Within the next 24 hours, I was able to schedule my appointment with LabCorps for the following Monday.  It actually wasn’t all that easy to get an appointment—it can only be done when a paternity specialist is in the office, and specialists often don’t keep regular hours.  Hell, they barely even keep banking hours!  Also, I couldn’t get the test done in NYC since NY state doesn’t allow for these types of tests, at least not through LabCorps, anyway.  That meant that I had to take a half day from work in order to go home and get the test done in Pennsylvania.  He would be taking his test on the same day, a few hours later, but at a different location.

That morning, walking into the testing office felt unbelievably surreal.  Here I was, a full-grown adult, telling the front desk staff that I had an appointment for a paternity test.  And not for my child, but for ME.

The staff was nice and minimally awkward about it.

They asked me for my license and social security card (you had to have certain types of official identification, although those weren’t the only options).  After signing in and checking my forms of ID, they asked me to have a seat in the waiting area.

A TV was on, although muted.  I caught up on the morning’s news as if it were any kind of normal morning.

After a few minutes, I was brought to a patient room by two nurses.  One would be facilitating the test while the other would serve as an official witness.  They took my thumb-print and had me fill out a form indicating that I was who I said that I was. I was allowed to excuse myself to the restroom in order to wash the ink off my hand, but unfortunately someone else was in there and not coming out anytime soon.  Whelp, I guess I’ll have to go to work with ink on my hands!

It was probably the most official and organized process I had ever seen in my life.  They weren’t messing around.  Fortunately, they were friendly despite the necessary formalities.

From there, they took my picture with some kind of polaroid-esque camera.  I wasn’t really sure whether to smile or what.  Do most people smile when they get their paternity test identify confirmation picture taken?!  Would anyone ever even see this picture?  What will happen to the snapshot of this surreal and life-altering moment in my life?  I wondered if it would be submitted in a file to my sister K since she was the one who ordered the test.  Otherwise I suppose it will be locked away in a filing cabinet somewhere indefinitely.

It was then time to collect my cheek swab.  The nurse circled several q-tib swabs, one at a time, across four corners of my mouth as I looked around the room.  All in all, this key procedure that would tell me the answer to my year-long search took about 30 seconds to complete.

Once they were all set, they told me to have a nice day and sent me on my way.  Like I was waiting to receive vitamin D level results.  I’m sure they don’t have to do something like this for an adult every day.

I walked out of the building, keeping my composure, and then sat in my car.  Before turning the key in the ignition and resuming NPR, I briefly allowed myself a moment to feel the gravity of the situation.  The test had been submitted.  It’s really happening.  Whether I wanted the results at this point or not, the truth was coming—there was no turning back.

During my train ride back to NYC, I was a wreck.  The guilt of the 5% chance that I might be wrong weighed heavily on me.

What if I just put this other family through hell (and some kind of hefty fee for this test) for nothing, just because I was overconfident in my searching abilities?  What if I missed a key detail and ended up looking like an idiot—or worse—a lunatic?

And what if after ALL of this, after being SO close to the truth, I was back at square one of my search?  If it’s not him, then it has to be someone who was adopted out of this family themselves. And if that’s the case, then it will be virtually impossible to EVER find him.  How would I live with knowing that I would never know?  And how could I possibly ask anyone else in this family to trust me and test again if I was wrong?  How could they not hate me for my carelessness in my search?  Now that I had been getting to know my probable half-siblings, they had become real to me—people I would want in my life—not merely names on a screen.  If it turns out that they’re actually my cousins and I drug them through this mess just to find that out, I can’t imagine that they’d ever want me in their lives again in any capacity.  I’m already only about one foot in—a “relative stranger”—maybe in that case it would just be easier for them if I remained nothing more.

And yet the thought of never getting to meet my “new” family members, even if they were “just” cousins…just felt like an unbearable reality. To NEVER have the chance to know them.  I had come so far and only wanted to feel like I had some sort of meaningful connection to the family that anonymous donor conception and the fertility industry had denied.    I wanted to be able to reclaim in some way the relationships that had been taken from me as a condition of my existence.  That condition was a man-made one, not a condition of the spirit.  No one had any right to place it on anyone else, especially not in a way that was planned in order to cater to potential insecurities that were for sale.  I desperately wanted to finally feel connected to and, yes, welcomed by the common generation that our ancestors produced, even if I would always be a little different.

