Foster Homes, Adoption, and Grief

 

My life, and my experiences, have presented many learning opportunities. As a child, I

spent several years in the foster care system. I was later adopted by my

grandparents in a nontraditional family unit as my birth mother lived in the home

with me, my brother, and my grandparents/ legal parents. 

 

At the age of twelve, when they adopted my brother and I, we were instructed to

stop calling them grandma and grandpa. We were instructed to call them Mom

and Dad. In addition, they wanted us to call our birth mother by her name and

refer to her as our sister. This was devastating to me emotionally. For me, it was

a tremendous loss as I was in essence losing my grandparents. I was also, in my

mind, losing my mother with this title shift.

 

I also found it psychologically tormenting as I felt it was an act of betrayal to the

emotional bond that I had with my mother to not call her mom. Needless to say, I

couldn’t do it. I continued to call my mom “mom.” She had carried me in her

womb for 8 months (I arrived one month earlier than due), she had birthed me,

fed me, and cared for me to the best of her ability. She had earned the title of mom in

my mind and in my heart.

 

At times, both “moms” would be in the same room, and it would often take some

effort to gain the attention of the “mom” you wanted to direct your

conversation to. But nevertheless, I wanted my mom to never lose her hearing

her child call her mom. I wanted to show respect to her. 

 

A little background information is in order, so let me add a bit more context to

how this family scenario came into being. Why were my brother and I being

raised by my grandparents? 

 

The short version is to say that my mother had had a brain tumor at the age of

16. She endured brain surgery, and chemotherapy, and wasn’t expected to live to see

21. Yet, live she did! She fell in love with my biological dad, married, and had me

and then my brother. 

 

As was typical in the 1960’s, my father worked outside the home as my mother

cared for me, my brother, and the home. Yet, her history of having had a brain

tumor led her to be cognitively impaired as the tumor had impacted her brain’s

higher-level thinking functions. Her ability to reason and make sound decisions

was greatly diminished. 

 

This led to my brother, and I being placed in dangerous, life-threatening

situations. After several such occurrences, we were removed from the home and

eventually placed in separate foster homes. We were separated from each other

for approximately three years. 

 

Our grandparents intervened and took us into their home when I was five and my

brother was three. In their home, from the time I started kindergarten to the time I

entered the 5th grade, the family unit was led by my grandparents. They were the

authoritarians and providers for the family as a whole. 

 

They made the arrangement legal in terms of becoming our parents/ guardians

when my brother needed a surgical procedure done and encountered that as

being a challenge when although they served as our parents, they were not

legally our parents. 

 

In their defense, as in my eyes, they were out of line to instruct us to call them

“Mom and Dad” and our biological mom, “sister,” they had been advised by

intervening social workers that this would be the best course of action. 

 

To this day, forty-six years later, I still grieve “the loss of my grandparents.” I

have, over the years been able to come to terms with the decision they made to

have us refer to them as mom and dad, on some level. I understand why

they made this decision years ago, yet nonetheless, the grief remains. 

As Candace Lightner, founder of MADD states, “Grief comes in 3 stages: The

beginning, the middle, and the rest of your life.”

 

- by Marie S. Lietzke, BSN, PMH-BC on 10/21/2023.