I have been out of the closet since the minute I realized that I was gay. I’ve rarely exhibited any kind of haste in telling friends or strangers that I’m gay.  My logic is that the more people like me, somewhat regular people who have jobs, insurance, etc. and happen to be gay, who are out, the harder it is for people to be hateful.  The openness has thankfully caused me very little grief over the years- all but one of the people I’ve told have either been accepting or put up a good front.  But my convictions were shaken one day last winter when I got an email that started out “I’d like us to meet, what kind of tissue do you prefer?”

The question came from from my birthmother, who I had not seen since I was 2 days old.  After a few months of email conversation, we had decided it was time to meet.  She mentioned that her husband would like to meet me, so I took that as a good segue to tell her about Andrea.  So I did,  explaining that my partner- no, not like a business partner but more like a life partner, would like to meet her. I sent the email on a Monday night, starting what was to be the longest week of my life.

I woke in a panic Tuesday morning to check for her reply.  There was none. And so it went for the rest of the week, I rose early and rushed home from work to check my email only to be both disappointed and relieved that I hadn’t hear anything, good or bad.  But I started to really panic on Thursday, convinced that my disclosure had closed the door that had been so tenuously opened.  Until that moment I had no idea that her opinion of me, essentially that of a stranger, meant so much to me. 

Since she was a stranger in many ways I had no idea how she would react to this news.  When I told my parents the joyful news 4 years before, I had known them long enough to guess that they wouldn’t be thrilled or give me a big cake at first, but that soon enough they would come around.  And sure enough, they did.  But with my birthmother I did not have the advantage of a 25 year history together, just a couple of letters and photos and a lifetime of dreams.

Why I took that risk when I did I still don’t know.  I think part of it was to just get it over with, find out early on if she would continue to be in my life or not.  Perhaps then it wouldn’t hurt as much if once again we parted ways.  It is interesting to note that I spent a great deal more time asking birthmothers how they would react to finding a gay child than I did searching for her.  The searching proved to be easier than my week of waiting was.

Each night that week, I played racquetball, trying to pretend like it didn’t matter.  I played hard, exacting my frustrations as I lost game after game.  I reminded myself that my family was intact, they loved me, that I finally had a stable, loving relationship and that this woman’s opinion didn’t matter one way or the other.  But it did, a lot.  Somehow I had always felt like a burden to her, something that she didn’t mean to have happen or want to remember.  If I was to be in her life again after all the pain my very presence caused then didn’t I owe it to her to be perfect, to be ‘normal?’  And still, why did her opinion matter so much to me?

Because I had been wondering about her, dreaming about her for my entire life. As a child I used to imagine that she’d come and take me away from my home, to a land with no green beans or bed times.  As I approached adulthood I started to realize the kind of struggle, effort and love required to place me in someone else’s arms, hoping that I’d get a better life than she could provide.

After a solid week of waiting and nail-biting, I finally heard from her.  Her lack of response wasn’t disapproval or disgust but because she had been out of the office for a week.  Her response was merely a question-did Andrea prefer Puffs Plus as well or should she get a different brand for her?  

® 1998, Liz Doughty