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If there is a
tougher decision than that to give up a child I don’t know what it would be.
The parent, usually the mother, wrestles a million emotions. Guilt perhaps, for
a lapse that led to the creation of life. Love. Sadness. Shame, which is not
entirely out of fashion. Fear. Confusion. It flows in a blur, whirling
inside, too jumbled to sift or understand.
It is just then that she must make the most painfully important decision of her
life, and her child’s. And it is at that vulnerable moment that the aid and
assurance of others is most needed. For many, few assurances are more important
than that of confidentiality.
U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor last month rejected an emergency
stay of an Oregon law allowing adoptees age 21 and older to obtain their
original birth certificates, which often hold the names of the birth parents.
Oregon joins Alaska, Delaware, Kansas, and Tennessee, though only Oregon’s
voters inflicted the law on themselves; the others were enacted by legislative
fiat.
Supporters argue the right to know one’s heritage and medical history. While I
know of no such “right” in the Constitution or anywhere else, I do understand
the curiosity and longing, even the need in the case of medical conditions.
Still, a society works best when promises are kept and worst when they are not,
despite the inconvenience or hardship to some.
Promises of any sort are meant to induce behavior. We agree to pay someone so
they will work, or to work so we will be paid. We pledge more leeway to our
kids for good behavior and faithfulness to our spouse for the same in return.
The vow of confidentiality is made to encourage a birth mother’s consent to
adoption, to which there are two but options: abortion, or a child raised by a
parent who feels incapable.
It’s an
emotional subject for many, and to those seething in disagreement right now I
thank you for sticking with me. I also anticipate your questions. For
starters, what does a man know about giving up a child? How could anyone who is
not adopted know the need for answers? And how can they deny access to
potentially critical medical history?
I have lived
these questions for over 13 years as the father of an adopted son. Though we do
not know his birth mother, we have an indirect contact through a social agency.
We have seen his letters unanswered. We have struggled to salve that most
central hurt: “Why?” Toughest of all, we have devoted significant time and
resources to seeking a family medical history that is sorely, sorely needed.
So think
anything you like except that I don’t know what I’m talking about. I know my
son’s other fates would have been worse.
Thomas
McDermott, lawyer for the law’s backers and also the adoptive father of a
teenage son, was described as jubilant upon hearing Justice O’Connor’s
decision. “What I've seen with my son is that he really yearns for a more
complete picture of himself,” he said. “It’s a basic human right to know your
heritage.”
I don’t know
about that, as I’ve said, but there is a right to rely on a promise. In law,
attorney McDermott should know that it’s called a contract.
I
suspect I would like McDermott, who seems motivated by genuine concern and
respect for his son’s wishes. But I would urge him to consider the consequences
of the choice of adoption made less attractive to the only persons who can make
it. I would implore him to think of the children who will be raised by unable
parents and those who will die by abortion. I would ask if his son would be
better off with the alternatives.
Though Oregon’s action to void commitments made to birth parents has been
legally upheld, there is a word for a promise not kept: a lie. Sadly, it’s the
most innocent who will pay the price.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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