From Jennifer to Lauren

Around this time, 40 some odd years ago, a series of events occurred that chose the path my life would take.

My Mom was out of town helping my Dad's sister, who had just had baby #3. My parents had been married a little over five years and were seriously challenged in the reproductive department. My Mom loved children and wanted nothing more than to start a family but it didn't look like it was in the cards for them. I know this had their relationship at a significant crossroads as they struggled with the pressure and disappointment of not being able to conceive.

Family legend has it that my maternal Grandma mentioned my mother's fertility issues in passing to her family doctor during a routine checkup around this time (my Grandma can be quite chatty so the story probably checks out). The story goes on to say that within the next couple of days, that same doctor was golfing (?) with a colleague, an OBGYN who happened to bring up the fact he had a patient who was looking for a family to privately adopt her soon-to-be-born child. Dr. OBGYN asked if Family Doctor knew anyone who might like to adopt. Family Doctor thought of my Grandma's story about my Mom and he made a call.

Within a day or so, my Mother got a call at my Aunt's house, from my Grandma, asking if she wanted to adopt a baby that was due any day. My Mother didn't know what to think - at first she thought it couldn't be real - adoption wasn't really even on their radar and this was coming out of nowhere (in some versions of this story my mother hangs up dramatically on my Grandma, thinking she is playing a mean joke). But it was their chance to have a family. So she packed up and returned home to get ready for the possible arrival of a new baby. They had nothing a baby would need and scrambled to get the basics together.

Meeting my other Grandma
for the first time (not the chatty one)

A few weeks later, on a Monday afternoon, the phone rang. A little girl had been born. Adoption laws at the time stated that infants could not be placed with their adoptive families until they were at least seven days old. The doctor kept me "for observation" in hospital for that first week so that I wouldn't have to go into foster care (something that was important to my Birthmom). The nurse apparently were more than okay with this, because they had a baby that they could snuggle, hug and feed. It was always thought that they had named me (Jennifer) although I now know that my Birthmom did that.

When the week was up, on an unseasonably warm late October day, a "neutral third party" (the adoption lawyer's wife) picked me up from the hospital and brought me back to their home, where my parents were anxiously waiting. From that day forward, I became Lauren to all who knew me, although I wasn't officially adopted until June of the following year. On that day, the judge asked to hold me. He then stood up, addressed the court and said "I'd like to introduce you all to Lauren Elizabeth Herschel".

I always knew I was adopted. I don't remember being told. My Mom said when she was later pregnant with my brother (surprise!) and I was less than a year old, she'd tell me that while I didn't grow in her tummy, I was just as much hers as he was. I was always told that my Birthmom had made a choice to have me and that she took very good care of herself so I would be born healthy.  Adoption for me was always framed in a very positive way - that my Birthmom had wanted me to have the best life possible and that my adoptive parents really wanted me as well. I always had the sense that not only was I in a very loving adoptive family, there was also a Birthmom (and family) out there who cared deeply for me, hoping I was doing well and thriving. Sometimes when you tell people you are adopted, they initially look uncomfortable, uncertain if it is a good thing or not. I always thought I was lucky I was adopted and that I was truly loved and wanted by a lot of people, before I was even born.

My Dad was never okay with me looking for my birth family - he said the family I grew up with was my family and that's all I should need to know. My Mom always seemed to understand my curiosity a little more, and she knew that someday I might want to know more about where I came from. All I knew growing up was that my Birthmom had been in her early 20s, was a student and had nothing significant in her family medical history. That's not a lot to go on but in the 1970s, there weren't many rules around what information had to be collected in a private adoption.

After my Dad died, I decided to look, if for nothing else, updated medical history (watching a parent go through cancer makes you reflect on that kind of thing). In my mid 20s with the help of the Ontario government, I was reconnected with my Birthmom. It was pretty interesting to find out what we had in common (quite a lot) and see pictures of someone I look like. After a few months of letters and emails, we met. The following day, I was introduced to a slew of other amazing family members and family friends. They are all wonderful, kind people and I feel pretty fortunate to have a whole "other" family come into my life. They have always made me feel like I belong, like a long lost relative that just was away for 24 or so years.

