Chapter 22
by karen pagano
I have always known that I was adopted and have always wondered about my history. I began my search for answers more than twenty years ago, but after being thwarted by sealed records and falsified information, I was reluctant to go on another quest and face failure and rejection once again.
But that didn’t stop me from constantly wondering about the circumstances that caused my birth parents to give me up. Why did they choose to send me out to the world alone? Were there regrets and repercussions? Did that decision free them from a responsibility they were not ready to assume? Or was my mother alone, confused, and afraid? Was the choice forced upon her by a society that frowned upon out-of-wedlock births? Did she make a sacrifice to give me a chance at a better life?
As my fiftieth birthday approached and I faced this milestone year, I was still wrestling with these unanswered questions. I had just signed up to attend a channeling event and for some reason, I felt the tug of certainty pull hard at my heart. Was I about to find the answers I sought for decades?
It was my first time at an event like this. I brought along one of my bronzed baby shoes, having been told that carrying a cherished item could open the doors to the other side and make communication easier. The shoe would prove to be the catalyst I had been searching for. The missing link I had been carrying with me for decades.
The bronzed baby shoe is one of those marvels. How was it a link in the chain of events that led me to my family? The shoe was bronzed at the local “shoe hospital” that my adoptive father and I would visit as we did our weekend chores when I was a child. In those days, our shoes were repaired and resoled until we outgrew them, so we visited it often. I remember the excursions to the repair shop very well: the high counters and the special platform for the policemen to sit and have their boots shined. I remember my adoptive father and the shop owner, an animated Italian, talking at length about the news of the day. I remember the train set, occasionally set up in a corner, and the little boy sitting transfixed by its sound and motion.
I had no specific expectations for the event other than to learn about mediumship and the form it might take in my life. I did believe in spiritual communications and the transformative power of intention, and I knew that it was time to allow myself the experience.
The space was dimly lit, cozy and warm. A group of twenty-five or so was seated in quiet expectation. Soft music played as Roland entered the room. He turned to face us and said softly, “The energy is changing, there are angels around us. Who has that baby shoe?” I sat in amazement but felt no impulse to respond, nor did Roland wait for an answer. I knew he was talking to me and that this was the beginning of an important journey.
Lost family members and friends from the other side had messages for most of the people in the room, and the time rolled smoothly and safely along. I did not receive a message for any person I had lost, but Roland did tell me that my dog, Ditto, was sitting beside me. It was so comforting to know that she was still at my side and offering her love and protection. As the night ended, I sat bathed in a glow of newly felt possibility and promise. Roland announced that he would be holding individual sessions over the weekend, so I signed up to meet with him the following day.
Roland was sitting quietly when I entered the room for my private session and asked if I had any special items with me. I put the baby shoe on the table and he began. He was receiving messages from two men, one of them a father, offering me support and guidance. He began to give me information about my birth: I was born at a home for unwed mothers at 11:33 p.m. after my mother was transported from a bar by two male friends. I was small and refused to breathe when I entered the world. I was taken to another room, where I was stabilized. My mother did not see or touch me. I would never breathe air in the same room as the woman who gave birth to me. My life in the orphanage was about to begin.
A young novitiate, seventeen-year-old Sister Mary Frances, would be my savior. She took a special interest in me and fed and comforted me, helping me grow strong and healthy over the next three months. I was soon adopted and given a new life, full of love, support, and opportunities I would not have otherwise known.
The session was ending, and Roland suddenly stood up and said, “I have a Purple Paper for you. It is from your mother, Rose.” The message was simple and poignant: “[She] will need to know we still love her.” He handed it to me, and I asked if I should keep on searching.
“Yes,” he said. “You must start today!” A wound had been opened in my heart that had not had proper healing, and I knew that I was starting a new course of treatment with this knowledge. I found comfort in knowing that my mother had offered the connection through the Purple Paper.
I did continue to search that day. I knew my original last name because of an error made at a town office years before when I was mistakenly given a copy of my original birth certificate. Before submitting it at a passport office, I opened the form and saw the name I was given at birth. After seeing Roland, I contacted an online adoptee search agency, and within hours they found my birth mother’s oldest brother. I was able to find him at a retirement home and told him I was the daughter of his youngest sister, Rose. I was amazed to see a man who looked very much like me. We had the same hair and skin color, similar blue eyes and face shape. I knew this man was my uncle.
He offered to call a nephew, my cousin, who may have remembered Rose being pregnant with me. I was contacted within days and given the information I needed. My cousin told me that my mother had lived with them while she was pregnant and had a son five years later by my birth father. They had married. He had the contact information for my brother, Michael.
The news that I had a full birth brother was both shocking and unsettling, but I was determined to attempt a connection. I tried to contact him, first by a telephone call and a year later with a Christmas card. Neither approach resulted in a response. I decided to wait and allow time for him and me to absorb the reality of being siblings. After a few more years, I decided to do a drive by to see where my brother was living. Needless to say, I found myself struggling with whether or not to invade his privacy. I struggled with the steering wheel too and found myself turning into the yard and “driving” into Michael’s life.
I was greeted by a woman who took a quick look at me and said, “You do not have to tell me who you are. You look just like your mother—and your brother has had the card that you sent him on his bureau ever since he got it.” My sister-in-law told me what she knew about my mother, that she struggled with depression and alcoholism throughout her life and had raised Michael alone after a very short marriage with my father, Victor. Life had been hard for Rose and Michael, but they stayed in touch after he married and he visited occasionally.
Rose was kind and quiet in her later years and had passed nearly ten years earlier. She had never spoken of me, although my brother did know of my existence. He had invited our father to visit from California to celebrate the birth of Michael’s first child, a son. Sworn to secrecy, he was told that he had an older sister who was given up at birth. Sadly, Victor died soon after the revelation, and my brother was left knowing only that I existed, but with no way to find me, as my birth records remain closed to this day.
I did meet my brother that day. The first thing that he asked me was if I ever felt abandoned. I replied that I was, so I did. He answered that he too felt abandoned, even though he lived with our mother growing up. That feeling was one of our first common bonds. We shared other things too: a quick wit, a love of music and reading, high cholesterol, and other physical traits. We both struggled with depression, which he tried to ease with alcohol, as did our mother.
We began an easy relationship, with occasional visits and planned family events. We enjoyed our talks together, although Michael did not talk about life with our mother, Rose. I understood and accepted that it was painful and a reminder of a tough time in his life. I was not to know more about the woman who gave me the gift of life.
Michael died unexpectedly after I had known him for just a few years. It was a new kind of sadness for me, losing someone who was emotionally and biologically connected to me. I am so grateful that the birth of my nephew brought our father back to share the secret of my birth. I often wonder if I would have been allowed into Michael’s life if he had not known about me. Would he have kept the Christmas card for all those years and warmly welcomed me as he did on the day of our first meeting? I was also blessed to remain a part of Michael’s family. I continue to share special occasions with them and look forward to watching his wife and children, now young adults, make their way in the world. I marvel at the mystery, miracles, and magic sent by family and friends now passed.
What I discovered when I found my brother and learned the identity of my parents was that the man who owned the repair shop and bronzed my baby shoe was actually my birth father, Victor. And the boy who sometimes visited with his train set was my brother, Michael. And none of us knew of our connections to one another. The circle, like the toy train’s circuitous path, is now complete.
I have received the gift of my mother Rose with humble heart and awe-
inspired appreciation. And I await more revelations to come in those precious Purple Papers!