birth

Sunrise doesn't last all morning A cloudburst doesn't last all day Seems my love is up and has left you with no warning It's not always going to be this grey. All Things Must Pass -- George Harrison

On November 30, 1970, George Harrison released his masterpiece solo effort, ?All Things Must Pass'. Sixteen years later, that album, along with all of the Beatles' solo and group efforts, would be thrust into my young consciousness -- in part, molding and guiding myself -- a young adolescent struggling with growing up in the strict conformity of South Texas. But, for that moment, on November 30, 1970, all that my consciousness had to do was wake up. And, it did.

I was born inside the Deaconess Hospital of Oklahoma City, to a woman who could not take care of me. I don't know if I spent any time in her arms. I don't know if she wept for me: I don't know. But, at some point on that day, I was removed from her, never to see her again. I was made available for adoption through the services of the Deaconess Home of Redeeming Love, a name which undoubtedly heaped loads of guilt upon unwed, or unprepared mothers. In five little words, the name encapsulates the sentiment that "we know you screwed up; royally. And, we'll help you out of this mess...but you're going to pay. One way or another, you're going to pay."

As the story goes, eight days later it had been arranged for a couple to come and pick me up from the Home of Redeeming Love and take me into their's. However, sometime prior to their scheduled appointment, the couple discovered that they were pregnant. This apparently made adoption no longer necessary for them, and they declined the appointment. The Home for Redeeming Love scrambled to find another suitable couple, and, that afternoon, called my parents and informed them that a baby had been found for them and they could pick it up ASAP. As my parents have relayed to me, they had been on the waiting list for some time. And, though they certainly wanted a child, they'd anticipated some advanced notice that a child was coming, and, thus, had not yet prepared a nursery. Again, as the story goes, organization was rushed: My grandmother procured diapers, pins, and powder. Mom and Dad pulled a crib out of 'somewhere' then made the short drive to downtown OK City and, wa-la, by the end of the day, they were parents: Bim, bam, boom

I came to know more about my adoption as time passed. I learned that I was, in fact, adopted at a very early age. When I was five years old, my family having moved to Colorado some time prior (adding another son procured through the usual means), I found myself on a suburban block where the majority of children were adopted. This unusual ratio was due to the fact that one family, located down the block and across the street from our white and blue two-story, had five adopted children. One evening, around the dinner table, I asked if, like those children (their last names have long since escaped my mind). I, too, was adopted. The answer was a simple 'yes.' I don't remember much of the conversation after that answer. I'm sure I asked a few follow-ups. But, fortunate enough for me I suppose, the fact that five other folks in my very small world were adopted left me with the impression that this wasn't a very unusual manner at all for obtaining a child.

Later, when I'd aged another five years, and my family had moved yet again -- first to West Bend, Wisconsin, then on to Joshua, Texas, I found in my Mother's meticulous files, my adoption records. There wasn't much there. Some factual information about myself, generic information regarding my natural parents, and a couple of court records typed on onion-skin paper. On the onion skin paper were lines prompting for the name of my natural mother. The name had been whited out. But this was onion skin paper: Thin and transparent. I turned the paper over, and began to make out my natural mother's name, unfolding before my eyes in reverse order. When I put all the letters together and reversed the order, I had a name: Ruby Ramsey. I've said that name a million times since. Wondering who she is, what she looks like, if my departure from her life was painful, whether or not she remembered, every November 30^th since 1970, what she gave up; what she lost...or if it was a loss at all.

I also noticed in the court records that, for the first eight days of my life, my name was different. For eight days, to those taking care of me, holding me whenever possible, changing my diapers, I was known as 'Baby Boy Ramsey'. Not much for a name. But, later on, in my adolescence, as music began take an increasingly important place in my life, the fact that my original name was 'B.B. Ramsey' resulted in a bit of pleasure: I had a history, checkered at best. I had a reason, in spite of being a white suburbanite, to be blue. I had a right, because of a mother who left me, to feel the blues:

Been downhearted baby
ever since the day we met
I've been downhearted baby
ever since the day we met
Our love is nothin' but the blues
Baby how blue can you get

How Blue Can You Get -- As performed by BB King

Over time, I came in to more information surrounding my adoption. Stunning as it is, the ladies at the Home of Redeeming Love seemed prone to gossip. They told my parents that my natural mother and father were married, though they were in the process of divorce. My natural father, as described by the women at Deaconess, was a drunk, prone to abuse and violence. He, of course, was claiming that I was not his. As there were already several children, my natural mother had, apparently, come to the conclusion that she could not, or would not, take care of one more. Though I have not yet met her, I tend to believe the former: She could not take care of me. As a parent myself now, I cannot imagine being in such a situation. I don't believe that I could make the same decision that she did. But I am not a woman. I am not raising my children on my own, and it is no longer 1970.

