By AMY SHANKLAND
Perfectly Imperfect
As my adoption and reunion story continues, I’ve changed some names, places, and dates.
I had successfully found my birth mother. I updated my husband John on all that I had discovered.
“Wow!” He exclaimed. “What about your birth father? Any luck there?”
“I haven’t tried yet.” I replied. Although my search was going well, it was beginning to make me feel tired. I am a highly sensitive person, and sometimes even wonderful experiences in life can wear me out. It had been such an exciting day! But curiosity made me press on a little more.
I entered the name Jack Richer, Indianapolis, and sat back to see what would pop up. No one came up that fit the non-identifying information I had. I tried the same name and linked it with Notre Dame and also found zero results. My mind and body were exhausted, and I decided to call it a day.
Despite my exhaustion, it was hard to fall asleep that night. I thought about Linda and her family and wondered what was the right thing to do in order to contact her. I wanted to do it properly and I didn’t want to cause any harm. I finally drifted off feeling grateful and amazed about all my discoveries.
I typically like to sleep in when I can on the weekends, but I couldn’t that Saturday morning. I was back on the computer before 8 a.m. This time I typed in Jack Richer, Notre Dame, and the year I believe he had graduated.
A PDF file of the Notre Dame Alumnus publication popped up featuring an article titled “The Class of ‘##: It Didn’t Come Easy.” I clicked on it and saw what appeared to be a copy (of a copy) of the publication. The pictures were grainy, but I could still read the words.
My heart started thumping after I scrolled through the publication and saw a John Richter featured. This could not have been a coincidence. Had the State of Indiana gotten my birth father’s name wrong? I had noticed that Ohio had misspelled the street where my birth mother had lived in Cleveland after I had done a search for it. Maybe this was another error. Perhaps accuracy hadn’t been a huge priority back in the early 70s at various departments of health!
I gazed in wonder at a grainy black and white photo of a smiling young man with thick dark hair and a beard. He was sitting with his knees bent in the grass on a sunny day. Was I looking at my birth father? I read the article.
It talked about an affable young man with an ever-present grin, blue eyes, and thick, dark brown hair. This was the exact physical description I had obtained from the St. Joseph County probate court. The article described Jack as an easy-going, unpretentious guy who served as a resident assistant in one of the dorms.
It said he was a lifelong Hoosier from Indianapolis and that he was one of eight children in a German Catholic family. Jack had also spoken lovingly about his elderly mother. Elderly? And he was one of eight kids?
My mind swirled thinking about all of the potential aunts and uncles I had, because I knew at this exact moment, I had found my birth father.