Growing up Adopted

This is the first chapter of the story of my adoption and the eventual search for my birth family. Some names have been changed or omitted for privacy.

Chapter One

“Your Mother loved you.” A simple statement. A true statement. I heard this from the moment I was old enough to understand what it meant to be adopted. I knew the story well. It was both heartbreaking and joyful. A twisted path that eventually led a tiny baby into the arms of two wonderful people who would become my parents.

My adoptive Mom, Joan, was diagnosed with juvenile Diabetes at the age of 14. That was in 1958. In those days, that meant two to four weeks in the hospital with other young patients learning how to live with a scary disease; understanding which foods to eat, what to avoid, and comprehending blood sugar numbers in relation to how much insulin to inject.

After my Mom became an adult, the Diabetes affected her ability to stay pregnant. After her second miscarriage, her doctor advised my parents not to try again. My Mom had hemorrhaged so badly that she nearly died. She had been five months along.

My adoptive Dad, Duane Morris was my Mom’s brother’s friend and came to their house frequently. Wayne and Duane played football together at Sandy Union High School in Sandy, Oregon. At some point, my Grandma Irene told my Mom that she suspected Duane wasn’t just coming over to see Wayne. He was there to see someone else!

Both Duane and Joan lived on farms in rural Clackamas county. My Dad’s family raised cattle, strawberries and raspberries over the years. My Mom’s family had cattle and hay fields. Neither family was wealthy. Pennies had to be pinched and extras were rare, but no one ever went hungry.

My Mom was barely 18 months old when her Dad, Floyd Hibbard, was killed in a logging accident. My Grandma Irene re-married and her second husband, John Cunningham, was also killed in a logging accident. For a good part of her younger years, Joan and her older sister Beverly were raised by a single Mom. When the girls were still in high school, my Grandma Irene married Roland Erickson, also a widower. His first wife, Louise, had died suddenly of a brain aneurysm some years before. Roland is the man who I knew as my Grandpa and his son Wayne became a brother to Joan and Beverly.

And so, it was with the blending of these two families, and the ensuing friendship between Wayne and Duane, that my parents came together and eventually married on April 19th, 1963. My Mom was 19 and my Dad was 21.

The second miscarriage was heartbreaking for my parents, but they were determined to have a family. They looked into adoption agencies, but soon found that was going to be difficult. Because of Joan’s Diabetes, agencies weren’t inclined to place babies with parents who had serious health issues. Even if they did, waiting lists were long and could take years. It was a heartbreak all over again. Still, Duane and Joan looked at all of their options, even going so far as to tell Joan’s obstetrician that they would like to know if any babies born to unwed teenaged mothers needed a home. Gender and race didn’t matter.

My Aunt Bev told me a story, years after both of my parents had passed. My Mom had been in a deep despair after the second miscarriage. She decided that it would be only fair to divorce my Dad so that he could marry someone able to give him the family he wanted. My Dad was furious, declaring, “I didn’t marry you for your womb! I love you and if we aren’t meant to have children, that’s OK!” The subject of a divorce was never brought up again.

The call came unexpectedly in mid-August of 1970. My Mom's obstetrician told Joan that a little girl had been born. The young mother was 15 and had hid the pregnancy until the day she had given birth. The family wanted to place the baby for adoption. Would she and Duane be interested? Duane was at work, but Joan knew what his answer would be and immediately told the doctor, “Yes, we want her!”

It was a whirlwind couple of days! Duane and Joan had some money saved, but it wasn’t enough to cover all the attorney’s fees for the adoption, which was handled privately rather than through an agency. Calls were made to both sets of my Grandparents, Mac and Ruth Morris and Roland and Irene Erickson. There was a little girl that needed a home, that needed parents and grandparents! Pooling resources, the families made it happen!

There was no such thing as “open” adoptions in the 1970’s. At the request of the biological family, it was handled quickly and quietly. They were reassured that the baby was going to a good family. Only the attorney and the doctor knew the identities of both families and that information was sealed. Duane and Joan only knew there was a healthy baby girl who was coming into their lives to complete their family. Nothing else mattered. Three days after my birth, on August 14th, 1970, Joan and Duane picked me up from the hospital and became my Mom and Dad.