I briefly attempted to find Ruby Ramsey after I got married. Questions regarding who I am and the circumstances of my adoption had ebbed and flowed over the years, and for some reason, shortly after my marriage, the questioning once again crescendoed. One factor in the decision to begin the process of finding Ruby was my mother-in-law. She, herself, had been abandoned by a parent, though the terms of her abandonment, and subsequent life-long pain, were much harsher than mine.

My mother-in-law, Judy, and her younger sibling were born into a household of alcohol and chaos. When Judy was still young, her father walked out the door and never came back. Her mother, a raging alcoholic, then paraded a series of men through the home, some worse than others, all alcoholics and, more or less, shiftless. When she came of age, she decided to track her father down. She found him in Colorado, with a new wife and life. Though the fault rested entirely with him, she forgave him, as much as a child can forgive their parent for abandonment, and they remained in contact until he died. From all accounts, including my mother-in-law's and wife's, he was a bitter man until the day he died, with little room for love and sympathy in his life. Comparisons to my own natural father were obviously drawn, by all involved.

With her experiences as her guide, my mother-in-law encouraged me to find my natural mother. On the whole, especially considering the possibility of siblings, I was willing to do so, though, rejection is hard to deal with, especially, in my humble opinion, when it comes from someone who should never reject you. There were, and are, no assurances that Ruby would welcome me, or even appreciate the attempt to find her. Chances are, she'd started somewhat of a new life. Perhaps there were people in her world who did not know of the events of 1970. Perhaps my own siblings didn't even know. To be rebuffed again, while not the end of the world, was not something I was keen to experience. Nevertheless, I did want some questions answered, so I agreed.

My mother-in-law, a tenacious person, took the lead in this endeavor: She first looked up all the persons she could find in Oklahoma named Ruby Ramsey. She made contact with the daughter of one Ruby Ramsey, who didn't recall her mother being pregnant in 1970, but was intrigued by the call. She then contacted Deaconess and inquired about the processes for reuniting adoptees with their natural parents. She was told that one of the first steps that I could complete was to submit a series of yes/no questions. For instance, I could ask whether or not my natural mother's name was Ruby Ramsey. I could ask whether or not I had any siblings. To each question, obviously, I'd receive a yes or no response, with no elaboration. So, those were the two questions I submitted. I received a reply of ?yes' to both.

My mother-in-law decided that the appropriate next step was to make a trip to Oklahoma City and to Deaconess Hospital. She and my wife, Sara, met with a representative who informed them that, in order to receive any further information, I would have to hire an intermediary. The woman then informed them that, as it so happened, she was an intermediary, and would be happy to act on my behalf for a mere $400. Rightly or wrongly, I was offended by this news. To me, I was being extorted. This woman, almost literally, had all of my adoption information sitting on her desk, and, for $400 she would relieve me of the questions that had dogged me for my entire life. Perhaps I should have swallowed my disgust and paid. Perhaps in the future I will. But then, at that point in my life, I didn't. I was offended and pained. I chose to drop the issue. And it has remained so almost completely, until the day that my fingers first began to type out these lines.

Update: As you can tell from other sections of this blog, this bio is no longer current. I have been reunited with my birthmother, Ruby, and it has been one of the greatest joys of my life. A lot of the assumptions and stories that I made and heard surrounding my adoption proved to be, while on the right track, less than accurate. I have posted both the letter I wrote to Ruby, and the subsequent letter I wrote to my parents. The bottom line is that the entire reason for my adoption rests with my natural father, who chose to react to my birth in a very violent and cruel manner. I have been reunited with not only my mother, Ruby, but also my brother and sisters. my parents will always be my parents, but I have come home. It took 36 years, but I have come home.

Update on Thursday, March 6, 2008 at 02:53PM by rick schochler

As all of you who know me, this bio is now completely and forever out of date! No longer do I have to utter the phrase "never to see her again." I have been reunited with my birth mother and a fantastic brother and two great sisters...not to mention countless neices and nephews.

 I am truly fortunate and for lack of a better term, "blessed." My only wish is that I would have looked sooner. Thanks to everyone who has supported me in this journey and certainly thanks to the parents who raised me. I am blessed.