The Amish Midwife - By Mindy Starns Clark Page 0,93
to sell the house and keep the orchard, although I didn’t know how would I continue to manage it through the years, especially if I didn’t end up staying in Oregon.
Sean’s offer was tempting. I wasn’t too old to go to medical school, and with my work experience it wouldn’t be nearly as difficult as if I were starting from scratch. In the long run I’d certainly make more money, though I’d also have more student loans to pay off. But I could do obstetrical surgery instead of assisting. I could supervise physician’s assistants and nurse-midwives. I sighed. I had no idea what I should do.
The miles zoomed by, and soon I reached Valley Forge, thinking again of George Washington and the history that surrounded me as I exited the Turnpike there.
Continuing on toward Norristown, the county seat, I soon crossed a bridge over the Schuylkill River. Below, two men maneuvered a small boat across the water toward a small island. In another minute I was in Norristown, following the signs to the county courthouse. The downtown area featured some gorgeous old architecture, though many of the buildings seemed to be in various states of disrepair. It all felt very multicultural, with a Mexican market on one corner and a Caribbean grocery on another. After circling the block twice, I finally found a parking spot in front of a bail bondsman shop. Walking along the busy sidewalk toward the courthouse, I thought of my teenage fantasy of elegant, wealthy grandparents living here in this chic, genteel suburb.
Though Norristown seemed to have an energetic and friendly sort of vibe, I doubted anyone would call it either “chic” or “genteel.”
The receptionist told me to come back at one thirty because the records department was closed for lunch. I decided to stop by Montgomery Hospital, which was listed on my birth certificate. I found it on my GPS, and in less than five minutes I pulled into the parking garage. The hospital was good sized, although not as big as Lancaster General or Emanuel back home. I spoke with the receptionist and told her I wanted to inquire about my records. She sent me down the administrative hall, past Human Resources, to the Health Information Department. When I told the receptionist I’d been a patient there as an infant and wanted my records, she said she would need to send someone down to the archive in the basement to search because those records hadn’t been digitized. She handed me a release form, which I quickly filled out and handed back to her. She scanned it and then looked up at me.
“You were born here?”
I nodded.
“Then your records will be with your mother’s. She’ll need to sign the release.”
“I’m not in contact with her.”
The woman’s face twisted, and then she asked, “Were you adopted?”
“Does it matter?” I was trying as hard as I could to sound naive.
She nodded. “Of course it matters.”
“But I have the name of my mother. Why shouldn’t I be able to look at the record of my birth?”
“Because the request has to come from the patient.”
I decided to take a softer approach. “I don’t know that she’s not dead.” I didn’t have any reason to believe that she was deceased, but as no one had confirmed she was alive, I couldn’t be sure.
“The answer is still no.” She was starting to look a little angry.
“Please,” I said, suddenly feeling as if the woman viewed me as a disgruntled adoptee.
“Absolutely not,” she answered. “When you find your birth mother, bring her in, and once I have her signature, in person, then I’ll release the information.”
“What if she’s infirm or out of the area?” I knew I was being difficult, but I couldn’t help it.
“Then she can call, and with a notarized signature I can send her the records and then she can give them to you.”
I’d read on adoption lists about the rudeness of those charged with keeping secrets safe from adoptees, but I’d never experienced it in person.
“But they’re my records too.”
“Take it up with the state legislature.” She stared me down.
I backed out of the room, losing my grip on the knob as I stepped into the hall. The door banged, and I was on my way, feeling like a felon.
Back at the courthouse, I got the same runaround. The man in vital records first told me to call Harrisburg. I said that the office in Harrisburg had told me to come to Norristown. When I explained that I