  Individual copyright to their work is retained by the authors. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Demeter Press logo based on the sculpture “Demeter” by

  Maria-Luise Bodirsky

  Cover design: Allyson Woodrooffe (go-word.com)

  eBook development: WildElement.ca

  Every effort has been made to contact the photographer who took the

  photograph used on the cover of this book. The author and the publisher

  welcome any information that would allow them to acknowledge the

  photographer in subsequent editions.

  Printed and Bound in Canada

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Rosenbaum, Linda, author

  Not exactly as planned : a memoir of adoption, secrets and

  abiding love / Linda Rosenbaum.

  ISBN 978-1-927335-91-8 (pbk.)

  1. Rosenbaum, Linda. 2. Adoptive parents—Canada—Biography.

  3. Mothers—Canada—Biography. 4. Adopted children—Family

  relationships—Canada. 5. Children of prenatal alcohol abuse—Canada.

  I. Title.

  HV874.82.C3.R68 2014 362.734092 C2014-906273-7

  Demeter Press

  140 Holland Street West

  P. O. Box 13022

  Bradford, ON L3Z 2Y5

  Tel: (905) 775-9089

  Email: info@demeterpress.org

  Website: www.demeterpress.org

  For Alberta

  Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.

  Man plans and God laughs.

  —Yiddish Proverb

  Prologue: The First Secret

  Detroit, 1958

  THE FIRST FAMILY SECRET unravels on the holiest day of the Jewish calendar. It is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, 1958. I am ten.

  My oldest sister and I return home from synagogue after the ritual prayers of repentance and forgiveness. Our mother and father stay for Yizkor, prayers of remembrance for the dead. Yom Kippur is one of the few holidays treated with reverence in our home, powerful enough to lure the whole family to shule.

  Soon after we come into the house, the phone rings. My sister and I look at each other. “Who would be calling on Yom Kippur?” It is such a solemn day for us. Most people we know are at synagogue or busy with family.

  “Answer it.” Barbara says. “It might be important.”

  The voice on the other end is matter-of-fact. “Mrs. Belle Rosenbaum, please.”

  “My mother won’t be home until later.”

  “I’m calling from Eloise Mental Hospital to inform her that Mrs. Esther Koenigsberg passed away this morning.”

  Eloise? Even at the age of ten I know that Eloise is the place for crazy people. I have overheard enough stories to know they lock people up there, tie them to beds, and shock them with electricity.

  “Esther Koenigsberg?” I ask. “Sorry, we don’t know…” I stop myself. The name is familiar.

  “Our records say she is the mother of Belle Rosenbaum.”

  “That’s my mother.”

  “Ask her to call when she comes in.”

  I hang up the phone and sit down at the kitchen table. My head is swimming.

  “Who was it?” Barbara asks, looking alarmed.

  “Our grandmother just died…” I tell her, and then fill in the details, still piecing them together myself. “But it can’t be. She’s dead. But the lady says it was Mom’s mother. The woman’s name was Esther Koenigsberg. Wasn’t that our grandmother’s name?” My voice tapers into silence. I lower my head and stare at the flecks in the green linoleum floor, then look up, hoping my big sister, ten years older, will help me.

  Though she is with me that day, Barbara lives with her husband and baby in their own home. That means she is a grown-up. It will make sense to her, right?

  At first, only silence. “It must be her,” she finally says. “I have vague memories of driving out of town to a big hospital with Mom when I was little, but I don’t remember visiting anyone or even getting out of the car. I’m not even sure I knew why we were there. We never talked about it. I guess mom assumed I was so young I wouldn’t remember anything. But the place must have been Eloise. If it was, that’s where our grandmother was living all these years.” She shakes her head. “This is crazy.”

  Her response adds to my confusion. Barbara has been to Eloise? What about Sharon, my middle sister, five years older than me? Has she been there, too? Did she know our grandmother was alive? The only thing I knew about my grandmother was her name, Esther Koenigsberg. And Esther Koenigsberg was long dead, according to my mother.

  After wearing out the conversation with my sister, I sit alone in our book-lined den, going over and over what the lady said. If she really was talking about my grandmother, it means my mother has kept her a secret. She has lied. My grandmother hadn’t died before I was born, like she said.

  How could my mother send her own mother away? How could she deprive me of me my grandmother? Worse still, how could she deny my grandmother me? I was so mad, my chest began to ache, like an anchor had been tied to it. I practise aloud how I will punish my mother when she comes home. I am never going to forgive her.

  Late in the afternoon, my parents return, looking tired and solemn after a day of fasting and prayer.

  I run up to my mother, barely through the front door. “You never told me about my grandmother,” I shout, with rehearsed fury. “How could you keep her a secret from me?” As an aside, I throw in, “Oh, I forgot. They called from Eloise. Your mother died this morning.”

  I am surprised how good it feels to say something so cruel, but the pleasure doesn’t last more than a few seconds. I am too aware that it is The Day of Atonement, also of forgiveness.

  My mother stands by the door, expressionless. Her two worlds, the one with her daughters and the one with her mother, have collided. “It’s hard to explain,” she eventually says, unable to look at me. “You can’t understand. It was different then. There were things you didn’t talk about.”

