 By Kathleen Shea Kirstein The telephone cord is so short that I feel trapped in a 3-foot space. I can’t pace, which is what I want to be doing—anything to dispel this adrenaline circulating through my body. I am on hold with the Passport Office to find out why my passport did not arrive in the same envelope as my husband's. We had applied for our passports several months before, after winning a trip to Cancun. My husband's was a renewal, and mine would be my first-ever passport. I was thrilled, but now I stand here on hold listening to the crappy elevator music.. Finally, a voice on the other end of the phone said, “Your birth certificate was filed fourteen months after your birth. You did not send documentation to explain the delay in filing your birth certificate. We require this documentation to proceed.” She discussed that a packet of information would arrive in two weeks. I barely choked out the words, “Ok, thank you.” I called my mother. Hoping she would have the answer to this question. We were very close and talked at least once a week. “It must be a clerical error, I‘m sure it will be fine,” she said and hung up on me. I stood in my 3-foot square staring at the phone receiver in my hands. Sobs overcame me. I hung up the phone, palms of my hands against the wall, and I let the emotion wash over me. What was going on? Why did she hang up on me? What did I do wrong? I suddenly had an urge to leave the country, probably because I had just learned that I was trapped in the USA. It was twenty years ago in August, but it feels like yesterday. That call resulted in 3 months of online searching for answers when I should have been sleeping. It ended up with me checking my own medical record on a whim. Finding that last page in my chart that read: Adopted Baby, four pounds, four ounces, two weeks premature. As a nurse, I worked in the building where I had gotten all of my medical care. That was also the day I went into my medical record and erased all of my past family medical history. For half my life, I had been using the medical history of a family for which I shared no DNA. What was my family's medical history? Who was my family? As I sit here today to type this essay, I am three months away from my sixty-ninth birthday. On that August day, I embarked on a rollercoaster ride that led to a reunion with my maternal family. The gift of that reunion was learning that my brother and I were full siblings, for I had always wanted a brother. In fact, as a child, I had tried to turn my two favorite cousins into brothers, but they had no interest in this little girl who wanted to spend time with them. Teenage boys had better things to do. Slowly, I am rebuilding the foundation of my identity. I was the only person in my small town who didn't know I was adopted. I had a reunion with my paternal half sister that went very well. Three days later, I received an email stating, “Do not contact me or any member of my family again.” I decided at that moment that I was at least a well-rounded adoptee, having known both rejection and acceptance. The biggest revelation came on December 31, 2019, at 6:30 pm, a DNA test done for fun revealed that my brother and I actually have different fathers. I was devastated. Again, I would be going into work and into my medical record, this time I only erased the paternal family medical history and said through my sob’s “ Not again”. I was back on the search for my biological father and family. Shouldn’t it be easier the second time around? It wasn’t emotionally; it was harder. I held dear synchronicities with the man I thought was my biological father all those years. I discovered that he died the day I learned I was pregnant with my son, whom I named Christopher. Unaware his daughter was named Christina. I traced the DNA matches with the help of some friends and have been in reunion with my paternal side for a few years now. My half sister and I spend time together. My half-brother met me once and decided that was enough. I now have two brothers with the same first name and middle initial. My ex-husband and I now both have sisters with the same first name and middle initial. My two adult sons decided who gets the uncle and who gets the aunt in front of their names to ease the confusion about who’s who. I have even collected some new first names as a result of learning that I started my life with a different name. Adoption is very complex. I have learned that things are no longer either-or, it's and. Example: I carry grief and joy side by side, think of scales of justice if you need a visual. I have found solace and healing in the adoption community. I have learned about relinquishment trauma, along with other trauma responses. I am learning to find my voice in speaking with my non-adoptee friends and others about the impact of late discovery adoption. As the Christmas season approaches, I reflect on a situation that I would never have questioned would be DNA-connected, or perhaps it was just that my biological mom and I share the same personality. To set the scene, my adoptive mom loved Christmas. She had a knack for finding the perfect present for each of us. She decorated to the hilt, magazine-perfect. She loved entertaining her friends, and her wrapping was next-level. All my life, I tried so hard to measure up. I admit that I am not the best at picking gifts for people. I do better during the year when I know someone needs something, I pick it up and give it to them then. I accidentally set the tradition of wrapping my Christmas presents on Christmas Eve. I found myself spending those hours wrapping, berating myself for not measuring up to my adopted mom. I am my worst judge, jury, and critic. Cruel to myself is the one sentence description. I gave others grace, but never seemed to have any left over for myself. It actually became the annual wrapping-and-berating party for one. I often use humor as a coping skill. That and minimizing, but I am getting off track. That year, I decided to call my brother and ask how our Mom was at Christmas. He said, “I don't want to speak ill, but she wasn't perfect. Gifts in a bag. She was much better during the year.” We talked for a few more moments and hung up the phone. I burst into sobs, wishing I had called him with that question years before. He had just described me. I simply had different DNA from my adopted mom. I was an apple, and she was an orange—the thought of all those years I spent berating myself for not measuring up. The psychological damage I did to myself was so unnecessary if I had only known of my adoption sooner. I would have better understood the reasons for my unique body type and problem-solving skills. I would have understood better why I never felt like I fit in or belonged anywhere. I might have learned to give myself grace earlier than age 68. And understood the importance of self-love and self-care. It was trauma responses, not my personality, driving me while my authentic self sat unaware in the back seat of my own life. That's the wound-healing work I continue to do daily—the gift of strength in knowing that I can do hard things and find humor along the way. ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kathleen Shea Kirstein is a Baby Scoop Era, Domestic, Same race, Late Discovery Adoptee and NPE (Non-Expected Parent Event). She’s the mother of two sons, a retired Registered Nurse. She’s the illustrator of 3 children's books with author D Ann Hollon and has three essays published in Severance Magazine. Dear Mother https://severancemag.com/dear-mother/ Blown off Course: https://severancemag.com/blown-off-course/ There Was a Secret: https://severancemag.com/there-was-a-secret/ Kathleen serves on the board of Adoption Knowledge Affiliates and volunteers as a peer supporter facilitator for AKA support groups. AKA invites you to hear from members of the extended family of adoption and the surrounding community. While we take great care in curating the content, please know
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