- A Question of Trust
- Intro: The Birth of a Blog
- You and Me Could Write a Bad Romance: Part I
- Bad Romance, Part II: The Couch
- Bastard Package #1
- Hallelujah
- Born This Way
- Baby Girl X
- Another Victim of Love
- True Life
- The Girls Who Went Away
- Love and Other Drugs
- 11 Things Adoptees Love to Hear
- Uh, Never Mind
- Adoptee Kid Lit
- Bastard Princess and the Search for the Holy Grail
- MYOFB
- Awkwardness
- Baby Steps
- Faith, Hope, and Catholic Charities
- Special Delivery
- Green-eyed Monster
- !@#$
- Pandora
- Fantasyland
- Adoptees You May Have Heard Of
- Big MAC Attack
- Material Girl
- VISA and Mastercard Accepted
- Don't Hold Your Breath
- Our Love is Like a Constipated Cat
- A Question of Trust
- Adoption, Hollywood Style
- All in the Family
Bastard Princess and the Search for the Holy Grail
I’ve seen that Indiana Jones movie about the search for the Holy Grail…and it’s not a great omen for my own personal Grail search—it wouldn’t surprise me if I encounter snakes, tarantulas, giant runaway boulders, and/or Nazis in one form or another. I’d worked up the nerve to search for my birth mother once before--about 7 years earlier, in order to fill in the gaping holes in my medical history. Without it, all I can do is shrug lamely and tell my doctors that I was adopted, so I’ve never had any knowledge of my biological family’s predispositions to cancer, heart problems, brain tumors, hiccups—anything at all. I’m uncomfortable with this genetic crapshoot, although so far, I’ve been very lucky (knock on wood); maybe that’s God’s little apology for this snafu. Well acquainted with my own love of worrying as a means of controlling my fears, I wonder if knowing precisely which pitfalls loom on my medical horizon would be as much of a curse as a blessing. For example, I’m positive that a history of Alzheimer’s disease, for example, would ignite an obsession over every little brainfart. Frankly, I’m probably better off remaining clueless. However, my kids deserve to know, even if I prefer to bury my head in the sand.
The first time I initiated a search for medical information only, I started with the Wisconsin Bureau of Vital Statistics. With mixed feelings and a churning gut, I completed and sent the required request forms for exchange of medical information between myself and my birth mother, if any had been filed. A couple of weeks later, an envelope arrived from the State of Wisconsin. Hands trembling, I tore it open. It was the same green request forms I’d submitted, but amended with an official letter suggesting that I instead contact the state in which my adoption had been finalized (Illinois). Goddammit. Deflated and emotionally drained, I seized on this symbolic rejection as my golden opportunity to bail on an emotionally risky situation.
At some point, I reframed my perspective on my adoptedness from “I am adopted” to “I was adopted,” thinking that the semantic tweak would reflect my newfound control and acceptance of the situation and allow me to move on. Let bygones be bygones, right? I thought. And that’s where I’d left things. I’d thought I’d reached a balance point—until my marriage blew up in my face.
The first time I initiated a search for medical information only, I started with the Wisconsin Bureau of Vital Statistics. With mixed feelings and a churning gut, I completed and sent the required request forms for exchange of medical information between myself and my birth mother, if any had been filed. A couple of weeks later, an envelope arrived from the State of Wisconsin. Hands trembling, I tore it open. It was the same green request forms I’d submitted, but amended with an official letter suggesting that I instead contact the state in which my adoption had been finalized (Illinois). Goddammit. Deflated and emotionally drained, I seized on this symbolic rejection as my golden opportunity to bail on an emotionally risky situation.
At some point, I reframed my perspective on my adoptedness from “I am adopted” to “I was adopted,” thinking that the semantic tweak would reflect my newfound control and acceptance of the situation and allow me to move on. Let bygones be bygones, right? I thought. And that’s where I’d left things. I’d thought I’d reached a balance point—until my marriage blew up in my face.