  She is right. I couldn’t understand. It will be a long time until I learn that the “thing” people don’t talk about is mental illness in the family.

  My sister and I try to get details from my mother, but she won’t reveal much, no matter how we pry.

  “What was wrong with her?” we ask.

  “She had problems.”

  “Come on, Ma, what kind of problems?”

  “She was … sick.”

  “But why was she in Eloise?”

  “We couldn’t take care of her.”

  “How old were you when she went in?”

  “Young.”

  The more we press, the more she closes down. We ask our father for answers, but he defers, letting us know it is not his domain. “Ask your mother.”

  My sister gives up on the inquisition before I do. With each unsatisfying answer to our questions, my fury rises. It isn’t right that I can close my eyes and imagine what Eloise Mental Hospital looks like, but not my own grandmother. Were her eyes blue like mine? Was her hair grey, wrapped in a braid around her head like my father’s mother? Did her hankies smell of lilies of the valley? What did her dresses look like? Would she speak English or Yiddish when I visited? Did she ever ask about me or know I was al
ive?

  I have no compassion for my mother. I only feel betrayed.

  That night, my mother walks into my room, unsolicited. She sits down on my bed. She doesn’t hug me, try to console me or tuck me in.

  “I used to visit my mother,” she says. “I drove to Eloise every week to see her. I’d bring containers of cottage cheese and eggplant that I cooked the way she liked. She’d only say a few words, and mostly rocked while I was there. I’d stay for a while, then drive home.” She sits for a few minutes more, then stands up and leaves the room.

  Somehow, these few words break the floodgates. They allow me to fantasize, imagine myself sitting in the car with my mother as we drive to Eloise every week. When we arrive, I head straight to my grandmother’s room. “Hi Grandma,” I say, and give her a hug. We hold hands until my mother says it is time to leave. I kiss my grandmother on the cheek and say goodbye. I know she is sorry I have to go. “It’s okay, Grandma,” I say. “I’ll be back next week. Don’t worry.”

  I lay in bed brooding that night. I’m not old enough to run away, so make another plan.

  Just like my sister, I will move away from home and have a family of my own by the time I am twenty. I will never, ever be anything like my mother.

  No secrets. No lies. I will hide nothing and no one from the people I love.

  1.

  New Baby / New Reality

  Toronto Island, 1987

  “WE DON’T KNOW what happened,” I said to the doctor. “I didn’t think it was possible, but Michael’s crying is worse than ever.

  “Besides his ear-piercing screams, he stiffens his limbs when he’s crying, arches his back and clenches his fists. His arms are flailing again like when we first brought him home. His tummy’s bloated and he sometimes draws his arms and legs up to it.”

  “He has colic,” the pediatrician pronounced.

  Colic was defined as long, unexplained bouts of crying in an infant that could last over three hours at a stretch. About twenty percent of babies had colic, considered the by-product of a not yet fully developed nervous system.

  “How can it be colic? I thought babies got colic when they were two or three weeks old,” I said. Michael was now six months.

  It was the summer of 1987. I was thirty-nine and living with my husband on Toronto Island, on the Lake Ontario waterfront. Robin and I had been married for three years and, after trying unsuccessfully to conceive a child, we had made the decision to adopt. In May, we brought Michael home when he was seven days old. Since then, as parents, we had become desperate. We didn’t know what was happening with our child, and no one seemed any wiser than we were.

  “It can appear this late with preemies, but this is quite unusual,” the doctor admitted. Michael was born full-term. “But it’s colic nevertheless. It should last about three months, then miraculously disappear.” It wasn’t reassuring to know we would have three months of this, but the diagnosis subdued our fears that it was something more serious.

  “If it’s any comfort, I don’t think Michael is in any pain,” the doctor said. I wish it were comforting, but I didn’t believe him. Michael looked and sounded like he was being tortured. A few days after the doctor’s, a friend told me her own doctor admitted using the term colic as a five-letter word to say, “I don’t know.” That I could believe.

  As the intensity of Michael’s cries mounted, so did my frustration. I was back to feeling completely helpless again, like the days when we first brought him home. I didn’t know the causes of my son’s distress or how to relieve him. There were days he was so inconsolable, we were both in tears, hurting together.

  I remembered my dad once saying when I was young, “This is hurting me as much as it’s hurting you.” At the time, he was digging out a bad sliver in my index finger. I didn’t believe him. Now I thought maybe my dad was telling the truth. Michael’s colic was killing me.

  Robin and I tried doing the things we had done right after Michael was born to calm him. We swaddled him as a form of gentle restraint. We held him tightly against our chests or over our shoulders to put firm pressure on his tummy. We tried hot water bottles. We kept him away from light or too much stimulation. We gave him gripe water and homeopathic remedies. Everything helped a little, but not much and not for long.

