It was a Wednesday night when it happened.  Earlier that day, I had been invited to start a trial period for a new position in NYC (that would begin the very next day!)  Since I was primarily based out of Philly at the time, this was going to be a pretty big move, and a lot to figure out overnight.  I would need not only to read through the (long) contractor handbook (and figure out what I was going to wear the next day) but also determine someone I could crash with (at least through the end of the week) and pack for that time period.  And yes, ugh, that would mean getting up before 5am in order to get ready and catch the train and be there in time for their daily 8:15am “stand up” meeting.  At minimum, this would be two weeks of crashing with folks in NYC.  At maximum, it would be highly interesting (yet time intensive) work through the end of December.

I was fortunate enough to pretty quickly solidify arrangements for where I would crash through the rest of the week as I frantically began to pack.  That said, I was still working on where I would stay for the following two weeks, but couldn’t focus on that part just yet.

About 30 minutes into packing, as I was trying to decide which dresses to bring that would be least likely to get wrinkled (my ironing game has never really been “on point”), my phone dinged me with an alert.

I grabbed my phone to read the notification.  My heart seemed to stop, then began racing a mile a minute as my world shifted yet again.

Holy-ajfljsdflksajdf, my 95%-likely-half-sister is reaching out to me on Facebook!!!

What could she want to say?  Will it be good or bad?  What if she’s writing to tell me they don’t believe me and never want me to contact them again?  What if everything I’ve done so far to reconnect with them will have been for nothing?  Or, what if she wants to actually talk and this is my one chance to make a good impression but I screw it up because I’m stressed about silly packing and starting a new job tomorrow?

Oh right. Packing.  Yes.  A welcome distraction.  Let’s just pretend nothing is happening here and all I need to do is pack because evvvverything is normal and fine!

I launched into full-on fear/denial-mode as I continued to pull work dresses out of my closet.  “Everything is fine.  This is fine.  No big deal.  Nothing to see here!”

Anti-Reality-Me answered: “Nope, none of that is possible because that didn’t just happen right now!  Nope, totally your imagination that you got a message request!  Carry on, this fictional reality will still be here once you’re done packing!”

Other-Me replied: “But what if this is your only chance to talk to them?  What if they’re not available later on tonight and the moment passes?  This is really important.  It’s finally happening, so take a breath and embrace it.  Just breath.  It will be okay.  No matter what, you will find a way to be okay.  Just TRY.”

For the umpteenth time, I mustered up all of my courage and hit “accept” on the message request.  As it turns out, they had sent a duplicate message from all three of them, but I only saw this one at first.

They wanted to let me know that the attorney they had been speaking with unfortunately decided to not move forward with taking the case at this time.  While that was extremely disappointing, the one positive that came out of the decision was that it meant that they no longer had to avoid direct communication with me.  The communication wall had suddenly, yet finally, been lifted.

They also wanted me to know that the only reason they hadn’t reached out sooner was because the lawyer had insisted that they refrain while he was considering taking the case.  Their silence had nothing to do with their interest level in getting to know us—in fact, they’ve been just as curious about us as we have been about getting to know them!

Finally, and importantly, they wanted me to know that they were interested in both me and Keith getting an official, legally recognized paternity DNA test done.

The entire message was such a relief to hear.  Phew!  So far at least it wasn’t the worst case scenario that I was so fearful of, and as I had suspected, they just couldn’t be in contact because of the former potential lawyer.  They want to know us, and want to know the truth. It was finally time.

I had actually already purchased one more AncestryDNA test that I could gift to them so that we could finally have closure on understanding our biological relationship to one another.  At least closure on the first step—are they my siblings, and is their Dad our biological father.  As much as all signs point 95% in the direction that Keith is our biological father, I didn’t think it was fair to any of us in the long run if we didn’t find out for sure, and DNA is the only way to know 100%.  However, I didn’t know how to bring it up to them and had been holding off on asking since I didn’t know how they were feeling about everything to start with.  I didn’t want to push the envelope and overstep since I had already pushed a million tiny envelops just to get to this point.

