The Last Year

By Amelia Banis

Being adopted is one thing. Being adopted and navigating the complexities of having unexpected relationships with both biological parents is something quite different. Having two sets of parents can be an incredible gift, but it can also be unimaginably complicated and challenging. Its often filled with mixed emotions of the past for everyone involved.

In The Last Year, author Amelia Banis shares her story as an adoptee. She tells about the exhilarating and heartbreaking twists and turns in the search for understanding her past as well as how she moved forward with a whole new future.

Touching and honest, this memoir speaks to one womans experiences caring for her dying adoptive father in the last year of his life. Sharing the chronicle of their sometimes-strained relationship and her own journey to meet her biological parents, Banis narrates her story to help others learn to let go, forgive, and face the turbulent emotions of the passing of loved ones, even when those relationships are troubled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Feb 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781504397599

Amelia Banis

Amelia Banis is a married mother of two daughters that has not only navigated the experiences of being an adoptee that has gone through the journey of having relationships with both biological parents, but is also an entrepreneur in the conscious consumerism world in both her own business and consulting for others. She also had a successful 20 -year career in finance responsible for strategy and market development of a $25 billion-dollar business line.

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Copyright © 2018 Amelia Banis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-9757-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-9758-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-9759-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018901546

Balboa Press rev. date: 02/23/2018

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     Let’s Start at the End.

Chapter 2     Now for the Begininning

Chapter 3     My Dad’s Family

Chapter 4     Dodging Bullets

Chapter 5     Early Regrets

Chapter 6     My Wedding

Chapter 7     Then Came Collette

Chapter 8     The Call That Changed Everything

Chapter 9     Never Going Home

Chapter 10   Surviving Death

Chapter 11   The Time Had Come

Chapter 12   First Steps

Chapter 13   Lost My Identity, but Found Another

Chapter 14   Seances in the Closet

Chapter 15   The First Meeting

Chapter 16   Suddenly, He Had a Name

Chapter 17   Meeting Jonathan Bennett

Chapter 18   Helpers for Dad

Chapter 19   A Phone Call Changed Everything Again

Chapter 20   Being Illegitimate

Chapter 21   Saying Goodbye

Chapter 22   Taking Care of Dad

Chapter 23   A Change of Plans

Chapter 24   He Changed His Mind

Chapter 25   A Handful of Miracles

Chapter 26   The Next Day

Chapter 27   Being Happy

About The Author

To my husband and two daughters.

Thank you for being the best part of my journey.

CHAPTER 1

Let’s Start at the End.

T he EMTs wheeled the gurney around to the back of the house where the staff had carefully prepared the room I’d selected for my dad. It had white French doors that looked onto the pool area of the backyard; a dresser with a good-sized TV placed on the left side so that it was easily seen from the bed; and an oversized stuffed chair and small table next to the bed. The whiteboard on the wall next to the TV had a message welcoming my dad on it. There was an armoire for his clothing, which would remain empty since he was now in just a hospital gown. His hospital bed was dressed in dark blue and maroon striped sheets. Blue was his favorite color, and I couldn’t help but think that he’d like them if he was in a conscious state. The room was painted a warm camel color with parchment-colored trim, very similar to the colors we’d painted our living and family rooms in when we first moved into our house just a couple of miles away. We had since changed the colors, but it was somehow warm and familiar.

The co-owner, Phoebe, had immediately jumped in to assist in any way with getting him settled, but I could tell that she was shocked that his condition had deteriorated to the degree that it had in just the couple of days since I first spoke with her. We had discussed his overall care needs, his prognosis, his food preferences, and the fact that he was fiercely independent and could be quite a handful at times. Hers was the only care facility I had met with that would allow him to have a beer when he wanted it. She said as long as we were okay with it, her primary concern was his happiness and comfort level, as we all knew how this was going to end. His condition had worsened significantly since our conversation, however, and it was clear that none of that was going to matter now. I was more grateful than ever that she and her husband had agreed to take my father for the two weeks until we found a permanent placement before their new residents moved in. It was also clear that we would not likely need to keep looking elsewhere, since the end was far closer than any of us had anticipated.

He only made a few sounds as the EMTs moved him from the gurney to the bed and got him settled with his nose cannula for the oxygen he needed so badly. In the hospital, he would occasionally get restless and tear it away from his face, which would quickly facilitate a change in color to a hue one would liken to a Smurf. It was after a few of these episodes that the doctor prescribed morphine for him. The constant struggle to breathe would also elevate his anxiety, so he was given Ativan to help him relax and be comfortable. This combination left him barely responsive but, we hoped, comfortable.

Hospice arrived shortly after we did and completed their own thorough assessment of his current condition. The hospice nurse was both kind and efficient. I couldn’t help but admire someone who had chosen a profession of helping people die. After having gone through this with my adoptive mom when I was twenty-eight, both of my husband’s parents, and (just four months earlier) my biological mother, I knew there were aspects that just never get easier. The only comfort, if there was to be any, was that watching someone die had a moderately predictable path. The shock and horror of some of the sights and sounds were replaced with a quiet sense of predictability.

