My Adoption Story Chapter Three

People ask me all the time if it was weird to grow up adopted.  For me, being adopted was my normal, so it wasn’t weird at all.  Until I got older, most of the adoption mystery wasn’t a big deal.  I knew my parents loved me, I knew they wanted me and I felt no bitterness or anger towards my birth parents.

As I got older, the parts of adoption that bothered me had more to do with genetics than environment.  Who did I look like?  Where did my nose come from?  Why was I so tall?  Does cancer or heart disease run in my family?  Most of those answers are taken for granted in a completely biological family unit; for an adoptee they can be a scary mystery that may never be fully answered.

Recently, I managed to find yearbook photos of Helen and John online so I know now that I resemble my birth mother a great deal.  But, I didn’t have any photos of either of them growing up; and it’s only one photo during one time of their life.  Do my boys resemble them?  I don’t think so, but it’s hard to place on one photo.

Every doctor’s office has a medical information form you complete at your first visit.  Most of the questions deal with medical history of your family.  I’ve been blessed to have proactive doctors that didn’t hesitate to check little things out and I’ve been super blessed to be a healthy person with no medical problems.  But I have no knowledge of cancer, heart disease, mental illness, diabetes or other health challenges in my family.  It’s a blank.

When I was pregnant with my first son, I told my doctor I knew my birth mother was Italian.  Women of Mediterranean descent often carry a disease called Thalassemia.  It’s a blood disorder that can cause a majority of issues including death.  Women are usually carriers and can pass it down to 1 in four of their children.  My doctor requested additional testing during my first pregnancy to establish whether I carried the genetic markers for the disease (I don’t and neither of my boys have it either).

I’ve had additional testing for heart disease, cancer screenings and diabetes.  I am blessed that I’m healthy and don’t seem to have any markers for those diseases either.

What’s weird to me?  Helen was 5’6”; John was 5’11”.  I’m just slightly over 6’ tall and both my boys are tall.  I have hazel eyes; my birth mother had blue eyes, my birth father had brown eyes; my boys have their father’s (and apparently birth-grandfather’s) eye color. 

It’s also an interesting question for me how many of my skills and talents are genetic or environmental.  My mother was a great cook; I was an okay cook until just a few years ago and then I grew to love it.  I follow recipes like my mother (a pinch or a generous) but have no fear in trying new things or experimenting with flavors; that’s something I never remember my mother doing.  I’m also drawn by taste and by desire to Italian foods.  I’d rather eat pasta than potatoes or burgers any day, hands down.  Is that genetic, or just a coincidence?

I’m also drawn to bagpipe music, which is neither Italian nor Irish.  My mother, Marjorie is half Scot (her father was born in Larkhall, Scotland), but we didn’t grow up playing bagpipe music in the house.  In fact I can’t remember hearing bagpipes until I was much older.  When I did, I very nearly wept.  I’m drawn to Celtic music and lore and dream about extended trips to Scotland and Ireland. 

It’s difficult to tell how much of “me” is defined by experience vs. environment vs. DNA.  I wonder if that’s true with non-adopted people.

My Adoption Story -- Chapter Two

February 8, 2013

Recently on Facebook there have been people posting pleas requesting help finding their birth parents online.  It seems like a bit of a desperate move to some, but when you’re searching for birth family, if it works, it works. 

I’ve known my adoption information for most of my life, so my real search hasn’t been for names or identifying information; it’s been the hopeful chance that I might actually get to meet them in real life. 

A bit of a clarification for anyone reading this:  When I say “Mom, Dad, or parents” I’m talking about the family who raised me; legally my adoptive parents.  With no disrespect or bitterness towards my birth parents, they are just that – the parents that gave me genetic and biological life.  Other adoptees may recognize their parentage in whatever fits for them.  But for me, Gordon and Marjorie are and will always be my Dad and Mom.  I will attempt to always call my birth parents by their names; as identified below.

Birth Mother:    Helen Adele (Gusmini) Joyce      “Helen”

Birth Father:      John King Joyce                              “John”

The story I was told (SOME – but not all -- of which has been verified by some research and documents I posses) is that Helen became pregnant by John prior to marriage.  Helen’s mother disapproved of John as he was Irish and divorced.  Helen had some friends that owned a “rock shop” (agates, geodes, etc.) in California; she contacted them and arranged to live with them during her pregnancy and afterwards.  These friends were mutual friends of my mom and dad (in fact, they introduced them).  They knew my parents wanted a child, but were past childbearing age (Marjorie would have been 47 when I was born; Gordon 61).  These 5 people arranged for a legal private adoption through the state of California.

I have a letter that Helen wrote to my parents just about a month before my birth thanking them for adopting me.  I am thankful that my mother kept it for me and didn’t hesitate to give it to me when I asked.  It is one of my treasured possessions that kind of began my search for my birth parents.  The letter is written by Helen but she frequently mentions “us” and “our”.  A brief excerpt:

“The reason for the note is to tell you that you both are wonderful people and to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for “you”.  Hope you donot mind my writing you for I can express myself so much better & get rather “emotional” if I were to thank you in person.”

Most Sincerely

Helen and John Joyce

Inside the envelope (with a 5 cent stamp!) are some hand-written notes from my mother, Marjorie that she received from the social worker on my case.  Apparently, the social worker left the file open on the desk and “left to use the restroom” while my mom was in her office.  From this note, I have full names, birth dates (and years), height, weight, eye and hair color, skin tone, ethnicity and religion of both birth parents.  It’s noted that Helen is a secretary and that both play piano and are athletic.

Along with my other collected documents I have the “Decree of Adoption”, various invoices and payment stubs from the legal office that handled the adoption, birth certificate for Helen and death certificate for John.  

Interestingly enough, I have the names of my father's first two wives, information that I have no where else.  It was required to list all prior marriages of both adoptive parents, as well as other information such as employment and financial history.

My adoption was formalized and recorded February 3, 1964; one day before my mother’s 48^th birthday.

My Adoption Story -- The Beginning

I don’t remember ever not knowing I was adopted.  It wasn’t a big deal, it wasn’t a small deal; it just was.  I was given up by another woman so that my mom and dad could have a child.  No secret, no drama, no surprises.

As I got older – 2^nd or 3^rd grade – kids would occasionally make fun of my adopted status.  As if it were something I should be ashamed of or could have changed.  My standard answer was always, “My parents chose me, your parents got stuck with you!” I don’t remember my parents ever coaching me to say that by the way, it just came out of my mouth.  After I said it a couple of times, kids stopped using it against me. 

Later, I asked questions about my birth parents.  My mother and father always answered them honestly and without making it a big deal.  They told me what they knew and what they didn’t.  They reminded me that they loved me and wanted me and that the decision to give me up must have been very hard for my birth mother.

I often wonder about my birth parents; I’ve researched them through genealogy and could drive to my birth mothers address.  I know my birth father is dead and I know I have a half-brother.  I know my ethnicity and some specific details about my birth parents.  I don’t really care why they chose not to “keep” me; I don’t blame them or have hurt feelings about it.  Their decision made it possible for someone else to have a child. 

I’ve spent my life not knowing my medical history or genetic markers.  I don’t know if there is a history of cancer or insanity or heart disease in my family.  I didn’t know if I resembled my mother or my father; does my half-brother look like me?  Do I have nieces and nephews?  Cousins? 

I’m going to try to write down a little bit about my adoption story as a way to put down my thoughts and maybe help others who are adopted or are thinking of giving a child up for adoption. 

There is a lot I don’t know; but there is also a lot I DO KNOW!