I know not every adopted person's story is as sunshine and lollipops as mine. It's always been something I've had a deep appreciation for. Being adopted and all my experiences around it has definitely shaped who I am today, for the better. I was given a great start by a selfless, caring woman, and raised by a pretty awesome family. It doesn't get much greater than that.

P.S. Here is a letter the lawyer's wife wrote years later to my mother, after my dad died, remembering the day she picked me up from the hospital and brought me to them. I guess it was a special day for her too.

Perspective

I've been learning a lot this week about perspective and how different mine can be from that of others. In some cases, having a good discussion about the other person's outlook on thing can bring clarity, understanding and acceptance. I may not completely see things their way but I can accept how events made them think and feel, and what they saw as the important issue, and how that may have differed from my initial take on things.

In another case, delving deeper into the other person's view on things has actually caused more confusion, and has made me realize we are further apart on things in life than I thought. Some people are so sure their perspective is the only way of looking at things, that they shut out all the alternatives and feelings of others involved. It's funny, but  dealing with this latter situation, has made me realize I needed to be more aware and open minded about the other person's perspective in the first situation, and that I was in the wrong.

Cryptic right?

It is. In the first situation, I realized that I was making things more about me than they should have been and that in one area, I wasn't being completely truthful in how I viewed events - not with myself or with the other person. A molehill became a mountain because of it and I regret that a lot. I reacted in a way that wasn't in keeping with who I am, or how I treat people and I made it worse by not owning my mistake.

In the second situation, the other party basically did the same thing to me. When confronted with a concern I had with their behaviour and how they were treating me, they insisted all the problems were because of me and couldn't see how they were contributing to the issue, or how they could be doing things differently. They blamed me for how I was feeling. I recognized this and more importantly how it made me feel. While these two situations were not related at all, it opened my eyes to how I could be doing things differently. I've always thought I was pretty good at seeing both sides of a dispute or issue, but I can see now where I'm maybe a little more egocentric in some situations than I should be. A little too black and white. And not empathetic enough.

Lessons, lessons everywhere.

My Champion

I had no idea when I first got the idea to do this blog late last summer, that this year was going to be as much of a roller coaster as its been. In my naive "everything goes relatively okay for me" way of looking at things, I was going to write a list of things I wanted to do, some frivolous and some with a lot deeper meaning, and I was going to do everything on the list. And that life as I knew it would be life as I knew it, with maybe a few list driven twists.

Instead, there have been a heck of a lot of ups and downs. And by ups and downs I mean mostly downs. I've taken a lot of deep breaths, re-adjusted the plan and forged ahead.

One of the "downs" has been weighing on my mind a lot, for quite awhile. Probably because there isn't anything I can adjust or do to make it better. It is what it is. And its really tough for me to wrap my head around. My 90-almost-91-year-old biggest fan, my grandma, is starting to fail. Among other things, she's having some memory issues and is beginning to have difficulties caring for herself without a lot of assistance, which is a big change for her.

Most people who know me even in the slightest know how awesome I think my grandma is. And I have so many reasons why I think that.

Grandma, know to other humans as Vera, was a young and fun 51 years old when I randomly appeared in the family via private adoption. Legend has it that she essentially (somewhat accidentally) started the ball rolling on the matchmaking process between my birthmother, her doctor and my adoptive parents in the two weeks leading up to my birth. I was the second grandchild and the first girl. From my earliest memories, she has always been my champion, excited and happy to spend time with me. She's delighted in my accomplishments, no matter how small, and has encouraged me endlessly when I haven't been sure I could do something.

There is an affectionate eye roll I get from my other cousins when Grandma (or anyone else for that matter) tries to suggest that she doesn't have a favourite. I know she loves all of her 8 grandkids very much - but she and I have always had a really strong connection. She always seemed to get me, and saw things in me I couldn't even see yet. She made me feel like I was extra-special and still does. I think everyone needs that in their life.