Once the nurse completed her examination, she sat down next to me; it became evident that she was prepared to deliver what she thought would be devastating news.

Your father is in what we call the ‘active dying phase,’ she gently but firmly stated.

I was already aware that my dad was in the final days or even hours of his life, but I had never heard the term active dying. I couldn’t help but wonder how this term came about. Was there an inactive dying phase? He looked pretty inactive to me. I wondered how that determination was made.

I understand, I responded.

She had a great deal of paperwork to go over with me, so Phoebe guided us to the large dining room in the house that was to serve as the care facility for my dad’s final days. They had no other patients at the moment, although two would be arriving in two weeks, which is why my dad’s stay here was always going to be temporary. Phoebe and her husband, Peter, were saints in my eyes, and they were being as kind and supportive as possible. She brought us water, and the hospice nurse went through her pile of necessary paperwork, brochures, offers of support, and seemingly endless offers of grief counseling. She was, again, kind and efficient, ending with a lesson in administering his medication, which had just been delivered to the house by a separate service. The whiteboard in his room was updated with the list of medications, the time last administered, and the next time a dose was due.

I sat with my dad and quietly observed his breathing, since it seemed to take so much out of him. Each breath moved his entire body, and I was hoping that even though he labored, he was comfortable. Charles showed up shortly after. He was oddly chipper and carried a Starbucks bag filled with some of my favorite guilty pleasures: red licorice ropes, Pringles, almonds, and a specially crafted soda in a plastic Starbucks cup with San Pellegrino, sparkling pink lemonade, and a few dashes of rose water—a beverage a friend had made for me at a BBQ at her house that I was now addicted to. I realize now that he was trying to bring some degree of happiness to what was surely going to be a really shitty, long night.

I brought him up to speed on the evening’s events so far and informed him of my father’s active dying status. He looked at me, somewhat dumbfounded, and simply said, Huh? He then repeated my questions about whether there was an inactive dying phase and wanted to know how they know the difference.

Phoebe came in to ask whether we needed absolutely anything. She made a mental note of when the next medication doses were due and then decided that we needed to have the TV on to keep our minds happy. She and Charles fussed with the TV and a number of remotes until something finally appeared. She smiled triumphantly and left the room.

Are you okay? You holding up? Charles finally asked now that things were settled and we were alone.

Yeah, I’m hanging in there. I’m very grateful that they took him in, but I don’t think I’m going to have to worry about finding another place after two weeks.

Charles got up, stroked my dad’s head, and watched his labored breathing efforts.

He seems comfortable. And he’s finally not bitching at you anymore!

The last week with my dad had been incredibly difficult. Charles and I had both endured roughly twelve to fourteen hours a day of what I could only describe as an abusive mental Olympics. My dad had always been cantankerous and difficult; however, he had stepped it up to epic levels while in the hospital. It was a relief to have him peacefully resting, and it felt good to be able to spend some quiet moments with him, coming to terms with the fact that there would be no Norman Rockwell scene at the end with loving words exchanged and some epiphany that he was a sweet, gentle, loving soul after all. He was going to spend every last moment being just as feisty and mean as ever until his body would no longer allow it, which seemed to have taken place about eight hours before the ambulance had arrived to take him to the Comforting Peace Care Facility. Comforting Peace turned out to be just as much for Charles and me as for him.

After my dad fell into a predictable rhythm of breathing, I leaned over him and quietly told him I loved him and that I appreciated everything he ever did for me. I also told him it was okay to let go. He did a great job taking care of things to try to make his inevitable passing as easy as possible on me. He may have been completely incapable of dealing with emotions, but he was very utilitarian and pragmatic when it came to financial and other such issues in life; he was adamant about not being a burden on my family and me. He just never understood that his complete unwillingness to cooperate in any way made it hell on earth emotionally—and ultimately the biggest burden ever.

Charles took the next few minutes to place several phone calls updating our daughters on their grandfather’s status, and then he called a few close friends, his boss, my biological father and his wife, and lastly, my dad’s best friend, Murray. Murray had not made it to the hospital to visit while my dad was still conscious. Murray said that he had a cold and didn’t want to infect someone with terminal COPD who had also just had a heart attack with something that could make his breathing even worse. This was understandable under normal circumstances, but it became evident quickly that my dad’s time on this earth was coming to a close and that if Murray didn’t come soon, he would not see his friend ever again. My dad asked for him several times, and I painfully recounted Murray’s ailment as the reason for him not showing up, but I could tell my dad was irritated and disappointed.

With Murray not coming to the home to see him either, it became evident that this was just not his cup of tea. People handle death and goodbyes very differently, and although I was baffled at first, I had to allow him to choose what was best for him. He was a saint to my father for many, many years, and we were very grateful for his consistent visits and willingness to fulfill my dad’s every wish, even if the efforts were often met with a solid bitching out for not picking up exactly what Dad had wanted, like blueberry jam instead of boysenberry.

While Charles was making his calls, I noticed that there was a vase on the dresser directly across from my dad with red silk roses. They were my mom’s favorite flowers, and I felt her presence there all of a sudden. I was silently asking for her to give me some sign that she approved of how I was handling everything for my dad. It had been such a grueling week, and I’d second-guessed every decision. Just then, Phoebe came back into the room holding a couple of blankets.