What if all of that was at risk?  Just thinking about my great grandparents and knowing that as “untraditional” as my origin story was, and even though I was raised apart from their progeny, I am technically every bit as much equally tied to the same bloodline—to Mary Ethel and Robert Edwin.  They had never given their permission to any doctor for me to be cast permanently out of the family line forever.  Our history is mutual and stories intertwined, even if we had never known until now.

At the same time, everyone has the right to choose (as adults, anyway) who they do and do not want to involve in their life.  And if I wind up hurting Keith’s family by being wrong about this admittedly somewhat crazy-sounding way that I’m connected to them…then yes, of course they would have every right to not want to be reminded of it by my presence.  Heck, even if I’m right it very well may hurt just as much.  To have to accept the good with the bad—that my brothers and my link to them had been produced via an incredible violation of their trust (even if accidentally) by the same doctor who had helped them have their own three children—even that is a big ask to trade for the truth.   I’m lucky that my probably half-siblings (and perhaps my biological father, their Dad, as well?) even see any good in this at all.

The biggest “good” of all of this was arguably for my brothers and I—to gain our existence—and my parents to gain the family they’d always longed for.  Not only did Keith never consent to having any additional children out there, and certainly not by a woman who was not his wife, but he also literally took NO action that would have made him responsible for impregnating anyone else.  They say it takes two to tango in the culpability for an unintended pregnancy, but in this instance, it took quite a bit more than that—and yet absolutely ZERO irresponsible action on his end.  Those samples were to be used exclusively on his wife.  And she didn’t deserve or consent to any of this either.  The half of us that is genetically his had always been intended to be combined with her.  And yet that same half of me that is his, and not my Mother, was also technically supposed to be some other unknown man out there.  Nonetheless, fate would have it otherwise, that I am me.

I never meant to hurt anyone to exist.  And while my existence is perhaps half borrowed, it is still real.  I am human, and as any human, regardless of the fact that I am proud to have only one Mom and Dad—the parents who raised me and the only two people who will ever hold those irreplaceable spaces in my heart—I still have a natural drive to know BOTH biological halves of the people where I come from.  And their families.

Those answers are only days away.  Would any of us be ready for them?  How could we be?

My sister, C, send me a message shortly after my appointment letting me know she was thinking of me. She hoped that all went smoothly and that I would have a safe trip back to NYC.  I let her know that everything went just fine on my end.

Later that day, I checked in to see if everything went smoothly on Keith’s end, too.  It did.

Anxiously, I explained how sorry I was in advance if it turned out that I was wrong about all of this.  My sister K assured me that it seemed very unlikely for that to be the case.  I agreed, and remembered that the last of our great-grandparents’ lines to test, “Rachel”, had a descendant pop up on my match list through MyHeritageDNA several weeks before.  When I checked where she fell on the family tree, I was able to confirm that her genetic distance in centimorgans from me made it impossible that her line held my biological father.  The only exception would be if it turned out that Rachel was born out-of-wedlock herself, and thus only biologically related to her mother, which seemed unlikely.  Granted, anything is possible and more and more people are finding out about such things with the advent and popularity of commercial DNA testing, but still.  Chances were good that this just pointed even more clearly that I had done my DNA homework correctly.

So now it was just time to wait.  Except it wouldn’t be quite as easy to bury the wait as far back in my mind as before.  This time, I would only have a few days—a week, tops—before the results were back, unlike the months of waiting that I had been used to with the various commercial DNA tests.  At least I was guaranteed that my 12+ hour work days would keep me busy.

No matter what was about to happen, at least the result of all of this insanity was that I AM alive, have had a pretty great life, and now have even more family in it.  That’s not nothing.

And so we wait.

