Happily Ever After: The Life-Changing Power of a Grateful Heart (15 page)

In 2001 Duke and Fivush posed the DYK to four dozen families and found that “higher scores on the Do You Know Scale were associated with higher levels of self-esteem, an internal locus of control (a belief in one’s own capacity to control what happens to him or her), better family functioning, lower levels of anxiety, fewer behavioral problems, and better chances for good outcomes if a child faces educational or emotional/behavioral difficulties.”

With further research, however, they were able to determine that it wasn’t solely the act of learning facts about their families that positively influenced these children—it was the way in which they gained this knowledge and what developed as a result.

Let me explain.

Depending on the dynamics and personalities of family members, the narratives within the group can be one of three types. Either they are ascending (e.g., “we came from nothing, and with hard work we are now blessed”), descending (e.g., “we were blessed and now we have nothing”), or oscillating (e.g., “we’ve had ups and downs, but through it all, we had each other and will always be blessed”). Unlike the other types, the adolescents who experience oscillating narratives are not only knowledgeable about their family history, but they also develop a strong feeling of belonging to a group bigger than themselves (aka “intergenerational self”)—a group of people who will be there for one another, no matter what, when confronted with life’s struggles. The development of the intergenerational self, in turn, leads to greater self-confidence and increased resilience. That’s nothing to shake a stick at when you are navigating the tumultuous teen years.

From this research, we know that no matter what you are going through or have been through, if you have the support of a cohesive family unit, you are more likely to have the tools to handle it. The branches of your family tree may not be sheltered from stormy weather, but if you lovingly nourish the roots you came from, the connection and sense of belonging that develop can cause them to flourish even in the most dire conditions.

So carve out time to regularly talk to the members of your extended family about the details of their lives and the positive ways in which they faced hardships. Not only could you pave the way for more personal happiness, but if you pay attention, you might just learn something.

F
ROM
D
ISGRACE TO
D
ELIGHT

As our first teachers, our parents (or other primary caregivers) influence our lives more than anyone else. The loving ones tell us their stories and share their learned wisdom to establish a connection with us and hopefully set us on a path to a future brighter than their own. For my mom, there is one story in particular that she initially told me in my adolescence. A story that came full circle only a few years ago and one that I will always be grateful for.

Born in 1946, my mom was the second oldest of four sisters raised in a very strict Catholic home. They attended mass every day except Saturday. After mass on Sunday, they were quizzed on the gospel to make sure they were all listening. And since it was a sin to eat before receiving Communion, my mom would occasionally pass out at mass.

In this religious context, my mother was taught to be afraid. She grew up with a profound fear of thinking bad thoughts, saying bad words, disagreeing with Catholicism, and having to ultimately pay for her worldly sins in hell. And if one sin was more unforgiveable than the rest for a young Catholic girl during this era, it was premarital sex.

Near the end of my mom’s senior year at Purdue University, she found herself happily dating a young man. It was going great until one night when things got out of control. As
he held her down, she realized that his desire to have sex was more important to him than her right to say no. She tried to fight him off, but she just didn’t have the strength.

In the aftermath of that awful night, my mom was scared. Scared not only of the nightmares that tormented her sleep, but of the hurtful labels, the undeniable disgrace, and the repercussions she feared she would experience if she ended up as a shameful unwed mother, unable to hide what had happened. As she explained to me, in those dark days before women’s rights, women who had been sexually abused were anything but victims. The concept of “date rape” had yet to be recognized, so anyone in an established relationship who was having sexual intercourse was considered a willing participant, regardless of how it really happened. Add to the mix a family that kept its issues buried and had difficulties connecting, and it’s no surprise that fear was her natural reaction. If her family found out, she knew she would finally be branded the black sheep she had always worried she was—never living up to her older sister’s perfection. She didn’t feel that she had anyone to go to. She prayed that there would be no ramifications beyond the violation itself, but her fear that God wouldn’t answer her prayers was overwhelming. It ended up playing a major role in determining her life path, a path that for decades was for the most part traveled alone.

Approximately four weeks after she was so harshly taken advantage of, my mom went to the student health center and got a blood test. After a very long week waiting for the results, a sympathetic doctor told her she was pregnant—her biggest fear had come true.

Ironically, she remembers walking out of the health center on that beautiful spring day with a smile on her face. No
matter the circumstance of the baby’s conception, her spirit couldn’t contain the inner happiness she felt with the potential for growing a new life inside her. She found the baby’s father at work, gave him the news, and not surprisingly, her happiness quickly transformed to sadness. Given how he’d disrespected my mom a month earlier, he predictably didn’t pay her any mind. He told her that he didn’t believe she was pregnant with his child and went back to his duties at work.

And so her silent journey began.

My mom appreciated the life inside her and knew there were thousands of loving families eager to give a newborn baby a home. Since she couldn’t bear the thought of raising a child whose birth would so significantly dishonor herself and her family, and whose conception involved such a painful memory, my mom made plans to give the baby up for adoption. She attended regular appointments at a women’s clinic to make sure she and the baby stayed healthy, and she reached out to Catholic Charities. The caring people there not only helped her prepare for the adoption but also found her a job in Chicago and a safe place to live where her condition would remain a secret from the people back home in Indiana.

My mother’s family was not unlike many—sharing a space they called home, but keeping the special details of their lives hidden away. If only my mom had been more careful, the details of her pregnancy would’ve remained hidden as well. Although she usually paid for her visits to the health center with cash, she failed to do so on one occasion. Before my mother left town to start what everyone thought was a new job, her mother beat her to the mailbox on the day that singular bill arrived. After learning the truth, my mom’s mother ended up trying to support her daughter through occasional visits to
Illinois and gifts of maternity clothing, but she couldn’t offer much more than that—probably due to her own fears.

