Yesterday was awful. I woke up feeling drugged. I was so tired that I wanted to cry. Even my husband was concerned. But, I couldn’t rest.
I guess I know why… My body was working hard to create more chaos. So we have the huge joints, and my shoulders, a knee, my fingers, feet and now this. You know how you’re meant to rest when tired and pregnant as your body is creating a human being?
That’s how I feel. An exhaustion I can’t combat. Fatigue I can’t fight. But chaos around me that I need to try control. Like checking my one twin isn’t pulling anything off my shelf and turning around to see that her twin has taken something I just finished ironing and is playing with it.
Like being so happy that they love the flowers I was given. But having to sort the mess out. I could sleep for hours. Alas, homeschooling parents of little ones who don’t have support can never rest.
Many doctors focus on the pain, but the fatigue is also a hugely detrimental symptom for us. Let’s see if I’ll ever get treatment that will help.
So says my eight year old ADHDer. I am pretty sure I’ve mentioned how she is very hard on herself. Extremely hard on herself about her perceived weaknesses. From ADHD itself and her forgetfulness, to the common co-morbidities that tend to come with ADHD-the learning disabilities or challenges, they all combine to make her feel like a failure. I’m one of those relaxed parents. It’s not about me. There’s a lady I know whose child was obviously neurodiverse in some way. She recently had the child assessed because of the struggles she was having when helping the child with homework. In her words, “I am intelligent. I got frustrated thinking I have a child who’s slow! Helping her was just too frustrating.”
I’m definitely not dumb, but my biological son’s being behind by a year doesn’t reflect on me. I just taught him according to his ability. No skin off my nose! And same with my other children. Their (dis)abilities are about THEM. “How can I help THEM do better? Is it possible? If not, what can we do instead? How do I make this less stressful for them so they don’t feel stupid?”
And so, I changed curriculum to one I’d seen recommended by Christian parents of neurodiverse children. And I started a grade level below where she’d been struggling, working as slowly as possible, and ignoring or turning a blind eye to the problem areas -such as number reversals like the ones below.
She’s eight years old. We use computers s lot these days. And…She’s eight. We will trace every now and then, create the numbers and letters out of play dough, and one day, it will click. Why stress her when I know the number she is trying to write?
Slightly tangential but relevant. I thanked a friend today for how she approaches parenting and what she shares with me. She too is an adoptive mom. Her children are neurotypical and participate a host of sports and dance and do well! Yet what she focuses on is worrying about her son playing rugby and getting hurt-not on whether the team won or not. She worries about her daughter being tired and over worked. HOW she does in her dance competitions doesn’t matter to her. The prizes aren’t important. She just enjoys knowing her children are happy. I can definitely enjoy her updates about her children.
On the other hand, you have the mother also of neurotypical children who’s always posting photos of her “beautiful” children taking part in this and that, their amazing achievements and the awards and prizes they got. For a mom like me, even before I had differently abled children, I couldn’t get behind such parents. I remember a relative telling me their child came first in their class. My immediate thought was to retort, “So did mine.”🤣 (We are homeschoolers, so…😉)
My first two children were academic achievers. Even now they aren’t too shabby, they got one C for their IGCSE exams and the rest were A and my son got one A*. But I don’t boast about their achievements and never did. I taught them to read at a very early age. By age three and four, both could read three letter and four letter words. By five and six, they could read adult texts fluently. My sister-in-law used to visit, and she would take them to the aquarium and to the museum and when there were people around, ask my children to read the descriptions and information written next to the exhibits, just to shock and surprise people, who would invariably ask, “They can read!?? How old are they!?”
But I never recorded them reading. I never sent it to anyone. I never told anyone. Because my first aim in educating them is to have them become kind and helpful citizens, not amazing academics.
And so, with that mindset, this poor mom and her multiple posts about her children’s achievements was always going to do down like a lead balloon. Add the challenges I have with my neurodiverse children, and you have a mom who does not want to know. It hurts. It triggers a pain that goes deep. I hate that my children struggle. I hate that my daughter feels so bad about herself.
