1. Knowing

Over the past months, I’ve gone back and forth and all over the place about how and where to begin this story. Although it’s true that pieces of it were coming together long before I was aware of it, it didn’t make sense to me to try to start there. Too many people that would be necessary to help tell that part of the story have already passed away. So, I’ll just start the only way I know how. I’ll start with what I know.

Like I said in my first post, I was adopted at the age of three weeks. It’s the only life I’ve ever known, so it is my normal. It was normal in my family, too. I have one brother (also adopted but not from the same birth parents), and then my parents went on to have two biological daughters, my sisters. But, there was never a differentiation for me, other than the stories of our arrivals were different. I felt loved and cared for equally at all times, for the entirety of my parents’ lives. I would say the same for my extended family as well- aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents…I never felt different.

Real quick, about my family. My parents are both gone. My dad died in 2008, and my mom in 2010. I miss them like crazy, but feel strongly that they are still with me. My brother, Tim, is now almost 44. My sister Liza was born when I was 3 1/2, and she had Cystic Fibrosis. She was such an amazing kid and a beautiful soul. Because of her disease, though, she spent regular time at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, where she was treated, and later where she died in 1994 at age 17. I mention this now, not only because it’s important to acknowledge my family, but also because I feel that her path plays a part in what my path becomes…you’ll see what I mean later. Lastly, our sister Anne Marie was born in 1980, very prematurely. She was never able to come home, so we never knew her. She lived only 30 days.

One of the common questions I get asked is how was I told that I was adopted. The answer is, I don’t really know, or remember. I realize that may sound strange, but there wasn’t a time when I remember having some kind of big discussion or disclosure about it like it was some kind of big deal…because it was never treated that way. I do remember some comments like-sometimes Mommies have babies and for whatever reason aren’t able to care for them, and in other places, there are Mommies and Daddies who really are praying for a baby, so God brings the baby to the parents who are praying for it to help the baby and the Mommy who needs help. Also, I was the oldest child. Next in line was my brother who was also adopted. When he was born, I remember getting in the car to go and “get the new baby”. Then I also remember waving to my mom in a hospital window after my sister was born (remember when children weren’t allowed to visit?). I’m sure that brought up questions from me, and they were just answered as they came.

This word is about as overused as it can be, but I was absolutely BLESSED to have been adopted by my parents. Our lives were not perfect, and not always easy, but our family was happy and we were loved. We had a small house with three kids in it and I’m sure it was like any other house- busy and crazy and all the things a house of five is. For me it was the “good old days”…when we grew up playing with neighborhood friends, riding bikes, playing outside until the street lights came on, happy and simple. I went to Catholic school, had plenty of friends, was active (active. not talented.) in sports, got good grades and did my thing. While growing up, I’m sure the topic of my birth parents may have come up here or there, but I do not remember it as a strong or recurring theme. As in, I don’t remember when it became important to me to try to complete my story, but eventually it did.