The day my mother went into labor, she was entirely alone. When she arrived at the hospital, she was wheeled into an area separate from married women also going through labor—so as not to upset
her
, they said.

My mom knew that labor would be difficult, but the hours of physical agony were a cakewalk compared to a heart-wrenching detail she hadn’t been warned about—she wouldn’t be allowed to hold the baby she had just brought into the world. Her only glimpse of the newborn, whom she named Teresa Marie, was through a glass window to the hospital nursery. Even though she had never questioned her decision to give up the baby, as she truly felt it was the right thing to do, the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. She wanted to hold the baby she had carried, even if just for a brief moment, and then hand her over to her future family, who my mother hoped would give her baby a life full of love.

After returning to her family home a few weeks later (after her “job” in Chicago had ended), my mother was faced with something even harder than never holding her newborn child—signing the official paper “irrevocably relinquishing all parental rights to said child.” It was a day that started and ended in tears. Lonely tears.

Knowing what my mom went through, alone, breaks my heart. For twenty-five years, she searched for her lost daughter—making phone calls, registering on different adoption sites, filling out multitudes of forms, and updating her contact information anywhere and everywhere she could. In an attempt to help her find solace, I tried on two separate occasions to find my half sister myself. I knew how
much my mom yearned to know whether the daughter she had never known was healthy and happy, but neither of us ever heard a peep. No one reached out to us for information. We received no response to our inquiries, and she didn’t even have a mother’s intuition as to whether her child was still alive.

In December 2008, when “Teresa Marie” was due to celebrate her fortieth birthday, my mother came to the conclusion that she would never know the trajectory her life had taken, and two months later, finally let it go.

A year and a half later, on August 17, 2009, my mom was at work when she picked up a voice-mail message from someone looking to speak with her. Assuming it was job-related, she returned the call.

“This is Roseanne. I believe you were trying to reach me.”

She heard: “My name is Kathy. I was born December 30, 1968.”

An ordinary call turned into one that couldn’t have been more extraordinary.

In shock, my mother sat silently on the phone, wondering if this was the person she had tried to find for more than half of her life or if it was a cruel prank.

“Where were you born?” Mom asked tentatively.

Kathy responded with the correct answer.

That’s when the tears started flowing. Once shed from heartbreak, my mother’s tears now came from the joy of relief. Over and over again, she said, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

It turns out Kathy had made an inquiry to the Indiana State Department of Health for a medical history. In return, she mistakenly received a letter detailing my mom’s full name,
address, and phone number. With that information in hand, Kathy did what all amateur sleuths do these days—she turned to Google, a search that overwhelmed her with pages of links referring to the mother of the original Bachelorette. Included in those links were lots of photos, revealing an uncanny resemblance to the woman who was undoubtedly her mother. After discussing it with her boyfriend, Kathy picked up the phone.

Just a couple of days later, my mother and Kathy met face-to-face for the first time, realizing that they lived only a few hours apart. I wasn’t able to be there, but as the girl whose name had been changed from Teresa Marie to Kathy described to me, “It was open arms,
everywhere
!” My family embraced Kathy as one of their own, because that’s what she is.

Once in turmoil over the cards she had been dealt and her decision about how to play them, my mom was now content with her unanswered prayers. As Helen Keller once said, “The struggle of life is one of our greatest blessings. It makes us patient, sensitive, and Godlike. It teaches us that although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” It took forty years, but the relief was well worth the wait. My mom is now bonded to a daughter she thought she would never meet and in the process has taught so much to all of us who know her story (myself included). With her help, I learned to keep moving forward in the face of life’s hardships, to know that things happen as they are supposed to, and to be grateful for the bumpy road that leads to happy hearts.

T
AKEN
T
OO
S
OON

Even as a hopeful optimist who attempts to live with a heart full of gratitude, I am also a realist who recognizes the difference
between bumpy roads and roads with bumps so abrupt and massive that finding a way over them can seem impossible. Losing a loved one definitely fits into the latter category and is something I experienced firsthand as a teenager when I unexpectedly lost my cousin Chip.

Chip had a smile that could light up the night and a heart that was even brighter. He was a playful and mischievous soul who could get away with just about anything by batting the enviable eyelashes that framed his beautiful blue eyes. Full of energy and laughter, he was a lover of life—right up until his life came to a sudden end.

I’ll never forget that day. It was the weekend and I had one goal—to sleep as late as possible. Awaiting the start of my sophomore year of college, I was wasting away as much of the summer as I could before I had to hunker down and figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I remember the sun blazing through my windows, but I had no intention of coming out from under my warm and cozy covers. That changed in an instant when I heard my mom’s frenzied voice on the phone.

My grandfather had called to say that my twenty-one-year-young cousin Chip had been involved in an accident during a go-kart race and taken to the nearest hospital. After nearly a day of agonizing waiting, we found out that it was just a matter of time before Chip’s body succumbed to his injuries. So, as soon as we could, we made our way to Indiana.

I remember cautiously approaching Chip’s room in the ICU. I had been warned about his appearance, but nothing could prepare me for what I saw. The swelling of his head was so severe that the man I knew and the cousin I loved was completely unrecognizable. Even though he had had safety
on his side with a fire suit and helmet, it just hadn’t been enough to protect his brain against the irreversible damage that occurred during the collision on the Crawfordsville racetrack. Two days later, on June 29, 1992, the machines keeping Chip alive were turned off, and his physical presence in our lives came to an almost unbearable end.