But C, K, and S (I’m using initials for my half-siblings) and I were on the same page.  They proposed an official DNA test, which would be better, since the results would be completely definite, leaving no questions.  Also, unlike going the AncestryDNA route, the test results could be viewed in as little as 5 days (as opposed to MONTHS).  K took care of coordinating the test (and generously paying for it), which was unbelievably kind and such a gift given that I just started a new job and have been traveling (thus my own personal funding was certainly not at an all-time high).

I let them know that I was 100% down to take the test, and was so glad to finally be in contact with them!  And apologized that I barely knew what to say.

After a couple of minutes of talking, my heart stopped yet again:

Whoops, whoops.  Oh yea, that.  Minor detail about my life…I sort of happen to be blogging about some of it.

Once again…

I really hadn’t known how to broach that subject with any of our “new” family, since the blog had been started long before I had finally found them—before I knew if it would ever even be possible—and had been such a powerful processing tool for me.  I was hoping against hope that I wouldn’t have to give it up, especially since I had been writing it anonymously and (trying to) carefully change most names and whatnot, but I also didn’t know how everyone would ultimately feel about it.  Already it was hard bringing up to my Mom, who is an exceptionally private person.  So when and how would be best to bring it up to my additional branch of family now that I’ve found them?  I already was essentially pushing the envelope of comfort zones and risking sounding like a rando crazy person by stating how I’m biologically related, surely breaking the news that I’m also writing about my search at the same time might cause even more hesitance?  Certainly I never intended to withhold that part forever, but figured that a.) it would probably be best for them to get to know me at least a tiny bit first and b.) I’d like to be able to tell my immediate “new” bio family members about this part myself rather than through the grapevine.  I would just have to be cognizant of writing as anonymously as I can to protect their privacy, too, in the meantime.

Regardless, apparently my half-siblings are just as excellent at internet-sleuthing as I am (genetic? haha), because they were able to find my blog on their own.  Fortunately, my panic attack didn’t last too long, because C followed up by graciously saying that she had been reading it for two hours and found it to be really insightful.  She explained that being able to read through the documentation of all the research I had conducted so far had been really helpful.  I thanked God again for the mercy shown.

We talked via group-chat for 3 hours that night (mostly C, K, and I—poor S was included on the convo but wasn’t around at the time, yet I’m sure his phone was blowing up a mile a minute with messages between his the rest of us).  We started talking about everything, comparing our likes, similarities, childhoods, and photos, looking for the threads that bind the paternal side.  I’ve always been fascinating by the interplay of “nature vs. nurture”, yet it was still mind-blowing to see the similarities we’ve shared as siblings who have never met.  We also shared health information, spoke of additional “new” family members, and figured out who else in our lives we knew in common—we grew up just 40 minutes away from one another, after all.

It was incredible to finally have a conversation that could just as easily have never happened—we could have gone our WHOLE lives never knowing that our own siblings exist—yet somehow, some way, between fate, an incredible amount of effort, luck, and mercy, the first conversation of many became a reality.  The fertility process, which was meant to create a family, had effectively rendered us strangers, but we finally had the opportunity to begin changing that.  How quickly things can change, and how quickly humanity and care can be restored, undoing a process that had, in many ways, attempted to erase and deny the fact that biological kinship inherently also matters.  We may not have grown up together, and our relationship to one another will likely look different as a result, but we never needed to be strangers to one another in order to be family to those who raised us.  The parameters of my love were drawn for me out of fear, a fear that was heightened by my parents’ fertility doctor when she encouraged my parents to use an anonymous “donor” and never breathe a word to us or anyone else.  When the doctor’s orders were shame.  But being brought into this world is a beautiful thing, and there never needed to be any shame in that.  To encourage that secrecy was the first step in making it appear as though something was “wrong”.  Those who choose adoption are generally not encouraged to hide that from their children, family, and friends, and yet there is no question in those instances that the parents who raise the child are their parents.  Why would this be any different?

