Pulled by the Root: An Adoptee's Healing Journey From Trauma, Shame, and Loss

INTRODUCTION

by Heidi Marble

Sitting face-to-face with my husband’s office printer, I literally had soul cramps. With sweating brow and bloated anticipation, I pulled up a chair and found myself gazing into the dark orifice of the machine, watching the first page crown. Pages stacked high were born into my hands, the warm ink omitting a damp, earthly smell. For the first time, I held the weight of my truth, and the title rolled across my tongue, Pulled by the Root. The root is where everything starts—the umbilical cord that connects the very core of our being.

Pulled by the Root digs into the ground, where this life journey began, my relinquishment through adoption. Now, at fifty-seven, I am unearthing the reality of what that abandonment means, the significance of that loss, and how it has informed every step of my journey. This is an inquiry into how we can come to terms with our past and the consequences that accompany it. The tangled mess I find myself in now has everything to do with never feeling grounded. This book is an endeavor to take root in the truth, with every dirty, gritty inch of it, to dig so deeply that everything is exposed and understood. Without planting our story and sinking deep, we are destined to be tossed about, yanked, transplanted, and perhaps even consumed.

The only hope is to rely on the fertile ground of facing ourselves and others with compassion, to understand that all things regarding growth live in our truth and the truth of others. I wish for you to develop thick, hearty roots, that those roots are sunk into abundantly nourished soil, that you are blessed with warm rain and sunny days, and when the storms come (as they will), their mighty strength anchors you.

PREFACE

by Alysa Zalma, MD

Our book’s healing story and novelty come from our relationship—Heidi’s and mine. It is our interweaving of Heidi’s personal story as an adoptee and my psychiatric perspective on the psychology of adoption. My perspective is based on my knowledge as a clinician psychiatrist and the research completed through our work together. I wanted to offer relevant psychiatric literature and sources that would provide more breadth, heterogeneity, and connection from a multidisciplinary perspective. Heidi and I share a desire to deeply understand trauma and create a healing story broad enough to help a large group of people. We combined our talents with the intention to reach a wide audience.

We include the first (biological) families of adopted children, the adoptive families of adopted children, the foster care families, the education communities and schools that teach and nurture them, and the mental health communities and practitioners who treat them. Because of this, many people may read our book on multiple levels.

To heal a trauma from the adoption experience requires going beyond one’s narrative. This is what we hope to explain through the novelty of our work. In each chapter, we unearth Heidi’s personal narrative, followed by my commentary, delving into many realms of psychiatry, psychology, twenty-first-century shamanism and energy medicine, and more—to highlight relational traumas and healing most specific to the adoption experience.

This book can be read in many ways. Readers can read it as intended, in order, with Heidi’s narrative first, followed by my commentary, addressing themes relevant to the chapter. Readers can also read each author’s work in full, coming back to gain a deeper understanding of the narrative or commentary. However it is read, it is our hope that our readers will be able to create their own personal healing stories from their individual traumas.

CHAPTER 1

I CHOSE THE BLUE ONE

In another woman’s womb, I was knitted of bone and blood, born to her, raised by you. Losing both of my mothers while they were still alive is the empty place I carry.

—Heidi Marble

THE BLACK BOX

The black box waits on a cold granite kitchen counter, an upright rectangular container, 8 x 10, with a small, printed label on the upper right corner. A tiny digital clock on the oven reminds me it is too early to wake. Trickling sounds from our way-too-expensive coffee maker ride the air as liquid fills an egg-speckled mug. A glug of cream mixes under the current of my bent spoon, swirling a design into a caffeinated galaxy. The warm mug now clasped tightly in my hands, I take my first sip, tempering the heat on the roof of my mouth. I struggle with my overly puffy, black winter coat until I am finally enclosed safely in its polyester marshmallow of warmth. I use my toes to anchor my slippers on my chilled feet while attempting to tame my long, tangled hair. Rotating beams of light shimmer through the low branches of towering, snow-dusted pines beyond the white-paned windows of our kitchen. I feel conviction set in.

