I was given up for adoption in 1968 with nearly the same amount of secrecy that is used to protect the nuclear launch codes around the identity of the individuals involved. Although I always knew I was adopted, I also knew that the likelihood of my finding my biological parents was pretty much zero, so I never bothered to ask, let alone actually search. Then, some passing comments made by my daughter’s pediatrician while I was having a meltdown in his office over my adopted mom’s death changed everything and sent me on a trajectory that would not only change my life, but the lives of several others forever. I not only found my biological mother but also my biological father and the entire families that came with both of them.

I went from being raised basically as an only child with a step brother halfway around the world to becoming one of seven children between all of the families. It was overwhelming but also incredibly fulfilling.  I began to understand myself much better through the eyes of my genetic family. There were a few plot twists with my adopted dad never knowing about my finding my biological father, or my biological mother wanting my biological father knowing absolutely nothing about her, and most of all, my strained relationship with my adopted dad, but most families have idiosyncrasies that need to be worked through, so I did my best to juggle it. Life was happening, and I dealt with it. Until that last year.

In a one-year period, both my adopted dad and my biological mother became terminally ill.  Any challenge that existed in relationships was now amplified and many things that were never resolved in the past came to rear their ugly heads. And through it all was the ever-present struggle with my relationship with my adopted dad. They passed away within 4 months of one another and although it was one of the most difficult periods of my life imaginable, I still wouldn’t trade my story for anything.