Tag Archives: Connecticut

MY MOTHER: ALWAYS IN MY HEART

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I made the decision to search for my birth-mother on October 2, 1986, my thirty-third birthday. I was reunited with her on January 8, 1987. Her name was Leona. I would learn that our hearts were very much alike.


I am now writing the final draft of this experience for the memoir and it doesn’t get more emotional for me than this. The decision to search for her with all my might (the desire to find her had been there for years) was one of the reasons I came out of seclusion back then.


Some background. I was held up and shot in August 1984, returned to work as a New York City cabby some months later, and was again held-up at gunpoint in May 1985. My ability to feel safe in the world around me collapsed and I retreated into seclusion for nearly a year. When pondering the possibility of rejoining the world, I decided that if I was going to return to daily life, I would try and find my birth-mother.


It makes sense that I am working through the final version of this for the memoir now as I am again in seclusion a great deal of the time. While for somewhat different reasons, there is both comfort and heartbreak in writing about the search for a woman I would grow deeply close to in her last years. I would discover she had always deeply close to me. I would also learn that our emotional life and our emotional experience of the world were, in many ways, mirror images of each other.




My penchant for recognizing a moment when I can touch a human heart with love is something I inherited from her. Here is an example. The day I married my second wife was the one day both my mothers, adoptive and birth, were together. My wife and I asked the minister to ask those in attendance to hold hands with the person next to them when he reached the final moment of our vows.


A day or two later my wife was watching the video of our wedding when she called out, “Peter, come quick, look a this!” She rewound the tape and said, “Watch what Leona does…”



My mothers were on opposite sides of the group of 30 or so people who were in attendance. When the pastor asked them to hold hands, Leona walked over to where my other mother was and took her hand so that both mothers would be connected while they watched their son marry.


“See,” my wife said. “Now we know where you get that instinct from.”


When I found my mother she was living in Stamford, Connecticut. Some years later she moved out to San Jose to live with my sister, Sunday, her husband and children. In 2000 I received a phone call from Sunday telling me our mother had cancer, liver cancer, which is, to my understanding, terminal. It was for my mother.


I flew out to see her a number of times and she came to this coast to make her goodbye rounds and stayed with me in my home for a few days. There were two events that again displayed how alike we were.



Here is the first event:


I picked her up in New Jersey where she had been visiting family to drive her back to my home which, at the time, was in Monroe, New York. On the ride back I told her there was a place I thought we should both visit. We drove into Manhattan and I pulled up in front of the building that in 1953 had been the French Hospital, the place where I was born.


I looked at my mother and smile, “We’re back.” She took my hand and gazed up at the building. She then said, “They made us use the back entrance.” I said, “No problem.” We drove around to the buildings back entrance on 29th Street. We sat there and held hands. I said, “I love you, Mom.” She said, “I love you too, Peter.”


Here is the second event:


My mother died at her home in San Jose on December 19, 2001. My sister called to tell me of her passing. And hour earlier my sister called me and held the phone to mother’s ear so I could tell her I loved her and that she could let go and I would always love her and do my best in life.


On December 21, 2001, a priority mail package arrived. It was a Christmas present from my mother. I opened it. It was a Saint Christopher’s medal. Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers, of safe travel through life. On the medal you can see Saint Christopher carrying a small boy across a raging river.


I went to my knees in tears. I turned the medal over and on the back read the following inscription.


Peter,

I will always be in your heart.

Love,

Mom


And you will always be in mine, Mom.

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HOMELESSNESS AND THE CHECKERED MUG

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I am standing in my kitchen holding a white coffee mug with a checkered band and it gives me enormous strength. I am facing the possibility of homelessness and I can use all the strength I can get right now. I have been homeless before and know its merciless grip all too well. Now I face that stark reality again. I’ll get to why in a minute. But first, back to the mug with the checkered band.

I bought it one summer morning in 2001 while having breakfast with my mother Leona in California. She was dying of liver cancer and we both knew it.

My mother surrendered me for adoption seven days after I was born on October 2, 1953. We were reunited in Stamford Connecticut on January 8. 1987. By 2001 we had grown close and developed deep understanding that in many ways we mirrored each other. Those who knew us best said we each had uncanny levels of prescience, deep reserves of courage, and enormous compassion for all who have been brutalized in life. We were both deeply sentimental. Which is why, when we were having breakfast that morning, I asked the waitress if I could buy the cup I was using.

The waitress and my mother had been talking about cancer. My mother’s and someone the waitress knew. She said, “I’ll do you one better, wait her.” She went into the kitchen and soon returned with another mug in better condition tucked in a brown paper bag. “Just take it,” she said. Then, nodding towards the man behind the register she added, “That sonuvabitch will charge you an arm and a leg. Take it.”

As some of you know, I am in the process of applying getting back onto the disability rolls. My brain injury along with an ample supply of depression, agoraphobia and PTSD have taken there toll. A man I once worked for has been helping me keep my head above water until my disability kicks. However, without warning he let me know Saturday he can’t help me anymore. With no family to fall back on coupled with being in the midst of filing for disability, the situation is not good.

I spend much of my life helping others so believe me, the act of asking for help buckles my knees. But I must live the things I have taught others for more than two decades now: just because you feel hopeless does not mean there is no hope; just because you feel humiliated does not mean you are humiliated; just because you feel weak does not mean you are weak; and just because you feel it is weak to cry doesn’t mean crying is an act of weakness, else why is it so hard to do?

A friend of mine said, “Peter, you live a simple live. It’s not about extravagance.” She went on to say you are asking for help to keep a roof over your head, food in the refrigerator, your bills paid. She and others have urged me to ask for help and support here on the blog. Lest you think I am sitting quietly by, let me reassure you that is not the case.

I will be going to the Department of Social Service this week for emergency food stamps and support. If I am approved, I will only receive half the money towards my rent. I rent a modest home for $650 per month, have the attending car payment along with utilities and, of course, food, phone, electric and, God help us all, oil heat.

My life is about helping others survive. Now I am in a position to ask others to help me survive. Not an easy thing to do, but there is a reason they say pride goeth before a fall. I can tell you Iwould a lot better if you asked me for help. But I recognize this is a personal crisis. I also recognize I am only trying to keep myself alive and functioning to keep doing what I know I do best; help and advocating for others. I have spent the better half of my life doing that.

A lot of my readers don’t know me personally. But I have done my best to give you a glimpse of my life through the blog. I want to continue to be able to use this tool to write and give others hope. This will be impossible for me to do without the support of others. I am hoping some of you can send a donation to help me. In doing so I will be able to keep my home and pay the bills for food, heat, rent and electricity until the disability kicks in.

The donations can be made out to and sent directly to me at:

Peter Kahrmann
P.O. Box 19
Westerlo, NY 12193

I understand these are hard times for everyone. My basic belief though, is that people in general are good hearted and can be called upon in times of need. I honestly never thought I would be in this position to ask for help from my readers. If you are able to come to my aide I would deeply appreciate your generosity. I hope I will be able to give back to you as well.

Thank you for taking the time to read this.

Peter
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