She asked me what the point is in doing a grade she understands when we will have to go up a level and she will flounder again. She had asked not to do Maths at all, because of her struggles. It took a lot to convince her to try. Even now, when counting in tens, whether looking at a number chart or not, she will say 80, 90, 20 even though she knows there’s a difference between 19 and 90. I just quietly drill, making sure I use the chart more so she sees it while saying it, and so I don’t have to correct her.
Yes, ADHD is annoying. The untidy room, the lost socks, the crazy wild movements that bump other children, the fidgeting that tears her clothes and pulls her hair out are annoying sometimes. But only she (and her teen sister who just doesn’t get it no matter how often I explain ADHD and give her videos to watch) feels annoyed by ADHD constantly.
I just feel a general sense of sadness, not annoyance. Last week she said she’ll never have a job. I asked why she would say that. She said she would be fired for forgetting things, and learning in university would be too hard for her anyway, so she wouldn’t even qualify for a job. I told her that there are different kinds of jobs. She could be a caregiver in a nursing or retirement home. But she then said she’d forget her duties. I told her she would write them down as she underwent training, and keep the notes with her. She would also see what other caregivers were doing and copy them. And if the elderly people could talk, they’d remind her too. And she would maybe even be able to explain to the boss that she has ADHD, and concessions would hopefully be made for her. Who knows?
I hope she will internalise it even though she doesn’t believe it right now.
“Mommy isn’t annoyed with my ADHD. She loves me and wants me to be happy.”
Another edition of “What I wrote on the other forum.”
I was told this week that the AS is progressing. I was MEANT to see my rheumatologist in August and THEN have a discussion about next steps but the office phoned me this week to tell me it’s time to take next steps NOW.
(For the benefit of new ‘friends’ I’ll just say this. When you have found a cure for Ankylosing Spondylitis, talk to me. Otherwise, I’m not here for ‘remedies.’ I’ve spent 20 years living in the natural realm and everything I tried even BEFORE this year’s final diagnosis is the best out there diet and supplement wise.)
I’ve failed both starter meds and we are moving onto the big guns. Thankfully, I’m not scared of needles, because these will be regular injections for the rest of my life-unless I go into remission. I know some who have gone into remission and after being like that for a while-they are allowed to stop treatment.
Yes, it sounds like fighting incurable cancer because it is incurable. Some might go into remission fast, and some go through all the different biologics (the big guns) and still the disease progresses. THAT, is scary.
Long story short…
“Too late for that!” You exclaim.
One of the first (so I’ve seen) biologics that they use for many of us with our different autoimmune diseases is Humira. (She didn’t name them last time. Just mentioned the impact they have.) All biologics tend to reduce your immune system’s ability to fight disease. That’s after all the aim-to stop your BODY FIGHTING against itself so terribly. But some, like Humira, leave you wide open for TB to come wreak havoc inside you.
So, I went off to do a Mantoux test-They inject you with a bit of TB bacteria. (Or something along those lines! Doctors I’ve seen like asking if I’m a medical doctor because of the jargon that apparently rolls of my tongue so easily as if I’m trained -but this one was new to me.) Then a few days later, you go back and they see if you are positive. If your welt is back and raised quite ‘high’ then you have been exposed or have TB (dormant or not) and for my purposes, cannot take Humira unless I take TB tablets for the duration of treatment. NEVER!
So, off I went to do that and also have chest X-rays done.
Bravely wearing my warrior hoodie by Tk Taku Madzandefor that is truly what I am, and I mean it.
If healthy moms can shout at their children, lose their tempers, only a warrior can-according to her children-keep her peace and be “always so nice” despite the constant hum of fatigue and pain that builds to a crescendo by 4pm..or earlier if it’s flare time.
This Sunday, the you Net children came into my room not 5 minutes after I got done with a bit of laundry. One of them had the temerity to put their legs right on my surgical wound. I wanted to laugh. And cry. Ella came in, saw how they were all on top of me and exclaimed, “This is chaos!” And deserted me!
