Living Happily Ever After
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Time Capsule

Date: May 19, 2011  Author: Andrea Merriman

“And yet, I suppose you mourn the loss or the death of what you thought your life was, even if you find your life is better after. You mourn the future that you thought you’d planned.”  (Lynn Redgrave)

Later that same day of the unexpected dream, the mail came, and in it, a very unexpected delivery: a time capsule.

I had completely forgotten about it. My oldest created it in 1999 as a first grader at Creekside Elementary in the Cherry Creek School District in Aurora, CO. It contained newspaper clippings, pictures, letters from his parents and other things that represented our life then, as well as plenty of our hopes and dreams.

I was shocked to receive a communication from an elementary school in Colorado several years after any of my children had attended there. I was surprised they’d found me. And I was very touched by the effort of many good people who have taught my children over the years, who have helped my children learn and create meaningful things, and who went to the effort to find us in Utah so we could have a memory and appreciate the contents of our time capsule.

I stood in my Utah kitchen, read through the contents of the time capsule, and once again, tears I couldn’t control streamed down my cheeks. I was overwhelmed by the contents of the time capsule compared to the reality we had actually lived through and had finally settled into. How was it all possible? How could it all have taken place? I’d never had ANY idea of all that was in store for my oldest and our family at the time he created the time capsule.

Not only was it finally, really, hitting me that my oldest is graduating and leaving home, I think I cried about all we have lived through and experienced since that time capsule was created. When I helped him compile the items for the time capsule, when I wrote my 1999 letter to him, life was very different. I was a stay at home mom; my mom was still alive; I only had 2 children; I’d never experienced grief and pain to the extent I did in 2009; back then, divorce was not even in my vocabulary (neither were Ponzi schemes, by the way, I had no idea what those even were at that time!); and the letter to my son from his father was written by a man now residing in prison for the next decade or more. Looking back, like was very simple then in 1999. It almost overwhelmed me that the expectations for the future as seen through the eyes of 1999 was very different than the reality we actually lived, and I felt additional sorrow at all my son has had to endure as a result of the choices his father made.

But I pulled myself together again, for the second time that day, and went on about my business. I was feeling emotional, but I was going to make it through the day with flying colors, including smiles and laughter. If only I could quit crying.

“Anyone can carry his burden, however hard, until nightfall.  Anyone can do his work, however hard, for one day.  Anyone can live sweetly, patiently, lovingly, purely, till the sun goes down.  And this is all life really means.” (Robert Louis Stevenson)

At least, that was my goal. But would you believe it? ANOTHER emotional breakdown…to come.

A Phone Call

Date: August 14, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

She thought it would be a fun joke for us to call our mutual friend together.

In some ways it would have been, but due to the Ponzi scheme perpetrated by my former spouse, I was scared to call. Although he hadn’t been a victim, my friend’s husband was one person my ex-husband had specifically mentioned to me as being unfriendly toward him after his crimes were revealed. I wasn’t sure how a phone call from Andrea Merriman would be received. But I didn’t want to get into all of that my first meeting with my birth mother!

So I made the call. I figured if the husband hung up on me, THEN would be the time to explain. And wouldn’t you know it? Just my luck. The husband answered the phone when I called.

He isn’t a mean man, just gruff, and I am sure a phone call from me was the last thing he imagined for himself that night. He asked me my name a couple of times. When he finally realized it was Andrea Merriman, he said simply, “What do you want?” I asked if I could speak to his wife.

She got on the phone and asked me if everything was all right. We hadn’t communicated for awhile. I told her I didn’t need anything, I was just calling to let her know I’d met an old friend of hers and gave the phone to my birth mother.

They had QUITE a chat. Old friends catching up on their lives in the most unexpected of ways!

The rest of the evening consisted of things you’d expect when reuniting with the mother who gave you life. I showed her pictures of my childhood and life, she showed me pictures of her children. I met one of her five children (and I really liked him.) She told me everything she could remember about my birth father, I told her about my children and divorce and new life; we enjoyed a very comfortable visit.

But at the top of my list of interesting things about our first meeting was the fact that my Colorado friend, a friend of mine since approximately 1994, had not only known my birth mother but had been her best friend and college roommate!

Have I ever said it’s a SMALL world? Because I really believe it is!

An Impulse

Date: August 5, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

In December of 2009, I was checking my email before heading to the office when I had an unexpected thought.

“You should find out your medical history. As the sole parent and support of your four children, you need to know all you can to make sure you’re here for your children as long as you can be. How irresponsible of you if there is something you should know that might help you (or save your life) and you don’t bother to at least TRY to discover it!”

I had a brief debate with myself.

I had been adopted as an infant; blessed with wonderful parents and an amazing family. My childhood was fairy tale-esque…until my dad died unexpectedly in a plane crash when I was a teenager, and the family I grew up in entered its unexpected life. It was another riches to rags story, in a way, but it prepared me better than I could have imagined for real life, especially for the the huge, terrible situation I would face as an adult.

My debate: was it right to disrupt someone else’s life just for a chance at obtaining a medical history for me?

But because if anything happens to me my four children will be orphaned until their other parent is released from his incarceration, I pushed the question of right or wrong out of my mind. I owed it to my children to at least try to find something out.

