In 1995 I went to the ER with a kidney stone. When asked about my family medical history, I was truly at a loss for words. I had no idea about my biological family. My little sister, Kate, and I were adopted by the Schmidts when I was six. Their biology was not my biology. I knew I had to go looking for the Sullivans.
Mark Sullivan and his wife Nancy Curtis on Quechee Highland #8
I had started school, kindergarten, as Mark Sullivan. Kate and I had lived with several different families in foster care, but I had vague memories of a young boy, a brother perhaps, and I making cinnamon toast, and making a mess in the process. I knew I was born in Batavia, NY on October 20, 1955, and – through a background check for a military security clearance – I’d been told that our mother died young, our father was unable to care for us, and we were put up for adoption. End of story.
Adoption records in New York state are sealed, and it takes an Act of God to unseal them. I knew that birth announcements were printed in daily newspapers. Through my college classes, including media law, I also knew the government could not erase what had been printed in the newspaper. Many libraries keep archives of newspapers, so I called the Richmond Library in Batavia New York and asked if they kept copies of old newspapers. The answer was yes! I asked the librarian if she could send me copies of my birth announcement and my sister’s birth announcement. She agreed, and a few days later I nervously opened the envelope that arrived from the Library.
Kate, Carol, and Mark 1960
The announcement said that I was the son of Patricia Ronan Sullivan and John Joseph Sullivan. Clues! There are probably hundreds of thousands of John Joseph Sullivans in the world, but there are far fewer Ronans. My then-fiancé, now wife, Nancy Curtis, a budding internet researcher got online (dial-up at that time) and searched for Ronans in Batavia. She came up with one, Bernard. Number in hand, I nervously called Bernard Ronan.
“Mr. Ronan,” I said, “my name is Mark Schmidt, I am calling from Tampa, Florida, and I’m not selling anything. I was born in Batavia and was later adopted. I have just learned that my mother’s name was Patricia Ronan Sullivan. Does that name mean anything to you?” He replied, “No, I’m sorry, it doesn’t. But I’m not from here. Let me get you the number of Thomas Ronan who is a Batavia native.” I thanked him, he wished me luck, and I was on to the next call. “May I speak with Thomas Ronan?” I asked. “Junior or Senior?” the voice responded. “Senior, I suppose.” “This is Thomas Senior.” I went through my dialogue. “Does this name mean anything to you?” There was a pause. He said, “Yes, Pat was my sister, and we’ve been looking for you for twenty-five years.” I had found them!! He continued, “Your brother, Jim, is going to go out of his mind.” I had a brother! Three telephone calls and I had found my family! Though, only half of it, so far.
Thomas explained that Jim was an over-the-road truck driver and would not be at home, but his then fiancé, now wife, Karen, would get the message to him. Phone call number four, message left on an answering machine. “My name is Mark Schmidt and if you’re wondering why you should call me back, I’m your brother.”
I was on the phone with a client when Jim called back. Nancy answered and chatted with him. He shared that he’d gotten a message to call home, which was unusual. Karen would only reach out while he was driving if it was an emergency. He pulled off the road and called home. Karen said, “Your brother called.” Jim responded, “what does Donnie want now??” thinking it was his troubled younger brother. Karen replied, “Not Donnie. Mark.” There was silence. Jim, who is never at a loss for words, was speechless. “Mark?” he croaked. “Where is he? Do you have a number?”
Jim, Jack, and Mark in 1996
“My heart is beating so hard I think it’s going to jump out of my chest,” Jim told Nancy. She explained to Jim the recent circumstances, trip to the ER, call to the librarian, birth notice, Bernard Ronan, and the conversation with Uncle Tom. When I got off my call, I took Jim’s call, for the next hour and one-half. Two days later, Jim, driving the cab of a semi-rig, showed up at our home for a long-awaited reunion.
Nancy asked Jim about “cinnamon toast.” He burst out laughing. “We made such a mess, and got into so much trouble!” “But,” he added, “it was worth it!”