Only a warrior keeps going when the war is going against her instead of turning tail and running away. I’m getting worse, but I haven’t taken ‘disability’ leave. I’m still teaching, still taking kids for assessments and therapy. And many rightfully do go on disability.
And the best of all?
Despite how unfair my life apparently is -children with extra support needs included -I can still smile, and smile genuinely.
That gives me warrior status when you’re so exhausted that it feels like you’re wading though thick mud while carrying ton of bricks and have no energy.
The most RECENT comment was a cashier (again) telling me that she had to call the supervisor to over ride an error she had made as she she “was distracted” by my smile. Another was, “Your smile is so genuine! It reaches your eyes!”
I’m proud of me given what that smile hides.
I’m not earning much! I’m going to cost us a LOT🥹(Our medical aid plan doesn’t cover the meds at all and they’re in the thousands every month. And there are the tests I’ll need still for my liver and kidneys before I start) I have five children with extra support needs
But I can exude happiness ANYWAY.
As Paul said, “For I have learnt in WHATEVER state I am in, therewith to be content.” My version.😊 For we wrestle against bad angels, and higher powers, not against humans. Again, my version.
AS WARRIOR!
I was content 17 years ago when ‘poor’ and washing our clothes by hand, back and swollen fingers hurting but grateful there WERE difficult formal work pants to wash. And I’ll be content today even with the call telling me “You’re getting worse.”
I know many autistic adults have a problem with how parents portray their lives as parents to autistic children. Truth is, that is their lived experience no matter how angry it may make us. It’s their reality and everyone is entitled to speak truth. In that vein, I share this Nigerian video done for Autism Awareness month a few years ago.
This video is my reality, especially for my youngest who doesn’t speak to communicate. (Well, minus the dad’s reactions to the doctor presumably saying there’s no ‘cure.’) I was not ready! This video is for my youngest who I also promise to speak for when she needs my voice. For my youngest, who inspires me to bend my back on her behalf so I can meet her where she is instead of making her conform to where society says she should be.
Hugs…Not really. Not always. But this? Yes always. My hair is her happy place. And so I bend my body to give her a bit of comfort and love. She rests on me, leans into me, and relaxes.
My church is big into being healthy. (Kinda) The serious Advevtists prefer the use of natural remedies over drugs, which makes sense given drugs can damage and kill and if used properly, natural remedies are safe.
Except they aren’t always effective. Never more potent than in the messages of an adoptive mom of seven who told me she regretted having tried natural treatment when she first heard she had breast cancer. It was treatable. Stage 1. But she went natural and natural failed her. By the time she realised that all she had done was to give the cancer a chance to speed through her body, it was terminal. She was dying.
She died. And a second of her adopted daughters went on to die by suicide.
I saw the other end. Many tumors throughout my niece’s body as she has the scan. The screen lit up as she just oblivious to the danger. Stage 4 neuroblastoma. Terribly dangerous childhood cancer. Other children lost their battle. She lived. Infertile probably. And shorter than she would have been. But, alive. She can leave a positive mark on this planet.
And that’s the essence of where I am. I was your carob- eating, no sugar, vegan friend. But it didn’t stop AS raging on through my body. I tried everything, not knowing there was nothing. No cure, though it can go into remission (ie. Dormant) for a while. I want to leave a positive mark on my children, specifically my younger ones. My older two will remember my teachings . My younger four, nope. They still need a present mom.
Don’t tell me to use castor oil packs when you have no clue what disease I have. Don’t send me to videos of a woman who has never had my disease, nor treated my disease. Don’t give me unsolicited advice and remedies. I am the expert on my disease…
Give me a hug. Ask to clean my house. Baby sit. Check on me. Research the disease.
The arthritis has increased in my jaw. I wasn’t able to open and chew properly when I tried to eat grapes yesterday evening. Shooting pain wakes me at night. You bet I want drugs. Effective drugs. I owe it to my children.
Well, dear reader, the blasted needle- I was right-is out. I got to Intercare Day Hospital nice and early at 6:30am, wondering if I’d stay there for hours starving and dehydrated only for the surgery itself to happen at 1pm or some very late hour like that.