TODAY IS THE DAY

The black box has been at my side for a week—a constant companion. I know today is the day it must be opened. I walk around the box like a cat preparing to pounce on its prey, sidestepping to make myself look bigger (which isn’t hard given my coat and hair). Bristled up, tail twice the size, claws out, dancing back and forth, and coming closer only to retreat quickly, it’s a tango of alternating courage and fear. The circling—going high, going low, and peeking around corners—continues for a long time. With trepidation and a low guttural growl, I approach it—the black box. My coffee-warmed hands land softly on the top, and I begin to lift the flaps when, suddenly, everything stops. My eyes fall shut on a memory; a few small tears weave through my bottom lashes. I see her. I feel her. My adoptive mother. Not a detail of the scene is lost. Even two years of space can’t fade what I remember.

I am there again, hanging clothes in her new assisted-living apartment at Mallard Landing, better known as the Duck Pond. A blazing sun makes sure the whole damn room is aggressively lit. My eyes squint, and guilt bears down on me with unrelenting force. My head is hanging in shame as I avoid eye contact.

My mother, Joy, sits posed in her charcoal-black faux leather recliner. A Tiffany lamp with huge coral flowers leans on a bent iron stand. There are old photographs still wanky from my hurried hanging. I hand myself over for manipulation, the rod and strings of guilt animated by her direction—a puppet in her hands, a marionette with a chipped, painted smile, lifted, pulled, and twisted.

Repulsed by the smell of cigarette smoke, expired perfume, and cheap laundry soap, I try to untangle the mounds of clothes heaped on the bed, feeling the pull of every string. I am acting out the ungrateful daughter performance with each verbal yank. I untangle hangers while internally screaming, Why do they have so many @#%*&! varieties of hangers? Most are thick plastic in horrible colors of pink, others are wire, and some are wooden. I am utterly convinced that these hangers were designed specifically to torture daughters who move their mothers into care homes.

Scooping up heavy stacks of fashion from all decades, my back hyperextends. I commence repeated trips to the closet. I anchor as many hangers as I can in one action, trying to get it over with. All the while, her clothing is fighting me like a ninja warrior—twisting, tripping, and choking without mercy.

The strings being pulled between us tighten; I sense the uncontrolled movement of my tense limbs. My hinged jaw opens and shuts, trying to find words; my painted eyes are wide and fixed. Frantic, I collect the fallen clothing from the ground while pieces of me clank together in her glare.

A familiar sound alerts my ears—the grinding wheel of a plastic cigarette lighter. My mother’s chin slowly sinks toward her chest, the whites of her eyes rising like two half-moons. Her brows lift, one higher than the other, and a freshly lit cigarette dangles precariously between her dry lips.

She inhales a deep serving of cigarette smoke as I yell, Mother, you can’t smoke in here!

She slowly replies, Oh, yes, I can.

The smoke pouring from her nostrils and mouth adds shape to her words.

Another helping of smoke later, she points with her shaking hand. Heidi, do you see those two dresses? The floral chiffon and the indigo blue? Bring them here.

I bring them toward her. On a stage of flat beige carpet, I stand in a cloud of Marlboro smoke, a dress dangling from each hand. Her glowing cigarette holds a wilted column of ash, and the moons in her eyes are now full.

Then, her audible exhale. You choose.

Choose? What are we doing here, Mother?

She repeats, You choose—the one you want to bury me in. Smoke slips out of the pursed slit in her lips. The ash column falls on her food-stained polyester pants. She flicks it off, leaving a hot dusting of gray. The thickest string, the one tied to my core, cinches tighter. You choose because what I want doesn’t matter.

My chin falls to my chest, the moons of my eyes rise, and I say, I am sorry you feel that way. If you want me to pick, I will—but it won’t be today.

A week before, I had found her collapsed in her apartment next to our house. She was bleeding, bruised, and surrounded by the acrid smell of urine and cigarette smoke, with a half-eaten piece of toast and spilled coffee next to her head. On the floor, a low fog crawled out from under her chair. Perplexed, I slid the chair back and discovered a live cigarette. I muttered the words, I can’t do this anymore. The culmination of our war had come to a head. Psychological blood was everywhere—splattering, pooling, and streaking down the walls. This battle—the battle to keep her here, to ease my guilt—was now over.

