On July 8, 1992 I received a letter from the doctor who delivered my son. He wrote it on June 29th.
To go back a bit, this is the doctor who I asked to help me get my son back, after he was taken at birth, and he told me he could no longer treat me and kicked me out of his office.
I had sent letters to this doctor since that time. This was the first time he answered.
Why did he answer this time? All I can guess is that in this last letter, I wrote on June 8th, I talked to him as an adult. In all my previous letters I was so ‘out of control’ trying to find my son. I also stated that my son was now an adult and he had the right to decide if he wanted contact or not.
It took me an hour or so to open the letter. I was so afraid of what it might say. I had prepared myself to hear that my son was no longer alive — but it is one thing to prepare for it and another to actually hear it. I was facing over 20 years of try to get help to find my son, over 20 years of hoping beyond hope that I might find him. I was so afraid to open the letter…
This letter was positive.
The doctor told me my son was alive and his name.
My journal says:
“This letter changed me and my life completely. Dr. XX (why I protect him I don’t know — he is dead now — maybe I shouldn’t). Anyways, Dr. XX said he would help at that end to get the message to my son that is wish contact. I called family and friends. I cried a lot. I walked around in a daze. It even changed the way I feel inside but I still can’t explain that yet.”
I took me days working on replying to the Doctor. I wanted to word it right. I didn’t want to blow this now.
I finished the letter on July 10th and mailed it, along with a Thank You card.
Thinking about it now. Imagine, I sent a Thank You card to the doctor who was part of taking my son away from me — who didn’t answer my letters that I sent for over 20 years. I sent a Thank You card to the Doctor because I was so afraid he would close down and the only contact I had to my birth son would be gone.