You’re going to stay here tonight with your father?

I nodded yes.

Then you should be comfortable. Would you like a beer?

I was a little surprised at the offer, as was my husband.

It might settle your stomach, Charles chimed in. How about we share one?

Phoebe flitted out of the room and quickly returned with two Heinekens in hand.

No need to share. You need to relax your mind. This will help.

I was not versed in care-facility protocol, but I had a pretty good idea that this one was different. It was a home in a beautiful neighborhood on a quiet street, and it looked nothing like a care facility from the outside. Had it not been for the ramp out front to accommodate wheelchairs and walkers, I couldn’t have picked it out from the others for a million dollars. Phoebe and Peter ran this facility out of a five-bedroom house. Two of the bedrooms, both upstairs, were for them and their young daughter. The three bedrooms downstairs were for their residents. Phoebe and Peter were both from the Dominican Republic. When I originally spoke to Phoebe about my father coming to their facility, I asked how she and her husband decided on doing this, and she said that where she was from, aging and death were a part of life. Here it seemed that people were afraid of it, and that fear didn’t always allow them to easily care for people in their family. She and Peter wanted to help with that.

She opened the bottles and handed us each our own beer. We sat next to my dad’s bed in the overstuffed chair together and mindlessly watched TV without speaking. I watched the clock and was there next to my dad with medication in hand, ready to dispense it when the exact moment came. I looked at his pale skin and gently stroked back his gray-blond hair. His mouth was already open, and I placed the drops of morphine on the inside of his cheek as instructed and jotted the new time on the whiteboard.

As I was putting the marker back on its Velcro holder, the gentleman who ran another care house that I had first visited came in to check on us. I was impressed that he cared enough to make sure that Phoebe and Peter would take my dad in and stopped by to ensure that things were going well. He was also clearly shocked at the degradation of my dad’s condition. My dad was not as I had described him just a few days earlier, but our visitor was clearly relieved that all was well and that we were able to arrange something—or as well as could be expected under the circumstances.

He left soon after. and Charles and I were left to hold vigil at my dying dad’s bedside, watching reruns of Modern Family and drinking Heineken. We laughed just a little, and I looked over at my dad and noticed that his breathing was much shallower and not such a whole-body effort. It was as though we were all relaxed and settled in together. I got up and adjusted his sheets slightly, stroked his head, and told him that I loved him. I sat back on the giant chair with Charles, and we both quietly laughed at the sitcom as the occasional cycle of the oxygen machine hummed in the background.

My dad had always said that when he died, he didn’t want a big production, that he wanted us to just have a beer. As difficult as the journey to get him to this care home had been, my dad was finally out of pain, all was quiet, and we were having a beer with him, even if he could only participate in the actual drinking symbolically. Moments later, Charles looked at my dad, and when he didn’t move his gaze, I looked over as well. We watched my dad take his final breath. It was over.

CHAPTER 2

Now for the Begininning

T his story began many years ago—June 27, 1968, to be exact—when I was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and given up for adoption. In adoption terms, that was the Dark Ages. Adoptions were generally completely secretive. The mother rarely, if ever, met with prospective parents; the vetting of them was left to the adoption agency, and the adoptive parents and birth mother generally never even knew one another’s names. The records were permanently sealed, and despite many adopted children’s attempts through the Supreme Court to contact birth mothers, the requests were always denied—even when the adoptee asked to have the birth mother remain anonymous but be able to have a communication sent to her, often because the adoptee had a terminal illness and wanted to find a match for a possible bone marrow donor.

Needless to say, meeting my birth parents didn’t seem like a reasonable possibility. Since I never thought it would happen, I did not make any attempt to pursue it. My adoptive parents did broach the subject once when I was a teenager, but as my mother professed that she’d help me find my other mother with a tear-stained face, I knew it would break her heart, and I simply wouldn’t do that. I loved her far too much.

I was given up immediately after birth and brought to the agency for care and evaluation until my prospective adoptive parents could take me home. I was told that, at that time, they wanted to check out infants for obvious abnormalities or issues prior to sending them to their new home. It sounded like the 100-point inspection pre-owned cars are given prior to being resold and a far cry from today’s practices, where the infant is often handed directly after birth to the new parents’ waiting and eager arms.

I was given the name Sarah by the agency, and my name was changed by my new parents to Amelia shortly thereafter. My birth certificate has my new name and adoptive parents’ names; any indication of my having a different birth mother and father seemed to have disappeared from existence. I always wondered if there was a super-double-secret file stored somewhere in an underground vault filled with original birth certificates that contained birth parents’ information, but if there is, I haven’t caught wind of it. It seemed as though the documents were adjusted so that the original parents really didn’t exist. From what I can gather, this intense secrecy was a reflection of the social standards of the time and a way to protect the birth mother from what was likely a shameful event. Being pregnant out of wedlock was… an issue. I would later find out that this was absolutely the case with my birth mother.

*     *     *

My adoptive parents were polar opposites in many ways. My mom, Lilia, was born and raised