The admitting nurse was a lovely talkative Xhosa lady. She took my BP and went to get the folder to ask the usual, “Do you have diabetes? Do you have any dental implants?” questions. She noticed my age and exclaimed, “What?? But your face doesn’t match your age! You look so young!” When you’ve been told all your life that you’re not great looking, having someone tell you you at least don’t look haggard and sad, and tells you your fingers are dainty and tiny, feels cool. * insert shy laugh*
She read the consent form and asked, “Foreign body removal, screening and gastroscopy?” What happened? Did you have an accident and something went into your body?
I explained that I had surgery, and a surgeon left a needle inside me! She was shocked! She said she would love to see me after surgery because this was new to her! And unimaginable. I told her she was definitely free to come again, and as I planned to ask for the needle, she would see it with her own eyes!
I didn’t wait too long. But it was long enough to feel very cold. One thin covering and blanket is not enough for our cold winter. I’d taken my electric hot water bottle with me and it started getting cold. After an hour and a half of waiting, I plugged it into the wall, started charging my phone and took a walk to the toilet.
I returned and found two nurses waiting for me. “Are you Tha—-?” You know me, I immediately then felt apologetic! (As if I’d been told what time they’d come!) I rushed to unplug everything and take my slippers and leggings back off again, climbed onto the bed…And was wheeled to the waiting area.
No hot water bottle. No heat. No glasses. Radio too soft for me to hear the news. I was blind, cold and miserable. When the nurse was done confirming I was the correct patient, she wished me well as she left. That’s when it hit. Surgery is risky. I knew it, I tried to ignore the thought. But when a nurse says it so seriously, it reminds you how fragile life is. Back in the day, the surgeons used to tell me all the things that can go wrong, “And of course, there is the small chance that you could sue, though I’ve never lost a patient,” they’d end. Nowadays, they don’t, so you block off the risks of infection, bleeding..death…It also became more real when I saw them wheel a huge X ray machine in. “They’re going to use that to find the needle…”
Then, it was time! Radiologist first came to talk to me and find out if I had any implants, then it was show time. The surgeon never actually talked to me. He was on a computer the whole time. It was the anesthetist who told me what she was doing, what she was about to do. When she told me I was going to become drowsy, I asked her to please ask the surgeon to keep the needle for me.
And she did.
I woke up properly in the ward to two shocked nurses. Two lovely Coloured nurses this time. “I had to come and see this! I didn’t believe it when I first heard that you said you had a needle inside you! I have never seen such a thing!”
The other agreed, “What was the assistant doing? And if there was no assistant, why didn’t the theatre nurse count? We always count everything and make sure it’s all out! And even if the patient has been sewn up, we have reopened when we saw we had left a swab in them. But a needle!!?? How did they leave a NEEDLE inside you? They could have killed you! You must sue!”
They could have killed me.
Life is so precious! The surgeon came later, told me he hoped the pain from the needle would now be gone. He said that I should be pain-free in two weeks and if not, to let him know. I hope there is no reason to!
As for the gastroenterologist who told me that chronic gastritis doesn’t exist!🙄My gastroscopy found antral gastritis. Given I’ve had gastritis (diagnosed) since 2015, I’d say that’s quite CHRONIC, wouldn’t you? For that, I must keep taking the PPI I’m on already. Yeah, it obviously hasn’t cured me, just like the heavy dose I was on in 2021 didn’t.
And so, after hearing how wonderful the food is, how yummy the sandwiches are from the nurses and anesthetist, I couldn’t eat any. They didn’t have gluten-free anything. By 13:30pm, I was waiting and dressed again.
And here I am. Home and in extreme pain. No, not where they operated, but my throat.
And so, life continues. I had to shift the last assessment my son was to have, and the feedback session for him and his sister that the psychologist had booked.
Let’s see what the future holds!
I emailed my 2001 surgeon today to find out about that TB appendix thing for the rheumatologist. I don’t know what the antral gastritis will mean for treatment. At least it’s not my entire stomach, just the lower portion, but there’s still gastritis, which she didn’t want. We shall see!