When I was seven or eight, she gave me an old typewriter she had. For those of you in the under 30 crowd, it's what people used before computers came along to write correspondence, or in my case, short stories, commercials for my tape recorder radio show, newspaper stories for my imaginary newspaper and poems. I had always liked making up stories, fictional or otherwise, but this typewriter put my love for writing in a whole new realm. I would sit for hours, clacking away at the keys, dreaming up character, expressing my feelings and writing dozens of first-pages of what would (never) be the greatest novel ever. Whenever she saw me, she'd ask to see what I had written. I often hid my written ramblings from other people, embarrassed and unsure of what they'd think. But I always showed her. And she always loved every word. I really think she helped me see the value in this love of writing I had/have, and she helped me gain confidence in the talent that I had. I've always felt safe with her.

Being the adopted kid in the family, while I felt completely accepted as one of the gang, I didn't look like anyone, which sometimes made me feel awkward. On more than one occasion, throughout my childhood and well into my adult years, I'd be out with my grandma and we'd inevitably run into one of her many friends or acquaintances in her community. She'd proudly introduce me as her granddaughter and sometimes her friends would comment how much we looked alike. Without missing a beat, she'd wink at me, agree with them and would say something about the good-looking family genes.

When we were kids, she was the cool grandma. She'd go on the bumper boats at Ontario Place with me and would take me for picnics. She'd have me for sleepovers and take me to see grown-up plays at the Royal Alex. Grandma talked to me about current events from politics to religion to the news and helped me how to critically think about issues in the world while respecting other peoples beliefs and values. As we got older and the Internet came along, she learned how to use it to better stay in touch with her grandkids. She even coordinated a Sunday brunch with most of the adult grandkids, using MSN Messenger. No phones required.

When I decided to move across the country to Calgary and everyone I knew thought I was crazy, she was in my corner. She wasn't naive about the challenges I might face - she herself had flown from England to Canada two years after World War II ended to reunite with my Canadian grandfather who had mailed her an engagement ring. He had been in England briefly as part of the Canadian Firefighters Brigade and they had met and fallen in love. She knew that taking a chance like that can be life-changing and it could pay-off. It had for her. And as it turns out, it really did for me.

My graduation message from Grandma

Grandma has always made me feel okay with who I am - no easy feat when you are the awkward, shy smart kid She has always had an unwavering confidence in my decisions and has never hesitated to express how proud she is of me. She has always encouraged me to be brave, try knew things and appreciate what I have to offer the world. She is quick to promote me and my accomplishments to anyone who will listen (I think her entire retirement village and possibly half of Etobicoke knows about the kidney thing).

It's hard for me to imagine a world that she's no longer in. I get it, she's old and she's had a long, pretty good life. She's not going to be with us forever (in person anyway), and as the recent months have shown us, she is going to face challenges as she enters the "end of life" stage (as my mother calls it). While I can accept on some levels that that's the way life goes, it's scary to think about losing her.

I know I'm lucky. A lot of people don't have their grandparents around as long as I have (hello! I'm almost 40!). Many people don't get to have the relationships with their grandparents I've been able to have with her. She knows how I feel about her, and the impact and influence she's had on who I am. And I will continue to tell her for as long as I can what she means to me.

Not Being a Stepmom

On July 1, 2008, when I moved in with my boyfriend, I officially became a stepmom. A little over six years later, in September 2013, my relationship ended, I moved out and I stopped being a stepmom.

Being a stepmom was probably the hardest and yet most rewarding thing I have ever done. I've never being a "regular" parent so I can't make a comparison first hand. There are probably a lot of things that are the same but there are definitely some differences.  For example, you almost instantly have all the roles and responsibilities as a parent (feeding them, taking care of them when they are sick, the discipline etc.) but you haven't formed a relationship yet (really). You don't know how they feel about you, and you don't really know how you feel about them. There are often other parent(s) in the picture and you need to figure out where you fit in to all of that - which part is yours to play in the raising of the child. And that child may or may not resent you for a myriad of reasons from the change in household routine to jealously (although I thankfully didn't experience much of that).