Well, work kept me busy as promised.  The rest of the week went by at lightning speed in NYC.  On most days, I try to write at least twice in order to decompress and/or get focused, but I barely had time for any of that at all. By the time I got back to where I was crashing after work each day, I was both starving and dead tired.  (Not my favorite combo.)  Knowing that I would need to be back at work in only a few hours didn’t help, either.  The whirling in my head of questions, possibilities, and lingering doubts made what little sleep I was able to get anything but restful.  What I hid from myself during the day found its “on button” at night, but I was too tired to process it in any sort of a helpful way.  Instead, I had my first hardcore panic attack that I’d had in months.  This one cropped up in the middle of the night.  The second one cropped up in its wake the next morning as I headed to the subway to catch my train into work.  Fortunately, I was able to make it through the rest of the week without another occurrence.

On Friday morning, I gathered all of my belongings with me (since I’d be heading back to PA after work for the weekend) and boarded my bus toward the office.  One more day this week.  I just had to get through ONE more day this week until I could take a breather.  I was immensely looking forward to having a chance to decompress over the weekend and finally having the opportunity to reflect and write a bit more about everything that was happening.  I knew that it would ultimately be unhealthy to just bury it under a pile of work (or even a marathon of TV shows over the weekend, as I was tempted to do).  It needed to get out, not get numbed-out.  Of course, I also knew that I now had an application project to work on and submit over the weekend, too.  When it rains, it pours, good or bad.  I’d need to spend my time carefully that weekend to give everything its rightful time.  All I REALLY wanted to do though was sleep.

My morning bus commute to work would take close to a full hour, so naturally, being the semi-millennial that I am (I’m indignant enough about the title to only half embrace it), I turned my attention to Facebook in order to entertain me.  After scrolling through my newsfeed and watching probably at least 3 videos about cats (I was missing my cat, Pumpkin, what can I say?) I put my phone away for a bit in order to preserve my battery.

I looked out the window and thought about what I’d need to get done that day.  Hopefully I’d have time to grab a coffee before my 8:15am daily “standup” meeting, because I desperately needed one.  I’d probably have time to stop at one of the food trucks across the street from the office—they were usually pretty quick.

A few minutes later, at 7:53am, my phone dinged.  I had received a Facebook message.

It was from my half-sib group chat.

It’s hard to put into words exactly what that moment felt like.  I had a million emotions running through me at once.

I was right?  I wasn’t crazy after all–I was RIGHT?  I actually did it!  Holy shit.  The search is finally over.  I found the rest of my family!

I officially have two sisters and THREE brothers!

I felt overjoyed and sad and angry at the same time.  It was overwhelming.  I had found what had been taken away—it was sad that I now knew for certain WHO had been taken away, but happy that I was starting to have them back.  Knowing who I lost was the first step.  The fertility industry could no longer take that right away from me—it had been reclaimed, impossible be damned!

All I wanted to do in that moment was to catch up on 33 years-worth of artificial separation caused by anonymous artificial insemination.

My SISTER (alas, sister!), K, emailed me a copy of the results as I frantically tried to pull them up on my phone.  And yet I was almost at my bus stop and cutting it close to my work meeting.

I quickly messaged my manager and let him know I had just received some pretty big news and would need some time to process after the meeting.  Fortunately, he was very kind and told me to take whatever time I needed.

As I raced to my office, rolling my suitcase along with me, my mind raced, too.  And yet I would have to find a way to temporarily suppress this new knowledge from myself yet again in order to get through my work meeting.  I hadn’t even had time yet to respond to my siblings—yes, siblings!—after K had sent me the results since I was racing against the clock to get to the office without being late.

After my meeting, I was finally able to take my manager up on his offer to take the time that I needed.  At least some of it.  I found an empty meeting room, closed the door behind me, and opened up my email with the official paternity results.

There they were. Clear as day.  Official confirmation that the impossible was possible, and that my search was truly over.  I had a name for the other face in the mirror, for the source of the other 50% of my cells.  After 33 years it was hidden no longer, a long-awaited answer and blessing that most donor conceived people in my position are never granted.

Tears welled up in my eyes.  I couldn’t help but be proud of the work that I had done, even while still being filled with disbelief at the facts right in front of me.  Is this really happening?