For nine years, I had struggled with a revolving door of caregivers, most of whom had left crying without notice. She wanted me—only me—to care for her. Caregivers were my placeholders, my salvation, my armor, a space between us so necessary that when they would leave, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Being alone with my mother was dangerous. She knew my naked soul—every curve, scar, and weak spot. A look, word, or suggestion had its way with me every time. I did not possess the skills to be healthy, to snip the strings of control. Perhaps my action was cowardly? I still struggle with that idea. It feels much better to say that I did what I had to do to survive, that I felt an obligation to be controlled and punished for what I did, and that I readily gave her control over my strings to extract from me the payments on my guilt.

PUPPETEER

Controlled from above,

Hinged mouth hangs open,

Fixed facial expression,

Strings pull me up.

Head, back, and center,

An unsteady collection of pieces.

Words not my own,

Your breath fills me.

You know just what to move,

The way to make me fall.

I am not me.

I am me-with-you.

The us that has become,

Under and over,

Tangled,

Heavy,

Pulled in all directions.

Shame doesn’t have a backbone;

Shame only takes direction.

THREE MONTHS BEFORE HER DEATH

I remember the very moment I decided to talk to my mother about her final wishes, the ones that needed to be updated, the plans that would need to change because everything else had. She wanted to be buried next to my adopted brother in Tucson, Arizona, thousands of miles away. No one is left there now, only a few scattered relatives and friends without the strength to travel. In a short time, she will pass away in Washington, the state she has called home for almost a decade.

Hospice prompted me to plan and ask hard questions. So, I began the disturbing job of calling funeral homes to look into dealing with such matters. At this point, I was so empty that I could barely function. I just needed something to be easy. Three choices appeared before me, none of which included, It’s okay to run and hide. The first choice was to have her body flown to Arizona and continue with a formal burial. The second choice was to opt for cremation. The last choice was to transport her body myself! WHAT? People can do that? Apparently, you can with the right certificate. Since that would never happen, I decided to discuss the idea of the second choice, cremation instead of burial.

Deep breath, stiff drink (never mind; that will have to wait until I get back home). As I have hundreds of times before, I sit in the driveway, psyching myself up to go inside the residential care home where she has lived for two years. So much hurt has happened in this place. It’s like entering a den of rattlesnakes hissing and striking. Her room is off to the left of a small living room with a despicable floral couch.

I see her from the side, fiddling with a Kleenex. She hears my greeting and says, Oh, hi, darlin’.

Her mood seems giddy, almost childlike. I sink into her recliner, adjusting the absorbent pad on the seat, considering that I might need it before our visit is over. I pull her chair close to me so we are face-to-face. Mother, I need to ask you something important. Her eyes widen, her chin goes down, and the whites of her eyes rise.

Mom, so much has changed, and I want to make sure we discuss your final wishes and come up with a plan.

I could not say the word cremation. Instead, I said, What if you could be with both of your kids after you pass?

My mother was very smart. Even inside, with all her illnesses, she figured out the innuendo. Her brow crinkled, and she tilted her head slightly to one side. A peaceful smile crossed her face. Then she said, Okay, I like that idea.

Are you sure, Mom?

Yes, I am sure. Now, can we talk about something else? Yes, we can definitely talk about something else.

SEVEN DAYS BEFORE MY MOTHERS DEATH

I make this journal entry:

Mom, I woke up on the edge of morning, wondering how I could bear another day of watching you die. Exhaustion, frustration, and confusion swirling my insides, I drove in a storm, snowflakes melting like angel wings on the windshield, hanging on the steering wheel like the edge of a cliff. It has been twenty days since you took your last bite of food and eighteen days beyond your predicted passing. I have pounded my fists and been on my knees, begging God to help. What is the point of this suffering? Witnessing your skin draped like wax over your bones, the suppleness of your body gone, watching you waste away, the brutality of it all. Your eyes glossed over, hanging half shut, mouth open, and begging for air. Your once olive skin now gray-tinged and pale.