But once you get through that, and you settle in, there is a lot of good stuff that can come with being a step-parent. In my case, "The Child" often would speak more freely with me than he would his dad, asking me a lot of great questions about how things in the world worked. We could have some pretty interesting conversations in the five minutes it took to get him home from daycare after school. I got to do things with him that I loved like making cookies or teaching him how to cook. I was able to share some of my family traditions with him, whether it was trick or treating Halloween, or creating some pretty awesome memories at Christmas. Every year, regardless of if he was planning to be at his mom's or his dad's for Christmas, we'd set a day to decorate the tree and house together, Christmas music playing in the background. One of my favourite Christmas memories from my childhood was the year my parents gave me a Smurf themed Christmas (because I was totally into Smurfs). All the gifts I got from Santa were Smurf related and I was thrilled. So it was pretty cool when decades later I got to do the same thing for The Child, although his was a "Nerf" themed Christmas.

Activities and traditions aside, if you are lucky (and I was), a bond forms. And they learn to love you and you learn to love them. Not because you have to, but because you want to.

When I broke up with The Child's dad, he was at his mothers for the week. He had left, on the Monday, for his usual week on/week off custody arrangement. Because the breakup was somewhat unexpected, he left not knowing that I wouldn't be there when he returned. I didn't know that either. So I didn't get a chance to talk to him or say goodbye. His dad, wanting to protect him, asked his mom to keep him a little longer until I could move out. When he eventually came back, I didn't live there anymore. And his dad didn't want me to see him.

I think - actually I know - that this was probably the hardest thing I've had to deal in my life (with perhaps the exception of my dad dying). In the first few months after the break up, it was soul crushing. If any thoughts of him or memories came bubbling to the surface I had to shove them away with everything in me in order to keep it together. I couldn't look at pictures or I'd cry. Ugly cry. I thought about writing him a letter but couldn't figure out what to say, and wasn't entirely sure (at the time) his dad would let him have it anyway.

There are a lot of articles and tips out there about the end of romantic relationships. There are a ton of blogs and resources about becoming and being a step-parent. What is surprising though is that despite all the blended and re-blended families out there these days, there isn't much about what happens with step-parents and step kids when things don't work out. And there really should be. Because you are grieving the loss of something real.

At first I didn't think I was justified in being sad. I mean, I was partially to blame for the end of the relationship with his dad and this was a consequence. And I wasn't the "real" parent so I didn't have any rights to anything. And The Child wasn't gone, he just wasn't in my life anymore. So I didn't talk about it much with anyone and I tried not to think about it. I wondered how he was doing, how school was, if he was eating his lunch or letting it go bad in his backpack (a six year, ongoing battle we had) and if he knew how much I cared about him. I wondered how soccer was going, how he was doing with homework and what he thought about all of this. Every once in a blue moon I'd see a picture of him on Facebook courtesy of his aunt or uncle and I'd be both thrilled, and then sad all over again.

About a year after the split, this past Fall, my ex wanted to borrow one of the dogs for a hike in the mountains with The Child (we had barely been on speaking terms until that point). They came by my new house to get the dog and I got to see The Child for the first time. We just exchanged hellos in the driveway for the briefest of moments and off they went. My brain went into overdrive trying to process everything. I couldn't push it away as much as I wanted to. It was so good to see him and at the same time so hard. Later that day, after the dog was returned, my ex sent some pictures from the hike of The Child and the dog. And it was like things shifted a little - maybe some healing began.

Today the three of us had brunch together - our first visit since the breakup. It made my heart so happy to see the The Child, to hear about school and the gifts he got for Christmas. To know he is doing well, making good choices and becoming a great young man. Losing our relationship (the one with The Child) will probably be one of the very few regrets I have in my life, but I feel like today I got the start of a bit of closure on grieving what our relationship was in the past. Hopefully I'll still get to know what is going on in his life as time goes on. I'd like that a lot. I'm really proud of who he is becoming and where his life is heading and I'm glad I had the opportunity to be a part of it for six years.

Giving Tuesday - Kidney Edition

It's "Giving Tuesday", so I cant think of a better thing to talk about than kidney donors.

