Hi, everyone. Welcome to What’s Your F**king Problem?! Spill your heart. Bare your soul. Confess your embarrassment. Or just, you know… yack. Whatever. May you find acceptance here.
A long time ago, I began to tell the story of being an adoptee and what that has meant in my life, and in the lives of those around me. The initial installments are here and here and here.
There are a few missing installments since then that are yet to be written. And they are important and dense and sometimes a bit shocking. Perhaps I will use WYFP to force me to fill in those gaps over the next months, but for now, I am going to jump right to the latest, and possibly the last installment which, for me, is huge. HUGE.
So – I have a sister to whom I will refer in future diaries as Lifetime Sis. She is 5 years older than I, and is the sister with whom I have grown up. She, too, is adopted. Each of our adoptions were arranged prior to our births, and we were each brought home when just a day or two old. We are not biologically related. Mid-spring of last year, she had her DNA analyzed. We had fun speculating about what would transpire when the results came back. The results, as in many cases, were not what were expected and we laughed over some of the results, and pondered with tilted heads over others. Because her results were so revelatory, I went ahead and did mine. And then, because I had done mine, my 22-year-old son wanted to do his for the health aspect, and I convinced him to use the same company that I used because I wanted to “see” him genetically. I wanted to see our DNA as we exist next to one another.
So, many months, and much bio-related “water under the bridge” after I had done mine, he sent in his DNA to the company that I had used, and just last weekend, when I was in Nebraska for Christmas with my husband’s family, the results came back.
Unfortunately, our son wasn’t there. I had wanted to be with him when the results came back. Anyway, I signed into my DNA account while I was In Nebraska to share some work regarding my in-laws’ family tree and BOOM!! There was my son’s DNA. The huge, beautiful numbers.
We share 3,465 centimorgans (cM) across 60 segments.
By comparison, with one of my half-sisters I share 1,970cM across 55 segments, and my half-niece shows up as 1,146 across 34 segments.
When you do your DNA, it can come back with literally tens of thousands of people to whom one is related. Extrapolated all the way out to 8th cousins, I have well over 100,000 matches. But my son, more than anyone else, is mine. The only other people to whom I am that related are my biological parents, and I have never - and will never - know them. I will never see those types of numbers anywhere else, ever. Seriously, if I were to get my first tattoo, it would be the centimorgans that I share with my son.
I know that this is probably hard for some of you to get. But, in my experience, when you’re adopted, no matter how awesome your life has been, and mine has been great, there is always a nagging need to know, and to belong, and to embrace. One is always searching for ways to ground oneself in this world.
I am so very grateful to my son for testing his DNA, and for agreeing to share the results. He has given me a gift beyond anything else I have ever received. Without consciously realizing where I was going, I found my genetic destination. And that - finally - is enough.
Thanks for coming along this evening. Do you have DNA stories you would like to share? If so, please do. And, if not, well then — What’s You’re F***ing Problem?