  I read everything I could about colic, but found little to explain why it happened. Then, while browsing the Internet for the ultimate colic cure-all, I read something by a doctor that shocked me. The root cause of colic? What else? The mother! I had grown up in a time when conventional wisdom held mothers responsible for homosexuality because we were overbearing; schizophrenia because we gave double messages to our children; and ulcers and asthma because we were creating too much stress. And now colic? I had to hear this crap at a time I was already vulnerable about my parenting skills?

  What the doctor was saying, in essence, is that babies develop colic to get the attention of their otherwise distracted mothers. After “the miracle of a new birth,” mothers want to revert to their previous activities and schedules — if only their newborns would let them! But “colic demands attention,” the doctor continued, forcing mums to “leave their previous ruts and develop new dynamics that include this new individual.” According to this logic, babies wouldn’t develop colic if mothers were giving them what they needed and wanted. Bullshit.

  My energy and spirits were slowly wearing down from the constant attention Michael needed. I began doing things I had sworn never to do. It made me afraid of what might be next. Plopping Michael in front of a video to get a few quiet moments was the least of it.

  I was home alone with Michael on a dreary, rainy day. He was crying for what felt like hours and probably was. All the tenderness in the world couldn’t get him to stop wailing. I held him, rocked him, coddled him, petted him, fed him, rubbed his tummy, turned on soft music, walked him in the stroller, sang to him, whispered soft sounds. Nothing worked.

  I always assumed Michael’s crying signalled something was wrong, that he was saying, “Help me, mommy, help me.” The crying both pulled on my heartstrings and drowned me in guilt. The feelings escalated with each successive attempt to help him.

  I snapped. My sympathy had run dry. Wham! I couldn’t listen to him any longer. I took Michael into my arms and raised him above my head. I screamed at him in fury. “Why are you doing this, Michael? Stop crying! Stop it! Stop it!”

  I must have been feeling what parents I read about in the National Enquirer felt before they did unspeakable things to their children.

  My screaming scared the wits out of Michael. He cried even harder. I got even madder. Yet I must have held on to a gauze-thin veil of control. I knew enough, somehow, to get Michael out of my arms, fast. If not, I’d soon be shaking him. I could feel it coming.

  I ran with him into his bedroom. Without lowering the sides of the crib, I threw him down into it. It wasn’t a violent toss, but it wasn’t friendly, either.

  I had no idea how close I was to my breaking point until I reached it. I ran out of Michael’s room and headed upstairs to the bedroom. I threw my own self on our bed, covered my head with pillows and cried myself to exhaustion. When I came back downstairs an hour later, Michael was asleep. I told myself he wore himself out. That was the expression used by the head nurse at the hospital where Michael was born. That’s the way she said he fell asleep each night before we brought him home.

  I felt ashamed and terrified. I had to ask myself questions I preferred not to. What separated me from the National Enquirer mothers? What kept me from doing worse? Could it happen again? Why wasn’t I aware of my anger and frustration being on the rise until it was too late? And the bigger questions: Why didn’t I call Robin? Why didn’t I ask one of my many neighbours to take Michael out of the house for a walk?

  I remembered nothing else from that day. Not even what happened when Robin came home or if Michael seemed affected by the experience. It took time before my shame lifted. When it did, I made a promise to both Robin an
d myself. If I ever felt anything like that again, I would call him at work or ask a friend to come over. I hoped I didn’t have to.

  The colic disappeared on cue after three long months. Other challenges didn’t.

  One morning, a few weeks after Michael’s arrival, I startled awake and bolted upright in bed. I felt completely alarmed, though not sure about what. I was petrified. My stomach clenched. My heart was racing, pounding loud and fast. The palms of my hands were slick with sweat. I shook Robin, curled in his favourite position, his face buried deep in the pillow. “Wake up, wake up,” I said, my voice quaking. “I think I’m going crazy.”

  He was dozy, not yet registering what I was saying. “Robin, something’s wrong.”

  Just barely awake, he tried to calm me. “It must be lack of sleep, or post-adoption depression.”

  “It’s nothing like that.” Robin and I took turns feeding Michael through the night, so I didn’t get that little sleep. And he probably made up the term post-adoption depression so I could feel like other new mothers in case I did get depressed. But I wasn’t.

  When Robin saw I was shaking, he pulled himself upright and put his arms around me. Holding me tightly, he tried to stifle the shivers rolling through my body.

  “I’m scared to death of something,” I said. ”My head is whirling.” My voice became louder, less controlled. I pleaded with Robin to tell me what was happening. “I think I’m going crazy. What’s wrong with me? Will it go away?”

  He looked straight into my eyes. “Linda, you told me you had these symptoms before, before we met. Remember?”

  “Is it a panic attack?”

  “Probably,” Robin said. “Maybe your body is trying to tell you something, just like before.”

  I pulled myself away. “Like what? What could it be telling me?” Certainly nothing I wanted to know about.

  “That you’re trapped. You’re stuck. That’s what it was telling you before, so maybe it’s telling you the same thing now. You have a child you can’t ever leave.”

  I was sickened by what he was saying. “I love being a mother. I love Michael,” I said. I’ve waited all my life to be a mother and have a child. Now I’m ungrateful and worried I might not be able to escape? How shameful is that?