The Mothers' Stories Project: A Mothers' Story

I grew up the only girl between two brothers (one perfect/one funny); my parents were extremely active in the local Catholic Diocese, as well as across the political scene. Shortly after my 16th birthday in 1973, the family physician told my mother that the cause of my vomiting was pregnancy. The doctor recommended BirthRight and Catholic Charities, the latter immediately ruled out for obvious reasons. BirthRight recommended a Methodist-run home in San Antonio and a so-called non-denominational home in Fort Worth. Three days after my sophomore year ended, I was shipped to Fort Worth where THE HOME promised my parents that, with their extremely competent help, I would be able to forget all about this shameful experience and get on with the rest of my life when it was over. THEY LIED; it never ended. There are too few words allowed here to tell of the horrors I endured for the next four months. Still, my whole heart was devoted to my child; it was truly the most exhilarating experience of my life, even to this very day (once I sift out all the pain).

On the drive home after my son was taken from me because I was not worthy (much less competent enough) to raise him alone, I watched every inch of pavement leading back to Dallas so that I would be able to return to the ‘scene of the crime’ once I was able to fend for myself. Alas, thanks to the cruelties and brain-washing received from THE HOME, I joined the junior class at my Catholic High School, armed with all the lies I was suppose to tell everyone…though everyone mostly knew some truths. Becoming withdrawn, doing only what might help my parents to forgive the shame I brought to our family, I desperately tried to atone for my sin as imposed by family, church and society (but never my God).

Twenty-three years later my beloved mom succumbed to cancer; in five more years it claimed my amazing dad. Trying to just live through each day dealing with the anguish deep inside my heart, I became a master at “stuffing” anything that mattered to me in order to please someone else. Engaged three times, I never once made it to the alter because I always choose the wrong person to love (more accurately, allowed myself to fall in love with anyone who paid any attention to me regardless of their suitability). When my only child was 33-years old, I had finally obtained my third (and hopefully last) college degree. The following June (2007) my secret sin was ‘outed’ in a Dallas Morning News article which began on the front page of a Sunday edition of the newspaper; sending me spiraling into the search for identification and location of my son. Even 34 years later, THE HOME found a way to punish me again when I turned to them for the help I never received in 1973.

Regrettably, I have used up all the words I'm allowed here…my book will (someday) be titled “Lisa’s Payne …another, albeit different, birth mother story”.

Adoption reform should include the humane treatment of all birth mothers and adoptees, or (at the very least) bring an end to the corruption that industry (and I do not use the last word lightly) has been plagued with in Texas since the day when dear Edna Gladney lost control of her mission and had her dreams trashed.