Searching for My Adopted Son: Born May 24, 1964

By Melinda Martin

Story of my 50 year search for my son and my life since signing the adoption papers in 1964.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781631927256

Book preview

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE

I wrote the following October10, 1964. The other things seem important to all those viewing the world where a child remains the supreme ruler of my domain today and every day since his conception and every moment as attempts to escape which is now the essence of a memory. The child is the most dear and emotional fact of my existence affecting all of my life to follow, perhaps necessary for ultimate self-realization.

What follows is my story in the dream that my soul designed for this lifetime. It began in 2012 and was completed in 2014. It is with great disappointment that the State of New York continues as of now to keep adoption records sealed. I so hoped for my son to know my history, especially my medical history. It seems a shame!

INTRODUCTION

My dear son, you were born May 29,

1964 and named Ross Martin Knight. I

named you Ross after your great, great

grandfather James Grant Ross, M.D., Esq.

and your grandmother's maiden name which

I choose as a last name. My legal name is

Melinda Martin Mouquin (ex-husband), but

I go by Melinda Martin in my therapy

practice to keep it simple. My nickname is

Nini. My name at your birth was Melinda

Martin Knight. So many names! You can

find me at www.melindamartin.net.

Are you alive? Per the New York State

adoption the records are sealed. You were

born in Lennox Hill Hospital in New York

City and placed for adoption through Spence

Chapin in New York City. I carried you for

nearly 10 months – didn't want to let go! I

was 24 and had been told I couldn't have

children – that my ovaries were enlarged as

was the rest of me. No drinks – ate right,

played classical music. The morning of May

29 I awoke with pain and you were coming

fast. I was on the third floor apartment. We

called the police and they took me down

with a stretcher and we went the blocks to

Lenox Hill Hospital in an ambulance. As

they rushed me into the hospital I left my

body and looked down at myself in pain –

rushing through the doors like a Dr. Kildare

or Ben Casey TV episode - no time for

enemas. In the delivery room and a stern

nurse was saying, Don't yell, push, and at

10:11 you emerged – big and beautiful with

brown hair. I cared for you for five days.

The nurses said you were so good and

peaceful. Then they took you away and,

after binding my breasts full of milk for you,

I went back to the apartment – devastated

and in shock. Several days later I returned

to Spence Chapin – where had you been?

Prior to signing the surrender papers, they

requested that I hold you. You were handed

to me dressed in your yellow layette that

they had asked me to purchase at

Bloomingdales. Holding you, I was

overwhelmed with grief and sadness and

was soon in tears. I could not sign you away

in that state, gave you back and said I would

return composed. I went back to the

apartment to ponder any choices I might

have to enable