Viewpoint: My search for the missing piece of the puzzle

Heather Smith

Complete strangers knew more about me than I did myself. Complete strangers would sit across a desk with an open file in their hands, smile serenely and share only what they chose to. It was just another day in the life of a social worker, another adopted kid wanting information, another file on the mountain of others, just a human being longing to know where she came from.

Was it wrong to search for my birth mother? I was blessed with a wonderful, loving home. Was I showing ingratitude by searching? What right did I have to invade another person's life? I had Jesus in my life. Shouldn't He fill the void I felt in my inmost being? The questions and the answers people freely offered often seemed as painful as the search itself.

Adoption in the 1970s was a secretive operation. My birth mother was a 17-year-old high school student when she discovered she was pregnant. A baby did not fit into her plans, and so she twice attempted an abortion. Unsuccessful, she continued to carry me through her senior year, graduating seven months pregnant without a soul knowing. I was born in August, and was surrendered amidst turmoil between my birth mother and her parents.

After a period in foster care, I was placed in a loving home. It was an excellent match--an unwanted child for a couple who desperately wanted a child. I even looked like them. Everything in my childhood seemed normal, except for the hours that I spent crying--crying that would stop only with prolonged rocking and cuddling.

Adoption was openly discussed in our family. I knew that I was adopted from as far back as I can remember. My brother joined our family when I was five, so I had a good understanding of adoption. Yet, being adopted seemed to separate me from the families around me. I felt different, yet I wanted to belong, so I told nobody that I was adopted. The secrecy continued.

But the questions were there. Why did my birth mother give me up? Whom did I look like? Did I have brothers and sisters? Did she ever wonder about me? Was she carrying a load of guilt? All I had was a sketchy background sheet, an adoption order with my birth name removed and a birth certificate with my new adoptive name. The blanks in my personal history seemed to leave a deep emptiness within. My parents always supported my desire for answers and encouraged me to search for the woman who had given me life.

It began with a letter that we as a family wrote to Social Services in Edmonton, requesting all the background information that they could legally give me. A response came, and we sat around the table trying to absorb every new piece of information. Thus began a yearly tradition, for we soon found that every time we wrote to Social Services, we got different information. It seemed to depend on which person received the request and what he or she personally judged to be appropriate, "non-identifying" information. The inconsistency of these responses intensified the sense of injustice and powerlessness I felt. My birth mother had a choice in surrendering me, my parents had chosen me, but I felt I had no rights.

Throughout my teens, my search ebbed and flowed. I continued to write letters. I visited Social Services, the hospital I was born in, the library archives. I ran ads in Alberta newspapers. Some of my frustration was also expended in lobbying for changes in Alberta legislation.

By 1995, I had become a teacher, and I travelled to Haiti with a group of my students. I was touched as I held the abandoned children in an orphanage. My heart broke as I heard stories of children found in garbage dumps, of tearful parents arriving on the doorstep unable to care for their children and of brothers and sisters taking care of each other in a world that had been so unkind to them. I had the sense of God's powerful intervention in each of these little ones' lives, and it was then that I came to the realization that there is no such thing as an illegitimate child. Not only had our amazing Father ordained my days and intervened in my mother's attempt to abort me; He had handpicked a wonderful family to care for me.

When I arrived home, there was a message on my answering machine. The Alberta legislature had passed a bill changing the adoption laws. Adoptees now had the right to know their birth name. The next day, I faxed my request to the Ministry of Social Services, then eagerly checked the mail each day. Finally, two weeks later, I recognized the familiar government logo on an envelope. I stopped in the lobby of my apartment and tore it open. There it was: I had been born a Schultz! I felt that the child within me finally had an identity.

That day marked the beginning of a frantic two-week period. I called the hospital and pleaded with the records department. I talked to the doctor who delivered me. I ordered microfiche copies of old newspapers. I called Social Services almost daily.

Nobody would tell me a thing. It became clear that if I wanted to meet this woman, I would have to find her myself. I began calling Directory Assistance and asking for the numbers of all the Schultzes in each town around Edmonton. They would only give me two at a time, so it was a tedious process. I went through some towns quickly. Others took hours. I called each Schultz, related my story and asked if there was anybody in the family who may have given a child up for adoption. Everyone seemed sympathetic, but nobody volunteered any helpful information. Night after night, I fell into bed exhausted, crying out to God to open doors.