The week I found out, I phoned around, looking for surgeons. They were all too, too booked up. (Well, the ones I tried anyway!) I finally found one where the office manager asked if I was a new patient, asked if I wanted a general consult or… I told her I had what I’m pretty sure is a needle inside me and I definitely would be having a pre-surgical consult as I want it out!
She made up an appointment for that same week, telling me that if I need surgery indeed, the doctor could do it the very day after the consult. Which would be Friday.
Instead, Friday, I found myself have a CT scan. The doctor had told me to go book the scan then he’d call to discuss the nitty gritty of surgery. He said everything would move fast after the CT scan.
His definition of fast is not my definition. I waited all of Friday, Saturday, Sunday and only got the call on Monday. We did discuss that he would send me to radiology first for them to mark where the foreign body is, then I’d go down to theater . But first, I’d need to phone the office and book a consultation.
My face fell… Well, I couldn’t see it but I felt like it fell.😩What? Another consultation?? But the first consultation I paid for was already clear that I would be having surgery! He knew what we had to deal with! I asked why I’d be going in for another consultation. He said it was to sign paperwork. In the past five years, I have NEVER gone and paid for a consultation just to sign paperwork. In most cases, I received it via email and sent it back.
So, I phoned the office that same day-Monday morning. Again, same question. “Are you a new patient?” I explained that I felt new as I hadn’t had my surgery yet, but that I HAD been seen once the previous week. She discussed that seeing as I was going in to sign paperwork, I wasn’t new, and that the closest available appointment would be the following week.
Excuse me? You’re telling me you suddenly can’t rustle up an appointment this same week like you did when you heard I was new, a very quick appointment just for me to sign some paperwork? You’re telling me I have to wait a whole week just to SIGN?? What happened to “You could even have surgery the day after you see him?” And if you’re making me wait this long just to sign some papers, how long till the actual surgery?
Those were all in my mind as I queried how long the wait was going to be. She sounded irritated as she mentioned that there was no space that week.
Unfortunately, I don’t get angry, I get hurt. Instead of reminding her that she lured me to the practice by telling me I’d be operated on ASAP and instead I didn’t even have a date yet, I just set up the appointment for this coming Monday, wondering silently when exactly surgery itself would be.
By Wednesday, I was now angry. This wasn’t right, nor safe. With other surgeons, they tell me a date the very first consult. I didn’t have that. And I felt she said what she said about a quick surgery knowing full well they want you to pay for two consultations but that once I’ve seen the doctor once, I’d feel trapped. Now, a week had passed since I had first started looking for surgeons. A week in which I might have found a non-deceptive practice.
It was now a matter of principle. You don’t make empty promises, milk money out of me and get away scot-free. I phoned any and every surgeon. One was listed as being at a hospital called Mediclinic Milnerton. Lies! It went straight to his home landline and he retired seven years ago! I felt so bad, bothering Dr Louw like that. But he was so kind and tried so hard to help. But the doctor he suggested was not available till 9 June. So, I asked for recommendations for “not too busy” surgeons in a neighbourhood group and phoned the first name that someone shared.
He had space that very same week, so I went in to see him yesterday morning. And it’s not that he wasn’t busy because there were many of us there. They created space.Also he didn’t treat me like I’m on some conveyor belt like the other surgeon had. He introduced himself nicely, looked me in the eye as we spoke and I felt at ease.
Better yet, I signed paperwork that very same appointment and I’m having surgery this Wednesday. THAT’s what I’m taking about!
Not only that, he will also carry out the gastroscopy the rheumatologist had requested I have done. We need to see if my Exinef (NSAID for the AS) is killing me, and we need to see if there are biologics I won’t be able to try.
Just a few more days. Just a few more days and this thing will be out of me. He can’t promise that it will be super smooth or quick, because we don’t know what damage the needle has done in there, but at least we will be working on it.
And that, dear reader, is where we are.
I STILL HAVE A FOREIGN BODY WITHIN ME. But Dr Charl Cooper will get rid of it soon.
As in, each time it’s mentioned, it’s not a story to me, it’s reality. From the leafy suburbs where I went to my White school, to the townships guarded by police officers on huge tanks as you ‘enter.’