We just have an extra branch to our family tree, just as they do, and should feel encouraged (and not shamed) to pursue understanding and connecting with our histories, just as adoptees are.  Our other branch doesn’t need to be seen as a threat, and in fact this is the least healthy thing a parent, doctor, and/or society at large could ever teach a child.

What we really need is to have a little more faith in each other as human beings and in the power of the relationships we’ve spent our lives cultivating.  When we do a good job of loving one another, adding to the family equation should be a happy thing for everyone—if we love unconditionally, how could it not be?

Back to my half-siblings.  They know by now that I can be a little bit ADD, and certainly I digress from time to time.

Anyway, after excitedly talking for hours, we said our farewell-for-nows as I finished getting ready for my first day of a new job. I went to bed with so much potential on the horizon.  I might not have gotten a ton of sleep, but I slept soundly.  Life had more in store.

While I plan to not quote my siblings and “new” family members on the whole, since I’m still not exactly sure how they’d feel about THAT, hopefully they’ll forgive me for this one part.

As we said goodnight, C said:

I instantly smiled probably one of the biggest smiles of my life.    It took all of 33 years, but I now finally had sisters. (And a third brother.) 🙂

Thank you for being so welcoming and amazing, even though all of this has been messy and hard.  You have been beautiful, and I’m so glad that my life has expanded to include the three of you in it.

With that, I dedicate this post to you, C, K, and S, with love.  May it add to all of our lives, for the rest of our lives.

🙂 Your other sister

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.

Oh Lord, I’m getting so, so nervous for my first meet up with my half-siblings tomorrow!  What if we run out of things to say since we’ve been talking so much already?  What if I say the wrong thing?  What if I have one too many drinks and make a fool of myself?  What if they don’t like me and decide that they don’t want to stay in touch after all?  And what if because they don’t like me they tell their Dad to steer clear of ever meeting me himself?

Realistically, I don’t think that’s going to happen, but I am very, very good at the game of contemplating horrible “what ifs”.

Every now and again, when I go down this particular thought path, I like to remind myself of this quote that Carly (my coach) shared with me:

“Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear.  George Addair”

In many instances, I think this is very true.  There’s some other quote, too, along a similar line of thought that I really like, but of course I don’t remember what it is.  Darn, I’m trying to think of where I put it…Ah yes, it was something like “you can create your own hell by living off of negative assumptions and treating them as truth”.

Yea, so I guess let’s not do that.

In order to feel like I had at least a modicum of control over the situation, at least the part about being afraid that we’d awkwardly run out of things to talk about, I put together a list of questions from these “Connect Cards”.  I know I have an actual deck of them somewhere packed away with all of my things from my move, but I haven’t been able to put my finger on them yet.  I’ll probably just print them out and we can use them that way if we want.

We’ll be meeting at 5pm at an Irish pub in Philly (suitably enough!)  I actually think I’ve been there at least once before, many years ago, and heard some live music.  My guess is that there won’t be any live music happening at 5 o’clock, but that’s probably a good thing, otherwise we might not even be able to hear each other.

I think I’ll probably take the train in, that way I can avoid crazy center city parking.  This way, I’ll also have a full hour to get all sorts of nervous along the way!

I’m disappointed that I’m going to be the only one repping my family, but James isn’t ready for all of this yet and Adam is working a new job, so couldn’t take the time off.

At the same time, maybe it’s appropriate that it’s just me at first, since I’ve sort of been the driving force that that led us to where we are today.  Maybe I needed to do this last step alone.

I’m not sure where all of this will lead, but I’m open to the possibilities of this journey.

May the luck of the Irish be with us.

