A Birthmother's Story
by Kathleen Crouch
(original site: http://www.mountainwolfden.com/abs.html)

I was twenty-one, a student at DeKalb College in Clarkston, Georgia when I discovered I was two months pregnant in July, 1966. My parents were horrified and it was the first and last time I saw my father cry. I was told that I had disgraced the family name and that I could either get an abortion or give up the child for adoption because they weren't going to have my "sin" revealed to the rest of the family or more importantly to their friends.

I knew that I was too immature to raise a child so I opted for adoption even though my mother kept advising me to have an abortion. She even suggested that I go horseback riding because she'd heard that miscarriages often happen when a pregnant woman rode a horse.

When it became evident that I was going through with the pregnancy, my mother contacted a friend in New York City to arrange for me to be sent to NY so that I could have my baby up there instead of in Atlanta, Georgia. I flew up to NY in late September and lived in a tiny room at the Y until December of 1966. During that time, I worked at a florist delivering a single rose to dozens of secretaries each Monday morning by 10 am.

In late December, I moved into the maternity home which was close to Central Park. On one hand it was one of the most depressing Christmases I ever had; on the other hand, it was one of the best. I was miserable because my parents had cut off all communications with me since I had arrived in New York City; yet I knew that within three months I would give birth to a child, a gift from God - a gift that I would relinquish to a couple who desperately wanted a child that they could not give birth to themselves.

I remember climbing three flights of stairs just to get to the rec room; I remember trying to eat seafood that had been cooked in three-day old grease every Friday; I remember walking to the hospital and back for my weekly appointment because the matron/woman running the nursing home believed that 'exercise' was good for us no matter what the weather was like; I remember the daily lectures about "getting on with my life after the baby was born" and being told that "you've learned your lesson, I hope!"; I remember the most wonderful black woman who comforted me and the rest of the girls and her words of praise for what we were willing to go through - giving a childless couple a chance of being a family because we were willing to put our child up for adoption.

I remember meeting the social worker in a drab office and explaining that I wanted my child to be adopted by a couple who a child already because I didn't want my child to grow up as an only child.

I remember the visits to the hospital; the coldness of the examining rooms matching the coldness of the interns that I met there. All the girls at the maternity home went to the same hospital and each of us was treated in the same cold manner. I never even saw the doctor who delivered my daughter until the actual delivery.

I remember going into labor in the wee hours of Feburary 14, 1967 and hours later, when the labor pains were five minutes apart, riding in a taxi to the hospital where I was put into a room and left for nearly an hour. When I asked for pain medication, the intern told me that he really shouldn't give me anything because of what I had done - getting pregnant - but thankfully a nurse called the doctor and had him order Demerol shot for me. I remember saying that the child was ready to come, but the intern said I didn't know what I was talking about and that the labor would last for another couple of hours.

It didn't and my daughter was nearly born in the receiving room. I remember the sense of loss when I gave birth to her and was told that I could not see her as she was going to be adopted shortly. I remember arguing with the hospital telling them that I had already decided to stay in the hospital an extra two days so that I could be with my daughter and know her and know what I was giving up.

I had my daughter baptized and given the name Denise two days after she was born - I fought nearly everyone to have it done. I remember hold her in my arms wanting to keep her forever and knowing that giving her up was the best thing that I could do for her. I remember vowing that I would go back to school and get my degree because I wanted her to be proud of me if she ever wanted to contact me.

I remember Valentine's Day in the hospital - my daughter's birthday - and not being able to celebrate it fully as I would soon be relinquishing my daughter to the social worker so that she could be given to the couple that had been chosen. I remember holding my daughter in the taxi as we rode to the social worker's office. I remember giving my daughter to the social worker and never seeing her again.

After that I went back to the maternity home and stayed there another two weeks. Then I moved back to the Y and found a job because my parents didn't want me back in Atlanta until the end of May. By the end of March, I was modeling for John Robert Powell's company and saving my money so that I could go back to school in Atlanta.

My parents never again referred to my pregnancy or my stay in New York City during that time. They like the social worker in New York, were concerned about my getting on with my life as if my daughter had never been born.

By June I was enrolled at Georgia State University and I completed my Bachelor's in 1973 and my Master's by 1976. I went on to post-graduate school at Syracuse University and later went to Puerto Rico for an internship.

I was married for three years from 1969 to 1972. It ended in divorce because my ex-husband didn't want children and I did. I never remarried though I did get my wish to raise kids; I helped my god-parents raise six of their nine children. That story can be read at: Children of my Heart

I wasn't aware that there was a possibility of finding my daughter until 1996 - nearly thirty years after her birth - and I began looking. But my father had died in 1979; my mother had dementia and couldn't tell me anything and my mother's friend in NY City passed away in 1994. There was no one who could help fill in the blanks like the name of the maternity home which I later discovered to be the Dana House, the name of the hospital - New York Hospital had changed it's name to New York Presbyterian Hospital, the name of the doctor, the name of the social worker or even the name I was told to use while I was at the maternity home.

With so little information I feared that there was no way I would ever be able to find my daughter; no way that I would be able to tell her how much I love her; no way to tell her of her medical background; no way to tell her of her rich heritage and no way to tell her that my family would welcome her with open arms.

Every Valentine's Day is hard for me because my daughter doesn't know how much I still love her. Every day when she was little I would pray that her a-mother's cup of patience be refilled because if she was anything like me when I was growing up, she'd need a full cup of patience when dealing/loving/caring for our daughter.


I, like many other birth mothers, scoured the Internet searching for information on adoption sites, registries and bulletin boards. I owe a debt of graditude to one very special site: Sylvia's NY Adoption Page. Sylvia, a birth mother herself, has dedicated her life to help other members of the birth triad to search and find their "lost ones" both in New York and elsewhere.

UPDATE!