I tried to join some neighbourhood WhatsApp groups where I live. It’s a previously White suburb. I left. They hanker after the good old days and for me, there is no such thing. They get angry about things that only Black people do. Like, selling vegetables on the pavement without a license. We don’t have that concept! We just have “trying to provide for my family” traditions. They get angry that the people didn’t apply for this and that compliance certificate..They get disgusted because one guy who was selling was picking his nose.🤣🤣They have time for loads of petty complaints. But all I see is, “Those Black peoples who don’t have the capital to buy or resent stores are an eyesore on our pavements.” (Sidewalks)
And there’s actually order. They group themselves in specific areas. It’s like an unplanned marketplace. And no, when I drive past I never feel like “they’re a danger.”🙄
So, that will be the background or context to this rant that I put up on my other social media place. First, I’ll post photos of Gugulethu. That’s the township I grew up in. Home size, home type, and area not of our choosing. Forced there by the apartheid government. Then below the rant, I’ll put photos of the homes in Simon’s Town. I’m sure you’ll understand the heartache and sadness of my childhood experiences.
I’m leaving the descriptions in the adverts on purpose. The difference between Gugulethu and there, is stark and sad.
My goodness!
I am angry and heartbroken in equal measure!
Periodically, we see updates on our Black and Coloured people getting keys or money for land in areas they were forcibly removed from.
This hits hard. Those triggers that the woke talk about?
Takes me back to junior school when I moved from Mickelfield Girls (Independent school. Rebel that took this Black girl when other private schools kept to the law) to Rustenburg Girls (ex-government school), where I felt the difference.
No, the WHITE GIRLS IN MY CLASS MADE ME FEEL THE DIFFERENCE.
During history, “Do you know Zooloo?” (Lessons on king Shaka)
“Do you live in a hut?”
And randomly, they’d ask, “Do you have a house? Do you live a shack? Is it stinky?”
One girl said that her father said “Gugulethu is an eyesore.”
This morning’s news about the Gugulethu people receiving keys after being moved from Simon’s Town hit hard. I had no idea Black people used to live there. It’s such a “White” area!
They took us from beauty and dumped us in squalor.
They took us from the coast, from the mountainside and shoved us where there was nothing to see, none of God’s beauty.
Then the racists have the audacity to long for “the good old days” in the white neighborhoods of theirs!?
Which good old days?
The ones BEFORE they invaded our land, took us from our property and colonized OUR neighbourhoods while forcing us to live where they then mocked us for living??
Or the more recent ‘good old days’ when they smugly lived on stolen land and only saw us when they needed our broken bodies to wash their stolen toilets and weed the grass that was ours?
I’ve never rejoined any neighbourhood WhatsApp group. People don’t think before they type. And my own life is painful enough without reading their dark thoughts.
Sometimes I think my life is just too much… There were times when introducing myself, that newbies would exclaim, “All this for one person?? You’re a Job!” And I’d brush it off. Now, now I agree. It’s like (minor) calamity after calamity.
There’s a whole needle in my body-as far as we can tell! A whole suturing needle in my body, hanging around, waiting to torture me!
And it’s been there for a long time. As in, maybe a year now. People have seen it. And they’ve kept quiet.
What in the world!???
In April, I had an MRI. Don’t ask me about the January MRI because surely they must have seen something in me? I can’t access the images and report so I don’t know. But let’s go back to April. I lay on the bed and the radiologist started scanning. Then she stopped and asked if I have metal in my underwear as metal was showing up on her screen. None of my panties have metal, but I told her she could come check the one I was wearing for herself… So she did. And yep, no metal in my undies.
And that was it. That’s all. It ended there.
Then, two weeks ago, the rheumatologist suggested I have Ferguson view X-rays done of my SI joints as X-rays might show more than the MRI have. I went in. Again, the radiologist-different hospital, different lady-asked if I had metal in my underwear as the screen was picking metal up. I told her about the April question and asked HER where exactly the metal was showing up, and what it looked like.
She said it was in my uterus, and curved.