At the same time, I knew that this moment was probably also sad and scary in other ways for my biological father and his wife.  This was confirmation of the impossible for them, too, although an impossibility that they may have quietly wished  wasn’t so—life would have been easier that way.  All of the messiness of the past several months could have gone away, and I could have been dismissed as a family member who was merely grasping at the wrong straws to figure out the missing piece of her identity.  While it was a shame that I even had to wonder if this reaction was taking place as I solved one of the greatest puzzles of my life, it wouldn’t have been their fault if they had been thinking this way.  After all, they didn’t ask for any of this any more than I or my parents did.  They just wanted their own family, and trusted their fertility doctor to give this to them, as my parents had, too.  Only both families got more than they bargained for.  Though they each got a family, they also became a sort of extended family in the process—hidden, but still there.  Someone in that office on that day made a choice that connected all of us forever, whether we knew it at the time or not.  And there was no going back.

As such, I wanted to continue giving Keith and his wife space.  Besides, it’s not like I had any idea of what to say to start with!  Not only is there no guidebook on to how to navigate finding and connecting with your biological family as an anonymously donor conceived person, but there CERTAINLY is no guidebook on how to navigate a situation like this.  This was big news, and they would probably need time to process, first and foremost with one another.  They might also need time to grieve, even if that means grieving over our existence.  And even though that hurts to think about, it’s necessary and I understand.  If I found out that my husband had a child with someone else, even if through absolutely no fault of his own, I would need time to grieve, too.  It’s human.  And it’s grieving the reality of the situation, not the person.  I can only hope that, one day, there will be enough distance from the shock that I would be seen as separate from that situation—born out of the sin but without the sin.  Another family’s miracle, although we were half intended to be theirs.  But perhaps still the miracle of a life nonetheless. I hoped my own parents could one day see Keith with the same compassion–separating their grief over the situation from him, and instead seeing him as not only equally victimized by the situation, but as human source of half of what they love so much in this world–the miracle of their children.  Not a Dad (to us, anyway) but connected as extended family.

For now, while the truth of who my biological father is finally is clear, the celebration would be with my siblings.  It was simpler with them.  We were on more similar ground, as none of us had been directly deceived by the doctors we trusted so deeply.  The doctors who were trusted with the most intimate and innate drive to form a family, who were believed to be 100% “on our team” and “in our corner” during our parents’ time of greatest vulnerability. My siblings and I were just born into these relationships, and our relationship to each other in no way threatened the traditional model of family—one can have an indefinite number of sibling slots in a traditional family tree.  We each had just gained three more.

Returning to the group chat, we excitedly discussed the results and sheer craziness of the situation.  While we all knew it was likely going in, seeing it definitively spelled out on paper made it real.  There was so much catching up to do.  And while we were excited for our gain, our shock that something like this has been allowed to happen was renewed.  We felt for each other, and also for our parents.  We joked that the whole scenario sounded like a movie.  It was all bitter-sweet.

My sisters asked how I was going to tell my brothers, and I was reminded that—right—all of this involved 6 of us.  It wasn’t right that I was the only one who knew, and as much as I was still in shock myself, I had to honor my promise to them to let them know the truth once I knew for sure.

I tried reaching out to my brothers, but they weren’t able to answer their phones.  It would have to wait.

We now all had the truth, but would need to each decide for ourselves, although also together, what this meant for us and how we would want to move forward in our relationships.  What would everybody want and not want?  And how would that make each other feel?  Once again, with no guidebook, it was a crazy thing to navigate, but I firmly believed that there was a way that it could be good, too.

All this time I had been holding and reserving some of my feelings because I was afraid that I would get hurt if the results came back negative.  But now that I knew the truth, to me at least, I viewed them as siblings.  Sure, it likely wouldn’t be exactly the same as siblings you’ve grown up with, but we ARE siblings nonetheless.  And yet I had to brace for the fact that they might not necessarily feel the same way.  And who knew how my brothers would feel toward them—the last thing I would want after introducing us into their lives would be to hurt them by having them feel like they’re not accepted into our lives, too.  That doesn’t need to mean spending holidays together or anything like that, but each person deserves to feel like they matter to their family members, new or not.