Your death is stubborn. I am breaking into pieces. When I walked into your room today, the heater was on full blast. Your body lifted slightly with pillows so you could see out the window. The flowers I had brought yesterday already bent in repose. You did not wake until I whispered, I love you. Then your eyes stretched to open, and your smile followed. You looked at me with a stare—no blinking—you looked into my soul. I have never been looked at like that before.

For the last twenty years, you have looked at me with such hatred. Not this time; this was different. Tears drenched my face, wetting your chest. Your hand began to move under the covers. At this point, you hadn’t moved on your own for days; there was no strength available. I pulled the sheet back and watched in amazement. Your eyes never leaving mine, you began to lift your shaking hand, lifting it only by the force of will. Softly, your open palm touched my cheek, your smooth, trembling fingers touching my tears, wiping them away. My heart burst through my well-crafted walls and crumbled to smithereens.

I put my ear to your heart and wept while it beat weakly. Your other hand found the center of my back, and you gave me a few tiny pats. All my resistance dissolved, every last bit of it. Everything fell away; our souls overlapped, an eclipse that blotted out any doubt. I drank in the feeling, and I know you did too: the missing, the regret, the forgiveness, the reconnection. Now I understood why you had stayed, why you had clung so fiercely to life. It was so we could see into each other’s hearts one more time.

We laid there together for hours, on the edge of heaven. A long goodbye orchestrated by the angels. In our shared suffering and grief, we found a way back to our original bond. The bond that had seemed severed for so long remained after all.

These days, these beautiful moments were our healing, Mom. Thank you for telling me everything I needed to hear without speaking a word. Now we were two—two women who loved each other deeply, who had shared fifty-four years of life. Two women with broken hearts. Two women wishing we could have loved each other better.

THE CALL COMES

February 11, 2019. The digital clock on my oven tells me it’s once again too early to be awake. Sleep seems elusive, and when it comes, nightmares fill my head. I am walking around in a coma of grief and fatigue—my fuzzy black robe hanging open, pockets full of crumpled, used tissues, the tie nearly dragging on the floor like a dog’s tail of shame. Remembering the night before when I had wrapped my mother in my grandma’s bluebird quilt and combed her tufts of thin, gray hair, I think of how hollow she felt as I carefully swaddled her.

Finally dressed, I take a long sip of coffee and whisper, Shit, when the cup is empty. The phone breaks the silence. I move toward the counter in slow motion. My heart already knows. The numbers on the screen confirm it. It is Michelle from the care home. I answer, and she says, I am sorry, Heidi. She is gone. Your mother died in her sleep.

All my pieces fell to the floor; the strings had snapped. I am a pile of contorted pain with no one to pull me up.

Two weeks earlier, in the thick of her dying process, I had known the time had come, the time I was dreading. It was time to choose. In the farthest left corner of my closet, out of view, were my mother’s two dresses: indigo blue and floral chiffon. I pulled them out and touched the fabric, remembering so clearly the last time I held them at the care home, that day still so tightly woven into my memory, the feeling stored deep. Now I had to choose. I chose the blue one, folding it neatly into a small hot-pink gift bag.

I drove my husband’s overly masculine truck through unmerciful traffic to the care home—the dress next to me in the passenger seat. When I arrived, the hospice nurse and two caregivers, Anna and Michelle, were whispering in the kitchen. The hot-pink bag in my hand matched the color of my cried-out eyes. I explained how much it would mean to me to have my mother leave this world in her blue dress—the blue dress that had been intended for only special occasions, the dress that had swirled as she danced and billowed in the winds of foreign lands, the dress that had traveled with her for over twenty years, the dress that made her feel beautiful. I handed them the bag for safekeeping.

Now . . . she is gone.

I can’t.

I can’t see her dead.

I can’t.

I can’t move.

I can’t drive.

I can’t.

I just can’t.

My head is so full of devastating images from the last month, I cannot add this final image; I cannot feel her cold. I thought I could, but I can’t. I can’t dress her. I can’t. My soul slips out of my body.