A few months ago I got an email from a lady named Sarah in the US who had found my blog (the kidney one, not this one). She wanted to reach out as she was in the process of being tested to be a living kidney donor and she wanted to know if she could ask me some questions. We emailed back and forth and eventually became Facebook friends. Yesterday, she donated as part of a six person chain for a lady in Illinois who had been waiting for a kidney since 2008. I exchanged a few messages with her today - she's doing well and is very upbeat. Go Sarah!

Watching Sarah go through the process (from the sidelines, via email and Facebook) really took me back to when I donated. A lot of the initial testing I went through alone, but about a month or two before I donated, I found two people on-line who really helped me cross that finish line in the process. Jody was local and had tested in Calgary to be a non directed donor - her operation ended up being in Saskatoon. The other lady I connected with was Angela. She lived in upstate NY and had also donated anonymously that year. Both of the ladies offered great information that I certainly used before and after the surgery. They definitely made the process better for me because they shared they stuff that doctors don't think of, from personal hygiene tips to what to bring to the hospital. It gave me comfort to know I had two strangers who had been through the experience cheering me on from their corners of the world.

Living donors are a strong willed, determined bunch. We are pretty resilient and roll with things well. Every living donor I have met has a feisty independent streak in them - that's for sure. I truly believe all the donors I know could have donated without the email buddies, Facebook friends and on-line information groups. But the fact that we had access to these wonderful other donors to use as a resource, most of whom became friends as well - I think that made for a richer, more positive experience. It has made me happy that I can pay it forward when people like Sarah have connected with me. When I first signed up for this, I thought I was just giving a kidney. I didn't have a clue that it would become such a big part of my life and bring so many awesome people into my life, even years later.

This time last year, when I told my kidney story on CBC Radio's Definitely Not the Opera (DNTO), I had another lady reach out to talk about kidney donation. She had often thought about donating - when she heard my story it was a catalyst for her to contact her local transplant centre to start the process. We emailed back and forth as she had questions along the way. Yesterday, it occurred to me I hadn't heard from her in awhile so I sent her a note to check in. As it turns out, donating isn't right for her right now. She apologized for wasting my time with so many questions. But here's the thing - it wasn't a waste. She made more of an effort towards donating, or simply even just thinking of helping another person, than many people do in their lifetime. She took the time to educate herself about the process and in turn, shared that knowledge with others in her life. Donating is not for everyone for a variety of reasons and that is okay. The point is she tried and also talked about it - that makes a difference. As a nurse at her centre said, only about 1 and 5 people who go through testing donate - and that includes people who have family members in need.

She ended her email with an interesting and very honest question (which I appreciated):

"Now that you know I'm not doing it.... I am just wondering, do you honestly have no regrets? Or do you just try to stay upbeat to encourage other people? Do you ever worry about the long-term effects? I have really admired your attitude this whole time, and it shows in your blog... but I always wondered, how do you not worry at all?"

I honestly don't have regrets. I know I made the right choice for me. The bulk of the risks are behind me (surgery, complications post surgery) and now all I need to do is focus on staying healthy by eating in moderation, exercising and just taking care of myself they way we all should, regardless of kidney count. The fact is there is a lot about our health we can't control and none of us are guaranteed a long, perfectly healthy life. I do my best to control what I can, where and when I can. I do worry about a lot of things (money, my pets, friends, family, whether or not the cream in my fridge will still be good for my weekend coffee) but to be completely honest, my remaining kidney never makes the list.

I could also not ever regret a decision that has made me more confident, stronger and more aware of who I am and what is important to me. The "kidney thing" as I affectionately call it was a real turning point for me and I wouldn't change that for the world. I have also met so many wonderful people - from surgeons to nurses to donors to recipient and even the "almost donors" - who continue to inspire me everyday. I'm really lucky that I had this opportunity to go  through something like this. I appreciate not everyone does. And I hope I continue to meet new people along the way who are thinking about becoming donors - and that in some small way, I can help them along the way.

Dear Diary

On a recent Friday night, I sat down (with a LARGE glass of wine) and got out my box of journals. I've been keeping a journal for the better part of 25 years, with some noticeable gaps here and there. The gaps normally are a result of me being really happy with life and life (love, career, home etc.) being really stable. For those of you who aren't great with math, 25 years means I started writing my thoughts and ideas down around age 13 or 14.

