By AMY SHANKLAND
Perfectly Imperfect
As I continued the search for my biological parents, my husband John cautioned and advised me to be ready for anything.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. “But no matter what happens, I’ll finally have an answer. Some sort of resolution. And I really need that.” I began to mentally prepare for what might be ahead.
Of course, I had to continue to keep all this a complete secret. Only John and Mary knew about my efforts, and I intended to let it stay that way. I didn’t want anyone else to have to hide this from my mother.
At times it was hard. A good friend of mine named Nancy had reunited years ago with her birth parents, and it was practically an Oprah Winfrey Show story. She had found them unexpectedly when she was searching for non-identifying information. Nancy’s birthparents had deeply regretted giving her up, were still together, and were eager to find her again. Her mother and father had died, so finding her birth parents had been a tremendous blessing to both Nancy as well as her daughters.
I knew my own story might not turn out so perfectly, but I was determined to take that chance.
I contacted Catholic Charities well after the six-month mark in the winter of 2014-2015, and was told that they were close to finding my birth mother’s married name and the state she resided in. I also kept tabs on the Ohio Department of Health web site, which was slowly beginning to reveal the things I would need to do to get information in March. I believe they were simply being cautious so they wouldn’t be bombarded with paperwork too soon.
And as I wrote my Christmas cards that year, I made a silent wish. I hoped that in 2015, I would be sending cards to each of my birthparents.
March of 2015 arrived faster than I could have ever imagined. I repeatedly watched a YouTube video that Ohio’s Department of Health had created outlining what steps I needed to take to obtain birth and adoption records. I didn’t want to make any mistakes that might delay my potential receipt of these documents.
Mary performed her notarization magic once again, and I mailed the paperwork and a $20 check to Columbus, Ohio, on Friday, March 20, 2015. The video had discouraged people from overnighting the paperwork and payment, so I sent everything via good old regular mail.
“How long do you think it’ll take, Amy?” Mary asked me. I was standing behind the closed door of her office once again that morning after having placed the envelope in the mailbox.
“I don’t really know,” I replied. “I’m sure they’ll be bombarded and it might take, oh, maybe six weeks?” We grinned at each other almost like conspirators. After I had waited over 44 years, six more weeks seemed like nothing.