I haven’t written in
awhile. I hope to do so more
regularly. I wrote this back in
April at the time of my 50th birthday.
I puffed out my cheeks and swirled my tongue trying to
activate my salivary glands. When
I felt I had a good amount of spit, I put the plastic tube to my lips and let a
stream of saliva slip into it. I
was surprised by how much saliva I would need to produce to fill the tube to
the black line to make a full sample.
After about 5 minutes of swishing and spitting I had enough to pop the
cap closed. I placed it in the box
provided, recorded the number from the bar code and put my DNA sample in the
mail to send it to 23 and Me. In a
few weeks I will know more about who I am, or at least my ethnic heritage.
The kit was a gift from my sister-in-law and her husband on
the occasion of my 50th birthday. At Christmas they were discussing the results of their
tests. There were no surprises for
Brendan as he came back 99% Irish.
Martha is a mix of Irish, German, Hungarian and other European heritage,
which was expected as well. Being
adopted it will be different for me.
When my parents received me at the age of 5 weeks old, they were told I
was French, Italian, Hungarian and Polish. This is all they were told about me and we really don’t know
how accurate the information is.
The slogan on the side of the box reads, “Welcome to
Yourself”. In my first blog post I
mentioned that it’s odd to be looking for strangers (my biological parents) to
understand more about myself. It seems
strange as well to now be sending literally part of myself to a company. They will use instruments and computers
to produce a report, which I will read to learn more about where I come from,
biologically. I don’t know that
this is important information to have or that it will reveal anything new to
me. Then again it might. I am curious. My kids are even more so. This is a part of my new effort to uncover some truth about
who was involved in making me.
Fifty years ago I emerged from the body of a woman who I do
not know. This woman did not raise
me, my mom did. However, she
sustained me in her body with everything she ate and drank for nine months,
helping me to grow. She breathed,
and pushed, sweat, and bled to deliver me into this world. Yet we have never spoken a word to one another,
never held hands, never looked into each other’s eyes. Perhaps she cuddled me for a moment and
kissed me on the forehead before handing me over. More likely I was whisked away quickly, to rupture any
natural sense of attachment she might feel. Maybe this was to free her or punish her for the decisions
she made. In my blog I’ve been writing about me and my feelings, but maybe this
effort is about more than me.
Maybe it’s about her too. There
is a part of me who has always wanted to simply let her know I turned out okay.
I wonder if she even cares to know.