I won’t lie. A suturing needle did not cross my mind at all. NO MISTAKE crossed my mind. I thought it was a semi shut c-shaped surgical clip that they were picking up. I wondered with a friend, why the gynae hadn’t told me he was going to leave a metal clip in me.
Again, we forgot about it till I received my report and images this past weekend
I looked at the shape and thought, “Wow! This thing is bigger than I thought!” Then I thought, “Hey wait a minute! This looks like a suturing needle! No…It can’t be, can it!??”
Conscious that I didn’t want to put ideas in her head, I asked my surgical nurse cousin what she thought it looked like.
She immediately came back with, “It looks like a suturing needle,” along with some photos of real suturing needles.
I wish I could make your heart drop as mine did.
A needle!? In me? Who did it? What will happen? Who will fix it? What damage has it done?
Tomorrow, I see a surgeon I’ve never met before to discuss removing the needle. I went to hospital Trauma unit first, and they said whoever removes it will need an X-ray machine to find the needle as s/he enters.
They also said I should go back if I start vomiting blood.
I am officially freaked out. I’m nervous. I used to rub this thing, thinking it was my own body being weird, trying to massage the pain away. Do you know how how disconcerting it is to realise I was massaging a needle?? (Or so we all suppose.)
“But what if they turn you against you when they grow up?” A question apparently asked of not a few adoptive parents when they mention that they will adopt. “But what if you invest all your money on this stranger and then they repay you by moving on and forgetting you later, forgetting to be grateful for what you’ve done and forgetting that they owe you?” Is what they are asking.
I have always hated that concept. The concepts-plural. Firstly, gratitude. That our adoptees owe us a whole lot of gratitude that our biological children apparently don’t is plain weird to me. I don’t get it. We give both sets of children life. The bio kid wouldn’t be alive without us. Without our feeding and changing them as helpless newborns, without our getting them treatment when sick, they’d die. So why don’t we ask pregnant women if they’re sure they want to have children given the children might respond to them like Absalom did, with murder in their hearts?
Our adoptees receive a life from us. Hopefully a life of love, compassion, nurturing, education, care, respect…Hmm, nothing different to what we give our biological children! So why should only one type of child owe us anything?
Secondly, the concept of leaving us, or of forsaking us. I don’t adopt so I can keep someone under me. I don’t adopt so later in life they take care of me, or love me… It’s not about what I’ll gain! It’s about being something that someone needs. It’s not an investment that I want a return on! It’s a living human being who deserves love.
If these naysayers died and left behind their biological children, would they expect the guardians to expect to be repaid for raising them? Would they be thinking, “I hope Susie always sticks to Mandy and Jim no matter what. I hope she remembers that she owes them her loyalty for doing what any decent human should do.”
Absalom turned against his own biological father. The ultimate act of rebellion and ingratitude-desiring to murder your father. I’ve seen quite a few articles of family murders. Most have been performed by biologically related children.
Yet nobody has ever responded with, “See!? They shouldn’t have had sex and conceived. Now their child turned against them after everything they did for him.”
If they ‘turn against’ me, I’ll do what I do now. What I did before I met them…
Love them.
I didn’t adopt so I could have a loyal puppy. I adopted so my children could experience family. I’ll have succeeded. I’ll have succeeded if they grow up with a mom they have the luxury of “turning against.” And that’s all that matters to me.
One of the people who has been very hateful about my children once had her lastborn son hold her by the neck, trying to throttle her. She called the police. She also once had her only daughter tell her she looks forward to “pissing on” her “grave” when she’s dead. Hmm, the fact that her bio kids would act the way they have, means that if any adoptee left HER, they’d be justified. And so it is with some adoptees who DO turn against their parents. They weren’t even trying to be what the children deserve. And sometimes, they were being hurtful on purpose.
More power to those who don’t stay merely for the sake of the debt they feel they owe. Do what is right for you, Adult Adoptee. You don’t owe your adoptive parents anything more than what biological children owe. If we adopted to do you a favour, expecting your undying loyalty not because of love but because of DUTY, then we have failed you.
They said I should write a book 