Those two weeks were an emotional roller coaster. Twice I thought I had found her, only to be disappointed. I desperately wanted to meet the woman who had given me birth, but more than that I wanted truth. If she were dead, I wanted to know. If she was a destitute hooker, I still wanted to know.

One night, I reached the end of myself. After calling 14 Schultzes, I set my pen down as the tears flowed, and I vowed to quit this seemingly hopeless endeavour. I went to a friend's birthday and came home with my neighbour. As we sat in my living room, I reviewed the sheets of paper that covered my coffee table and explained to her what I had been doing. As I gathered them up, the phone number of a Schultz that I had failed to reach popped into sight. Wearily, I picked up the phone and dialed. The man who answered patiently listened to my story and told me that there was nobody in his family who fit that description. However, he was intrigued by the story and asked me to repeat it. I told him everything I knew, including the occupations of my birth grandparents and uncle.

With a chuckle, he said, "It is kind of funny that my uncle was a farmer and then did some mechanical stuff on the side."

"Did he have any kids?" I asked.

"I have two cousins, a boy and a girl," he replied.

"Was your cousin a pipe fitter?"

"Oh no," he laughed. "He worked in the oil fields."

I gasped. Surely pipe fitters worked in oil fields? I asked about his other cousin, the oil man's sister. Her age matched that of my birth mother. But the man on the other end of the phone was adamant that his cousin could not have had a baby. He had grown up on the farm across the street from her. "I would certainly know if she had given birth," he chuckled nervously.

Nevertheless, I was determined to follow the lead until it ended at another dead end. I got his cousin's full name; she had married and was living in Calgary. He did not have her current phone number, but was sure his mother would have it. By now, it was well after midnight, so he agreed to call me at seven the next morning.

My excitement rose to a new level. I called the hospital and once again talked to the records department, begging them to tell me simply whether they had ever had a patient by this particular name. I promised never to bother them again if they would answer this last question. After a few minutes, the clerk came back on the line and hesitatingly said, "Yes, she was here. But I can't tell you anything about her. The file was closed by Social Services."

That was all I needed to hear. This had to be my birth mother. How could I wait until the next day? The hours of the night stretched long before me as I envisioned everything from the first words I would speak to her to a face-to-face reunion.

The next morning, I spoke to the woman who had given me birth 25 years earlier. It was an awkward conversation, as we were both in shock and crying. That night, we spoke again for a couple of hours. She welcomed me back into her life with love and relief. One of the first things that she said was how hard it had been to see media reports of abused children and not know where I was.

Was it smooth sailing from then on? Not at all. My birth mother had given birth to another child and was happily married to a man who had no idea that she had had me. It took time for her to tell them and for them to come to terms with the idea. I had to work through the deluge of feelings that comes with a reunion. A month later, I flew to Calgary, and we met for the first time. There was an immediate sense of connection, but we both wrestled with the awkwardness of being strangers and yet family. Finding our place in each other's lives is a continuing process. We have remained in contact, and see each other a couple of times a year.

Was it wrong to search? It has not been an easy journey. I have had to work through the tremendous sense of loss that an adoptee often experiences. I was unwanted by the human being who was designed to love and nurture me. My own mother had tried to kill me before I was born. The fear of abandonment and rejection, a sense of not belonging and the need for control are prominent struggles in my life. They have affected who I am and the choices I make.

But the search did not give me this pain. It only brought it to a place where I could acknowledge it and lay it at the feet of Jesus. On the surface, questions have been answered, and the curiosity is gone. I am a much more focussed individual, and I feel a wholeness that I had never felt before. Contrary to many people's predictions, my relationship with my own parents has never been stronger. The integration of who I was born as and who I am today has brought a deep healing. I know that through this experience God has touched the very core of who I am.

Along with the pain, there has been tremendous joy--in forgiving, in reconciliation. Last November, my birth mother and sister flew out to meet my mom and dad. We sat together, and I saw the pieces of my life come together before my eyes.

There is no doubt in my mind that God predestined my life, protected me through a less than ideal pregnancy and chose the family in which I was to grow up. There is also no doubt that He orchestrated every circumstance of my reunion. His timing was perfect, and His love encircled me. What a privilege to be adopted into the family of such an awesome Father!

Heather Smith is a teacher and a member of Northview Community Church in Abbotsford, B.C. She has just completed a master's thesis on "The Impact of Adoption on Adolescent Psychological Development". This article was submitted too late to be included in our Nov. 21 issue on adoption.

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