—The next several posts were written several months ago, but will be posted in succession.  Apologies for the delay!  I bet you’ve been wondering what on earth we’ve been up to.  It’s definitely been a continued adventure as we enter into this uncharted territory of undoing our anonymity.—

I met up with Courtney, Kelly, and Shane at an Irish Bar in Philly called “Slainte”.  It basically translates to “health/cheers” and is frequently used as a drinking toast in Ireland and Scotland.  We had a great time.  I was running a little bit late on my train in, and of course had to pee more badly than I ever have in my life within the first few minutes of my train ride.  So, I would be late because of the train, but also to stop in the restroom in the station the second I got in before rushing to find the place.  They were all good sports about it.  As I walked into the bar, I saw them pretty much right away, but had to wait before walking over because I was being carded.  Ha!  33 years old—I’m not complaining.  I’ll take getting carded as long as I can if it means that I might possibly look like there’s a universe in which I’m still under 21.

Anyway, I headed over to the table, gave everyone a hug and a hello, and was also greeted by some appetizers of quesadillas, one of my favorites.  We most certainly are related!  Over the next hour or two, we talked a bit about our lives, they filled me in more on their branches of their family (our family, I suppose), and just sort of talked about life.  It actually felt minimally awkward, from my perspective, at least, given the circumstances that I was meeting my own siblings for the literal first time in our lives.

After closing out our tab, they kindly walked me to the train station, and even came inside to make sure I found where I needed to go.  (I think they realized that I can sometimes be a bit directionally challenged, haha, although I always wind up making it to where I’m going.)  It was very sweet of them and I appreciated it greatly.  We said our goodbyes-for-now and figured we’d try to get together again, perhaps with their Dad and maybe our Aunt when would be in the town around the Christmas holidays.

My train wasn’t going to be ready for another 15-20 minutes or so, so I grabbed myself a slice of pizza and a sprite to start sopping up the drinks I had just consumed.  Despite how I might look, I’m not nearly 21 anymore and wasn’t trying to be hurting the next day.

A couple weeks later, Courtney mentioned to me that our Aunt was going to be further north than usual (in Arlington, VA) later that week, which is about an hour away from where Courtney lives in Baltimore.  She was wondering if I might want to make a quick trip to meet her together.  Aunt Christy and I hadn’t been able to connect the last time she was up north, and I really did want to finally meet her.  She’s about 5 years older than my biological father.

She messages me via Facebook now and again expressing excitement about finding a time for us to finally meet, which has been so meaningful to me.  She signs off on each message to me “Aunt Christy”, so usually I try to start off each message acknowledging her that way.  I hope that my last such message is a long, long time away from now.  At the same time, none of us know how much time we have left on any of our relationships—each moment is a gift, and memories can only be formed if we make them.  Everything I’ve learned about her through other family members made clear that she is an incredibly kind, strong, smart, and accomplished woman—someone truly admirable, and a family woman through and through.  Like me, she used to keep track of the family lines and histories—I guess it runs in the blood for some of us after all!  It hurts to know that my time with such a loving woman, my own aunt, isn’t guaranteed—especially since she lives so far away.  I’ll probably also never know and unpack the full extent of whatever similarities we share.  A certain extent of the overlap will remain unknown. It’s incredible to me that for the past 33 years, an anonymous “donation” kept us from knowing and having a relationship with one another, and now that I’ve found her, the sand of time left to know each other is escaping me.  My own memory isn’t the greatest, particularly long-term, so I’m glad that I’ve been taking the time to write down and at least partially capture what all of this has meant to me, to expand my life.  Or, I guess it was always there, too, so uncover it?

After all of that work and overcoming all of that improbability to find and know one another, I’m up against the clock to fit my “new” family members into my life while the present is still available.  In the back of my mind, I know that we’re being slowly pulled away from each other yet again, but I’m trying to fight it. While the craziness of life and work has me up to my eyeballs in distractions, I also want to slow it all down a bit and not miss out.  Time is precious—a gift.  I knew I had to go to see her.

I drove a few hours down to Baltimore to Courtney’s place, then, after a quick tour (and her help with finding a spot to park!) we hopped into her car and drove the rest of the way to Derrick’s office in Arlington where our Aunt would be waiting as he worked.