The journals are all numbered. In the front of them, I had written the "highlights" of what topics one would find discussed in the attached pages, whether it be a milestone event, a boyfriend, a trip or a terrible experience. When I was younger, there would be teenage doodles of hearts and butterflies, with the occasional pairing of my first name with the surname of whatever crush I had at that time. Or crushes. I was open to more than one marriage opportunity. Oh Lauren.

In the beginning, my entries were short, a little EMO and were a lot about likes and dislikes. I liked a certain boy. I hated a certain teacher. Things were a lot more black and white. As I got older, I wrote mostly when things were upsetting or bothering me; the journal was an outlet for me to expresses how I was feeling. As I flipped through a couple of "teen" journals, I felt sad for the Lauren who was trying so hard to fit in, make friends and figure out who she was. I cringed at some of the stupid, inexperience things I said or did (and then sipped my wine). I had to keep reminding the present day me that experience is how we learn, and that most people go through those awkward years and come out the other end okay - its part of the journey.

It was interesting to see what changed in me over the years and what has stayed the same. We don't always remember events in hindsight the way they actually happened. When you go back and read a journal, you suddenly remember little details, feelings and thoughts that aren't part of the memories you have now (even if the journal entry is a little emotionally skewed). For example, in reading my journal from 2005/2006, I realized there were a lot more reasons I moved to Calgary (or more specifically left Toronto) than I realized. And that there were several things that influenced that decision before the option to move was even on the table. There are probably several blog posts I could do on that subject.

A lot of people will tell you how writing in a journal helps you work through problems, express yourself, have an outlet for stress etc. What never seems to be mentioned though are the benefits of being able to sit down, years later, and read your own life story. As cringeworthy as some of the entries are, it is pretty interesting to see how we grow, learn, make mistakes (repeat those mistakes) and evolve over time. I didn't read them all - some I just couldn't read because I knew they'd be a bit too emotional for what I was prepared to deal with on a Friday night. I read enough of them though to really get a sense of pride for the Lauren I've become over time, a perspective I'm not sure I'd have without the ability to look back in time like that.

There is no right or wrong way to keep a journal. It can be in an agenda, in a real diary with a lock and key or just a simple notebook. No one judges you on spelling (except maybe you, 20 years later). No one evaluates sentence structure, handwriting or pen colour. You can add mementos or just stick to written thoughts. You can write a page, or 10 pages on a subject. You can skip days, months or even the odd year. The best part is that I don't think its ever too late to start - so give it a try!

Support

I am a little overwhelmed by the response I got to yesterday's post about my Mom. From people who offered ideas on how to support her from afar, to others who shared stories about their own experiences with cancer, prayers and everything in between - it was all pretty amazing.

At my cousin's wedding last weekend, there was much discussion about what was going on with my Mom. It was pretty emotional, although it was beautiful to see how loved she is by my cousins, aunts, uncles. It helped to know that people who live so much closer to my move would go and visit her, check in on her once she is out of the hospital, and do what they can to help. I left the wedding feeling a little bit better about being so far away.

One of my relatives asked me a question no one else did though, that really got me thinking.

"Do YOU have support. In Calgary. People that can help you?'.

I wasn't sure. I hadn't thought about that. I live alone (minus my zoo of cats and dogs). My family is far away. It's easy to think and feel sometimes that you don't have that safety net of people around you. Sure, I have friends, but I wasn't sure if I had people that needed to be burdened with this (or frankly any other problems I might have a long the way). I realized last night and today as I heard from so many lovely people, that not only do I have some pretty awesome people here in Calgary to help me, but I have a whole lot of people looking out for me all over the place.

On another note, my Mom is feeling a lot better today. Many of the symptoms that had been given her such discomfort over the last two months seem to have faded in the last 48 hours. I'm hoping she has a peaceful weekend before her surgery. And I'm feeling a lot better about things, knowing that not only that she has so many people in her corner, but I do too.

Onwards!