But how?

Although I was adopted in the 1960s, and adoptions were very private and secretive back then, I had an unusual situtation. Mine was private. And thanks to my mom, I had more information than most adopted children at the time.

My parents had been married nearly five years and were unable to have children. They had checked into adoption and even had the chance to adopt a baby boy prior to my birth, but when they went to see the baby my mom didn’t have a good feeling about it. She felt that baby wasn’t her baby. So she walked away from the opportunity to get the baby she had dreamed of.

In the meantime, my dad graduated from dental school at Marquette University in Wisconsin, moved to Phoenix, AZ, and opened a dental practice–in the course of three weeks. And then, unexpectedly, they got a phone call about me. Some friends of theirs from dental school had graduated ahead of them and moved to Southern California to practice dentistry. They became acquainted with an obstetrician, and at a dinner party, the doctor told them of a good, talented, beautiful woman who was placing a baby for adoption–and of his quest to find a good family for the baby. The doctor said he and his wife thought so highly of the woman that they’d considered taking the baby themselves, but in the end, decided they were too close to the situation.

My parents’ friends said, “We know someone to adopt that baby!” and put my parents in touch with the doctor. And within that same three week time period of major life changes, unexpectedly my parents were in the car driving to California to pick me up from the hospital. My mom said she walked into the hospital, heard a baby cry, and knew instantly it was her baby. She asked a nurse if it was her baby crying, and the nurse confirmed it. (I had just been given my PKU test.)

While waiting for my discharge, my mom asked the nurses everything she could about my birth mother. They told her the woman’s name, where she attended college, a general description of her appearance, and what they knew of her talents (that she was smart, athletic, and a dancer.) My mom committed it all to memory and I grew up knowing all of the information my mom had been able to uncover.

My parents took me home from the hospital when I was two days old–with a day at Disneyland before driving back to Arizona!

I grew up feeling very special because I had been adopted. In fact, I felt bad for children who hadn’t had that opportunity and privilege. I was happy, whole and complete. I had amazing parents and four siblings (all adopted after me). So although my mom always offered to help me find my birth mother if I had the need, I didn’t really feel the need for that. I had everything, and more, that I needed. I was happy. And grateful every day for adoption and the family I was blessed with.

As the only tall, blonde member of my family however, (everyone else, including my parents, is short and dark haired) if I had any unfulfilled desire relating to my adoption it was simply a curiosity about who, if anyone, I looked like. But seeing if I resembled another person on the planet wasn’t worth the risk of rejection OR disrupting someone else’s life to satisfy a question like that. So that’s as far as I ever went in the quest for a birth mother.

I looked so different from the rest of my immediate family, though, that in college when they came to visit me, a boy friend met them and said, “I bet you forgot to tell Andrea she’s adopted, didn’t you?” My mom replied, “No, I’m pretty sure I told her!” and he blushed like college men usually don’t–never dreaming I actually had been adopted. We all had a good laugh over that one!

Thanks to my mom’s detective skills at the hospital prior to taking me home, we had quite a bit of information about my birth mother. My mom discovered she and my parents had attended the same university in Utah, so one year, while visiting my dad’s younger sister in Salt Lake City, we took a peek at my aunt’s college yearbooks and found my birth mother. I then knew what she looked like.

Later, when I was married, I met a friend who was very curious about the whole process of adoption. She asked me about my story and, small world, found out her parents had gone to college with my birth mother! Her parents cut up their yearbooks and sent me every picture they had of my birth mother so not only had I seen what she looked like, I had pictures too.

The university produced an alumni directory listing names, addresses and brief bios of its graduates. Thanks to that, my mom and I knew my birth mother’s address too! NOT very typical of a private adoption situation that took place in the 1960s, for sure.

And then “suddenly” I felt the need to obtain my medical history for the sake of my children.

I decided that if I’d given a child up for adoption and if I wanted to be found (or was open to being found) I would put my name out there everywhere I could think of. Impulsively, I typed the name of my birth mother into Facebook. It was the only directory I knew of to begin the search. Up she popped. Full name, picture and everything. There was no mistaking it was her.

I wasn’t expecting it to be that easy or to happen that fast.

Now what?

What would you do?

What Do You Do With Your Wedding Picture?

Date: April 12, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

The roller coaster ride continued.

This time, it wasn’t finances.  It was pictures.  Wedding pictures.

My spouse and I were working in His shop, cleaning things out, preparatory to our divorce, my move, and Him heading to prison for running a ponzi scheme for 15 years (unbeknownst to me and everyone else) when He handed me a gigantic wedding picture for me to keep.

I said, “Oh, no.  It’s ok.  I don’t need that.”

He took it as such a slap in the face and looked so hurt!  I tried to explain we were divorcing, I was sure I had a smaller one somewhere, but he was clearly hurt.

So I took the picture, told Him I wanted it after all.  But the truth?

What am I going to do with a 16×20 picture of a marriage and husband that aren’t mine anymore?  Hang it somewhere? Keep it–to remind me of the 15 years of theft, lies and betrayals?

What DO you do with your wedding picture?

Any suggestions?