We met her Derrick at the office door as he greeted us warmly and let us in.  He then ushered us to the office where Christy was sitting.  Cue the marathon of first-time family meetings!  (And silently reminding myself to breathe.)

After 33 years of unintentional absence, I saw my Aunt’s face, in person, for the first time.  Courtney greeted her and introduced me.  We all sat down at the office table and excitedly chatted about all kinds of things—what her life was like growing up, her parents, the places she lived, her career, hobbies, etc.  We also talked about how we both had gone to Penn State, and reminisced about our time at the school.  A while later, I pulled out some pictures I had brought with me of my brothers and I growing up for her to see.  Courtney was so helpful with asking her different questions to help guide the conversation so I could learn more about the family, for which I was very grateful.  She also pointed out to us that one of the paintings on the wall was of the house her own Mother, our Grandmother, had grown up in while living in Ireland.  I could envision the cabin that was already known somewhere to me within my very own flesh and blood–it was not its first meeting with this place.  To the people I carry with me in my veins, it had been home.  It was pretty incredible.

After several hours of talking, Derrick had finished up his work for the day, and we got ready to come back with them for dinner at their son and daughter-in-law’s house, where they would be staying that night.  It would also be my first time meeting them (and their son, my “first cousin once removed’).  It was a day of introductions for sure!

We said goodbye-for-now to Derrick and Christy since they were going to stop at the store in their own car to pick up some pizzas for us on the way to the house.  Courtney drove us in her car (while I had to randomly take a conference call that had been planned for weeks)—fortunately she didn’t mind or think it was too weird, haha.

When we pulled up to my cousin and his wife’s house (I’ll call them Ben and Tina, and their son Ronnie), I wrapped up my conference call and tried to bury my next wave of anxiety.  We had arrived at Ben and Tina’s before Derrick and Christy, so once again C would be the only one I would know as I met even more “new” family members. For the 80^th time, I wondered if I should do a handshake or hug, and what on God’s Earth my biological family members would think of me—the new relative with the crazy story.  Every member of the family had been great so far, so I placated myself into believing that this shouldn’t be any different.  It would probably be weird, yes, but finally knowing each other would make it less weird.  At the end of the day, despite a circus of circumstances, we were family.

It’s not like we could just stand outside all day (plus it was cold as heck), so we knocked on the door while I waited more anxiously than I cared to admit.

In we went!  We immediately were welcomed by Ben and Tina, and rather enthusiastically by our sweet, energetic little cousin, Ronnie.  He didn’t hesitate for a second in introducing us to all of his toys and games (and I was quite impressed to see a strong representation by the Ninja Turtles—my brothers and I loved them, too, as kids).  As we played with Ronnie, we also chatted with Ben and Tina as I began to get to know them.  Both were very kind and welcoming—happily continuing the trend amongst their family to be a wonderful addition to my life.

Eventually, Christy and Derrick arrived with the pizzas, and we got down to pizza-eating business.  And a little salad-eating business, for good measure.  And certainly some wine-drinking business, as my Aunt is equally a fan of a good red.  We had a great time talking more about all kinds of things and getting to know each other better.

Around 8 or 9pm, we had to say our farewells since Courtney and I needed to drive back to Baltimore for the night, where I would be staying overnight at her place.  Before leaving, we talked about trying to get together again when Aunt Christy and Derrick would be in the Philadelphia area for the holidays.

That night, Courtney and I watched an episode of “This is Us” together, which was especially poignant given how the show’s subject matter relates to our own situation.  In true sibling form, we both teared up at all the good parts.

The next morning, I drove home to Philadelphia.  I certainly had a lot to ponder on that drive, and a drive was probably exactly what I needed.  I always find that long-distance driving allows me to do some of my best thinking and clear my head (solo, anyway—I can’t drive and carry on a conversation to save my life, not if we’re planning on getting to our destination anytime soon!) so the two hours I spent on the highway were quite welcome timing.

I wondered when I would see them next, if they would eventually meet my brothers, and what the “final frontier” of intros would be like—meeting my biological father.