I have always known that I was adopted as an infant. Same
with my three younger brothers. Before we could truly grasp what it meant to be
“adopted”, we knew we had been adopted. Most days I didn’t think about it at
all. It was just a part of who I am. An accepted part.
From a very early age—as long as I can remember really—I
concluded that whoever gave birth to me couldn’t take care of me so she, and
possibly the he as well, gave me to someone who could take care of me. And I was okay with that.
While I’d always been curious as to the details
surrounding my birth and the
With the help of an archived newspaper article containing
the brief details concerning my “foundling” status and a quick Facebook search,
I discovered a granddaughter of the couple who found me that mid-November
morning in 1963. She’d been eight-year-old at the time and seemed to remember
the incident as if it had happened yesterday. Her barely-contained excitement
as we spoke on the phone was genuine and refreshing as she shared details not
included in the short, three paragraph write up.
As I contemplated embarking on a journey to find my birth
parents, I was keenly aware of how a search for answers could impact those on
the other side of the adoption story. I was certain I would be okay with
whatever the quest would uncover. I wasn’t looking to fill a hole in my life
because there was no hole to fill. I’d been blessed with wonderful parents and
a happy childhood, had grown into a responsible adult, and I felt prepared for
whatever a search might reveal. Yet I was keenly aware that those involved in
that long-ago decision might feel anything but excitement when greeted with
reminders of the past.
Still, I longed for answers. I’d always, always wondered who I looked like. My
birth-mom, birth-dad, a grandparent? Aunt or uncle? A sibling? Maybe even a
sister . . .
My entire life, I sooooooo wanted a sister. What if I had
a sister out there somewhere? What if she looked like me? A half-sister even.
How incredibly cool would that be?
I felt the need to examine my motives. Why did I want to
do this? What was I hoping to gain? Other than to satisfy even a little of my
raging curiosity, I immediately knew I wanted to ease the mind of those
involved in what had to be a gut-wrenching decision. “You did what you felt you
had to do and everything turned out fine,” I’d say if I got the chance. “I want
you to know my story had a happy ending.”
Then I’d want to know, “But what about yours? How have
you been since then? Did you spend years worrying about me or regretting the
decision?” I hoped that wouldn’t be the case. I really hoped her life and his
life too had turned out well. I also hoped I wasn’t beginning the search too
late.
So I decided to forge ahead by submitting a DNA sample
for testing. As I waited for the results, I found myself wondering more and
more about the life realities and circumstances that would have urged someone
to abandon an infant. I’d never been sad for me and my situation, but suddenly,
I was very sad for the person(s) who felt their only option was to leave a
three-day-old baby on a door step and walk away.
The decision made long ago to wrap me in a man’s black
wool shirt and place me at the back door of a residence impacted every day of
the rest of my life, as it did every moment thereafter of my birth parents
lives.
In a similar way, my efforts to dig into the past would
have lasting effects on me and who knows how many others. I realized that as
much as I wanted to know the facts, others might long just as strongly to keep
those details hidden. I determined to be as sensitive and kind and
understanding as possible to whomever I encountered, regardless of their
reaction or response to me or my situation.
As I waited for the DNA results, this intensely profound
reality consumed my mind: not everyone who can father or give birth to a child
is equipped to care for and nurture that child. It’s just that simple. Yet it’s anything but
simple.
Read Part 2 of Beth’s Story on Friday, April 21.
ABOUT BETH STEURY
When not engrossed in her
adoption search, Beth works on her soon-to-be-released young adult (YA) novel
series, immerses herself in the YA world via substitute teaching, connecting
with the teenage staff at the fast food joint where she claims the back booth
as her office, and reading YA fiction. She’s excited about incorporating
adoption issues into upcoming writing projects.
Her “Waiting Matters … Because YOU Matter” blog helps people of all ages navigate the
choppy waters of saving sex for marriage while her “Slices of Real Life” blog posts find GOD in the day-to-day moments
of real life. Connect with her on Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter.
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