I was pretty sure that my brothers would want to get to know their siblings, and one had expressed as much in the past.  But I had always been a bit more comfortable with embracing significant changes than the other two.  Moving across the country several times over to cities where I knew nothing and no one for a job, trusting that it would be okay.  Biting off “more than I could chew” was normal for me—I knew that I’d be able to get it all down and figure it out eventually.  I had always viewed change as an opportunity for adventure and exploration.  I’d also always been more inclined to loudly speak my truth, even when my opinion might not be viewed as especially popular or easy to digest at first. Truth, justice, and connection, in addition to adventure and exploration, had always been values close to my heart.  But those aren’t the only “right” way to live, and I had no monopoly on valid paths forward.  Truth can exist more quietly in certain circumstances, and connection can be just as meaningful with a small few as it can with a revolving door of additions to one’s life.

While I already felt a responsibility to protect the feelings of each of my siblings, I knew that I had no right to dictate anything to any of them.  There are choices we will each have to make about if and how to integrate each other into our lives.  I just hope that we will each be able to do so with the full and unconditional love and support of our family members and loved ones, and that the artificial barriers that were misguidedly placed between us by an industry that didn’t yet understand its own effects could finally be lain to rest.  I also hoped that my parents would show us mercy, too, and recognize that the desire we may have to know the rest of our family in no way negates or diminishes the value we place on the family we’ve always known.  A choice that is made out of fear is no choice at all—it is a burden.  I know that my parents didn’t conceive us in the way that they did in order to put limits on our love.

It may be scary at first, but I hope that they will choose the path of love and TRUST.  Not guilt and limitations.  We all deserve more than that from those who loved us into being.

I told my siblings that, on my end, I had no expectation of treating their Dad—yes, THEIR Dad—as our father, even though I would still use the term biological father to describe him (since he technically is).  I also had no intention of taking up space in their relationship with him.  I did predict that, since a person can have any number of siblings, that I would view them as my siblings, too, although I wasn’t trying to intrude in any way on the sibling relationships they already had with each other.  Those relationships are sacred, and many years in the making since they grew up with one another.  That type of relationship is one of a kind.  But I was hoping to at least meet and become friends.  We’d already had enough forcibly denied us over the years by the choice made in that fertility office, and I for one wanted to put that to an end.

My sisters agreed.  (S was unavailable at the time, but I’d like to think he perhaps felt similarly, too.)  K noted that her Dad had no expectation in any way of replacing anyone in our family either—and, if anything, would be more akin to a “long-lost Uncle” type situation.  There is a special bond that can only be created by raising and being raised by someone—blood or not.  That is a full parent.  Any bond that we might form would be very different.  Meaningful in its own right—sharing half of each others’ cells and everything that comes with it—but, still, not the same.

These are all such complicated feelings to disentangle, even for those who knowingly involved themselves in an anonymous donation process.   It’s even more complicated for those who were entered into such a web without choice.  I’m sure that has made this news even scarier for my parents, as they now know that the biological father of their children never voluntarily rescinded his connection, although he never really consented to a connection at all to sever it in the first place.  But they’d be glad to know that in the absence of raising someone, his connection to us is a very different one.  We will each define that for ourselves, but it will not be a traditional father-child relationship.

And at the end of the day, no blame can be cast on anyone in his or our family.  There’s only one person who can be blamed for creating an environment for anyone ever even feel the need to question the nature of their relationships with either fear or pain, and that person is whoever used Keith’s sample on my parents instead of that of the agreed upon donor.  Beyond that, we are just family, of one sort or another.

At this point, nothing can be undone, and the only path is forward.

The choice is now ours on how to make that family relationship a beautiful accident.  One that openly accepts and adjusts to the truth, and one that embraces connection.  We are stronger than our fear, more merciful than our grief, and more generous than the mistruths we were given.  We have the choice to create that beauty, for despite all the mess, we were each also gifted a lot.  To Keith and his wife, as well as my parents, each their own families—to my siblings and I—life, and each other.  And to whom much is given, much is also expected; this situation is no different.  No one else can do choose the path of beauty—the path of strength, mercy, and generosity toward one another—for us.

It is ours to claim.  Onward.