A few hours pass, and I receive a text message from Anna, one of the caregivers I adored. She told me that she and the hospice nurse had dressed my mother in her indigo-blue dress. They remembered my final wish and wanted to do that for us. They did what I could not do.

I crumpled to the floor, weeping. Sounds rose from the deepest bottom of my being, sounds that howled and moaned, convulsing out of me violently as I heaved gulps of air. Then, Anna sent another message: Can I send you a picture of her?

Silence. I stopped my rabid panting. My face was hot, slathered in burning tears. I sat on the floor, cupping the phone in my hands; my robe spread open. I shut my eyes and heard the ding of the photo arriving. Shuddering in a deep breath, I slowly opened my swollen eyes and looked at my phone. A gasp flowed. There was my mother on crisp white sheets. Head on a flat pillow, toes pointed like a ballerina, and her white hair combed off her face. The indigo-blue dress an ocean of color surrounding her—the image so small, her death so large.

TIME TO OPEN THE BOX

My fingers carefully open the flaps on the lid; a twist-tied clear bag sits inside. How can this be all that’s left of her and left of me? I carefully remove the contents and place them gently on the dark granite counter. I say, Hi, Mom.

Today is the day. I will spread half of her remains, and I am alone. My mind races back to the first time I held the black box a week before. How strange it was to have the funeral director say, Here is your mother.

I picked up the clear bag containing my mom’s ashes. Leaving the black box behind, I turned the front doorknob, trying not to have a disaster. Outside, I slowly carried her remains to the dormant dogwood tree, the tree that we planted to honor my grandmother, the tree that blooms hundreds of gorgeous, pale-pink blossoms every May. It’s the tree we planted next to the apartment we built for them so many years ago—the one my son now lives in. I place the bag on the ground and untwist the tie. Breath rolling from my mouth, I lift out a handful of ashes.

I’m stunned by their beauty. They’re an aggregate of tiny white shapes. I thought they would be gray and dusty, but they are beautiful. With a whispered blessing, I toss the ashes as high in the air as I can. The sun glints on her remains as they shower down, half of my mother now scattered in ribbons of white on the wintery ground. I stand, shivering, wiping tears with my soiled hands.

BACK WHERE WE STARTED

March 13, 2019, one month later, it is sunset at East Lawn Cemetery in the Arizona desert, on the edge of spring. The last time I stood here, we buried my thirty-one-year-old adopted brother, Justin. I feel like a body without a soul. A double his-and-her rose quartz headstone sits amongst a patchwork of grass that is more yellow than green. A small oval frame with a pitted rim holds his faded, smiling photograph. The desert rains have stained the engraved words with dry streaks. The other side of the headstone is smooth, waiting for her name.

Her final wish to be buried next to her adopted son, who never married or had children—the tragedy impales me. I am shaking inside my gray patchwork coat as it opens like wings. A storm has rolled in, a violent storm, the kind only the desert knows how to act out. A storm that I am sure was sent by my mother. Three crisp, typewritten pages twist in my cold hands.

Freshly scattered dirt tossed about our feet looks like coffee grounds where they buried the second half of her cremated remains. They buried the woman who adopted me. They buried my mother. This final goodbye is now up to me. I am all that is left of us. My husband steps behind me as I try to collect myself. I feel the comforting strength of his hand on my shoulder. My son, Blake, and his girlfriend, Sontia, were wrapped in each other’s arms, braced against the cold.

The wind moves the clouds; they darken, push, pull, and billow. Gray shadows animate their pillowy shapes on the ground. I put a choke hold on the pages that seemed determined to escape my grip. I blink away the blurring tears that evaporate into lines of salt across my face—a strange, unapologetic relief that it’s finally over.

The torment of the last twenty years has come to a close. I don’t have to try to make things right anymore. It’s a sense of awe that I am still alive, wondering how I have survived all this. Awe is mixed with cutting emotions of exhaustion, regret, and shame. I was completely unaware of how much suffering was yet to come. Not realizing that my mother’s voice will never leave—it is as much a part of me as my bones.

LETTER