In the early months of 1998,
Cynthia W***** was considering where to spend her days
as an undergraduate in college, deciding between the
University of Notre Dame and the University of
Virginia. As destiny would have it, she chose
Virginia. I am eternally grateful of that choice, since
it was at Virginia that she and I met for the first
time. It was at Virginia, three years after she sent in
her acceptance letter, that I proposed to her. And it
was at Virginia, while she and I were preparing for our
upcoming marriage and life together, that Cynthia was
once again confronted with a decision to attend Notre
Dame. It seems destiny was still at play.
Cynthia was accepted at Harvard’s
Divinity School and at Notre Dame to pursue a master’s
degree in theology. After carefully weighing the
options—Notre Dame offered a full scholarship and a
stipend; the cost of living in South Bend is far cheaper
than in Cambridge; and frankly, Harvard’s football team
is nothing to write home about—Cynthia finally accepted
an offer to matriculate at Notre Dame. It was years in
the making, but it seemed she was destined somehow to
end up in South Bend. Ironically, she wasn’t the only
one.
A curious historian can look back
through old copies of The Dome, Notre
Dame’s yearbook, to research the changing trends of the
university. If you were to pick up the 1979 edition,
you might be interested in the personalities who spoke
that year, including Ralph Nader, Phil Donahue, and
Steve Martin. A music lover would note performances by
such big names as Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, The
Beach Boys, John Denver, and Aerosmith. A football fan
could relive Joe Montana and the 8-3 Irish orchestrating
a miraculous come-from-behind victory over Houston in
the Cotton Bowl.
What you won’t find in The
Dome that year is any mention of Kathy D*****.
Kathy received a BA in American Studies in May of 1979,
but her photo is not included with the other seniors.
She took a leave of absence the previous fall, so she
was not present when yearbook pictures were being
taken. It had been a difficult year for Kathy, but
despite missing an entire semester and arriving late
that Spring, she received her degree and entered the
Jesuit Volunteer Corps to become a schoolteacher in
Cleveland, Ohio.
In 1968 my father graduated from
Case Western Reserve University Law School in
Cleveland. He and my mother, who were married the
previous summer, lived in a suburb called Shaker
Heights. My mother was a schoolteacher. Eleven years
later, when Kathy arrived in Cleveland, John and Joanne
Drury were long gone, raising their two boys in northern
Virginia. But their paths had already crossed.
It seems to me that life is a
crossroads of choices. One person’s seemingly minute
decision can have infinite effects on the future
patchwork of another’s existence. If Cynthia had not
chosen the University of Virginia, she and I never would
have met, we never would have married, and I never would
have moved to South Bend. If my mother and father had
not chosen to move to the Washington, DC area after he
graduated from law school in Cleveland, they never would
have contacted Arlington’s Catholic Charities when they
realized they were unable to conceive. If Anthony D*****
and his family had not chosen to move from Illinois to
Virginia while his daughter Kathy was in college, they
too would not have contacted Arlington’s Catholic
Charities when she became pregnant at the end of her
junior year.
And if Kathy had chosen another
option available to her, I never would have been given
the gift of my life.
In April of 2002, I made a decision
I had been contemplating since I was very young. I
can’t remember the first time my parents told me I was
adopted: I have always known. Growing up, it was simply
a part of who I was. Along with that facet of my life
came an innate desire to someday meet my birthmother, to
thank her for the sacrifice she chose to make in order
to give me an opportunity to live. I could never shake
that curiosity, so a few months before getting married,
I set in motion a process that over a year later would
change my life. Like my parents and my birthmother
before me, I chose to contact Catholic Charities of the
Diocese of Arlington.
I had only a slight inkling of what
it would entail to track down the woman who gave birth
to me. The two-stage process involved plenty of
paperwork, some fees, and a hefty chunk of time. The
first stage provided me with what is called a Heritage
Summary, which explained without identifying information
the circumstances of my birth and adoption. It also
described in vague terms my biological family and
extended family. I received my copy in August of 2002,
and spent some time deciding whether or not to continue
the process. By January of 2003, a month that includes
both my birthday and the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, I
had decided to forge ahead and try my luck at the second
stage of my adoption search. This was the tricky part.
It is important to realize when
initiating a search of this nature, that not all stories
have fairytale endings. Catholic Charities might not be
able to locate my birthmother. She may no longer be
alive. In the event that she is found, would she be
interested in contacting me? Perhaps that chapter of
her life has long been closed and tucked away, never to
be reopened. If she does want to meet me, what will she
be like? Are my expectations of her realistic? Will I
be disappointed? Will she be disappointed? How will
this affect my family? Does she have a family now? How
will it affect them? Etc, etc… This process is not to
be taken lightly.
Because of all these circumstances,
I filled out the remaining paperwork, sent in the
corresponding fees, and promptly pushed it all out of my
mind. Three months later when I received an e-mail from
the caseworker in charge of my search, my heart skipped
a beat. I was afraid to open it. With my wife by my
side, I soon discovered that my birthmother had been
located, and she was interested in meeting me. I had
been thinking about this day for most of my life, but
now what? My mother and father encouraged me to make
contact, alleviating any fears I had that they would
feel threatened or jealous. So on May 6, 2003, just
twenty-five years after my conception, I decided I would
phone her.
“Hello.”
“May I speak with Kathy
please?”
“This is Kathy.”
“Kathy Waddill?” (D*****
is her maiden name.)
“Yes.”
“This is Patrick Drury
calling from South Bend, Indiana.”
“Is your birthday
January 11, 1979?”
Since that initial phone call,
there have been many others. Kathy came to Notre Dame
to meet me for the first time soon afterwards. Then
Cynthia and I went to California to meet her husband and
my two half sisters. Both my father and my mother have
had dinner with Kathy, and e-mails and pictures are
being sent back and forth almost weekly. I also
attended a family reunion, hosted by my biological
grandfather, and was able to meet the rest of my
maternal (biological) relatives. Now that the summer is
over, I'm able to look back and marvel at how well
everything went. It was truly a best case scenario.
People often ask how I feel about it all. Now that I've
had time to process everything, it has all seemed,
strangely, very normal.
I would encourage anybody who is
adopted to search, if they're curious, on two
conditions: (1) you have the understanding and support
of your parents, and (2) you realize that the search may
not work out like you imagined.
Getting pregnant when you're not
ready is a frightening thing, and it can lead many women
to make a decision they would otherwise never dream of.
In moments of crisis, people do what they believe they
have to do. I truly hope that my story, and that of my
birthmother's, can be an inspiration to women facing
unplanned pregnancies. Adoption is a wonderful choice.
Your sacrifice enables a couple to have the otherwise
unattainable gift of children. And it gives your baby a
chance to live.