I always wondered who I looked like. Now I had an idea. Jim was taller, we both had the same blue eyes. (I have more hair, and am more handsome.) While I had more “formal” education, Jim is no slouch in the intellect department. He’d enlisted in the Marines after high school, studied engineering, and wanted to become a doctor so he could “fix” his mother.
Jim stayed overnight, and had arranged to pick up a trailer in the area (long-haul trucker-speak for driving a truck full of whatever from Point-A to Point-B.) His visit was the tip of the iceberg. In addition to Jim, I had two half-sisters and a half-brother, whose father was not John Sullivan. So, my mother had not died when I was young. Instead, on the day that Children and Family Services took Kate and I, Jim was over at Grandfather Ronan’s house, and the younger children were with their biological father, otherwise they, too, would have gone into foster care.
I asked Jim about our father, John Sullivan. He shared that he had been taught to hate him. Our mother, Pat, said he was a terrible person and didn’t care about his children, and he’d abandoned them. We were soon to learn the truth of it all.
Mark and Jim in 1995
Jim knew that John Sullivan, called Jack by friends and family, had been born in Manhattanville, NY and had a twin brother. Nancy scoured databases, sent out hundreds of emails to Sullivans in New York, but no leads surfaced. I read online about a couple who helped adoptees find their families. She was an adoptee, and he was a private detective. I reached out to them with the information I had available, and a few hours later received a call. They had found Jack, retired from the telephone company, and living in Diana, Texas, a small East Texas town, with the closest airport in Shreveport, Louisiana.
I was back on the telephone, with the same dialogue, Mark Schmidt, Tampa, FL, not selling anything… only this time I said, “I am your son.” “My prayers have been answered,” Jack responded. “I have liver cancer, and was supposed to be dead by now. I have been praying to find you and Jim, and your sister, Kate.”
A few days later, I landed at the Shreveport Airport, and in the waiting room I saw myself staring back at me, albeit older and jaundiced from liver failure, but me, same eyes, height, hair, bone structure. Now I knew who I looked like. And the flood gates opened…
Sullivans!! Who knew how many there would be? Uncles, an aunt, a hoard of cousins, all with the same eyes, and dry sense of humor. Warm and welcoming, as if we’d spent our lives together. Jack had a twin brother, Tim, [who was] retired from the NYPD as a motorcycle cop. He and his wife, a nurse, had six children, biological and adopted, who were all in law enforcement and healthcare. All in the New York City area.
Jack in 1996
Then there were the “Texas Sullivans.” Jack had been married several times, currently to number three, and had four children from those relationships, two biological and two adopted. I needed a genealogical chart! The Christmas card list just increased by about fifty.
Jim arrived in Texas for Father’s Day weekend. I stayed home because Jim had history with Jack that needed to be discussed between the two of them. When Jim inquired about why Jack abandoned them, Jack was hesitant to share his version of the story. “Your mother isn’t here to defend herself, so I’m not comfortable talking about it,” Jack told Jim. “But I never forgot you. I sent presents at Christmas, and cards for your birthdays.” Jim was surprised, as he’d never received any of them. Jim was finally successful in persuading Jack to tell his version of the story.
Jack had come home one evening from work and found his belongings on the porch. Pat had met someone “more interesting” and that was Jack’s invitation to go away. He went to see her father for some guidance, but was told, “She’s made her decision. You need to leave.” So, he left, and they divorced. But he’d never forgotten his children, Jim and Mark, and Kate, whom he acknowledged as his, even though she was dark-eyed and looked nothing like the rest of the Sullivans.
Sadly, Jack died two months later. Jim and I were both there for the service. We’d had the opportunity to put the missing pieces of our lives together, and were grateful for the time we’d had with our father, even though it was brief. I now had a biological family! And my own family medical history as a bonus!
Mark Sullivan and Nancy Curtis are Florida residents who spend Hurricane Season (May-November) in Quechee. They enjoy travel, Quechee Lakes’ two challenging golf courses, and Mark appreciates a “good cigar and a friendly round of poker.”
