An Essay by Hannah Andrews
“It’s one of the best profiles I’ve ever seen,” she says.
Well swipe right I think, but it’s not that type of profile.
I’m Zooming with my super-fancy genetic scientist doctor. I’d think her a total genius, except for the fact that she keeps forgetting I’m adopted. She’s just asked me, for the third time in as many appointments, about my medical history.
“No history,” I remind her, “I’m adopted.”
On my first appointment, (the one before the one where they took seemingly unending vials of fasting bloodwork and finally gave me an anti-anxiety pill so I could get through the claustrophobic MRI), I wrote DOES NOT APPLY on my intake form. All caps. I added (adopted)—lowercase and parenthetically. It’s second nature, though it has evolved. I used to write it in teensy letters as if whispering an apology for myself—adopted. Over the years, my words got bigger and messier. By my thirties, I’d scrawl ADOPTED kitty-cornered across the entire form.
But, I’ve matured.
On my best days, I make polite suggestions: “Perhaps you could add a box to the form—one that says Adopted or Unknown Parentage?”
This is not one of my best days, but I hold my tongue and we Zoom along. “You’re one of my healthiest patients in years,” she says and hits “share screen.” My monitor fills with the data of me–whole genome sequencing, blood-based biomarkers, bone and muscle analyses. She chirps through my results as if she created me—Dr. Frankenstein to my monster—and I must admit, it’s fascinating. I am riveted to the screen as I watch my mystery movie finally unfurl.
“There’s one anomaly,” she continues. “ You’re a carrier for…” and she turns into Charlie Brown’s teacher, wah-wahing her way through a bunch of words I don’t know. The gist of it—I’m a carrier of something, but it’s only dangerous if my reproductive partner is also a carrier.
I tell her, for at least the second time, that I’m 53 and childless.
She continues, “Well, it’s not a concern then but this gene mutation can sometimes increase the risk for liver issues—”
That’s where I cut her off. “My biological mother died of liver cancer,” and then can’t stop myself, “I just assumed it was from booze, ‘cuz Illinois said I had no inheritable cancers or conditions, so I figured she drank too much—though I did meet her bestie who said she wasn’t a heavy drinker but my bestie would’ve told you that about me back in the day too, cuz, well, she was my bestie—”
Dr. DNA’s face freezes onscreen. Did the internet drop? Did I talk too much?
“I thought you didn’t have any information.” she finally says. Yeah, I talked too much.
“That’s all I know,” I stammer, like a little kid caught in a lie. I also bristle, ready to battle for myself because once I actually found out a smidge of my medical history, I didn’t feel like writing it down. Nobody cared when I had to write “does not apply” for 50 years, so I just kept writing it. The maternity home and adoption agency were content to scribble “mother healthy, part Spanish” on my record. Illinois legally disappeared me—locked up my original name, my mother’s name. Not one update in fifty years. When they changed the law I got my Original Birth Certificate with my name and her name. I dug until I found her. Dead.
Still, thanks to science I can, for a price, find out more. I can fill in some of my blanks.
Commercial DNA analysis replaced their lazy brush-off of “part Spanish” and provided me with a rich ancestral lineage that includes Sicily, Scotland, Mexico, Mali, Ghana, Ireland, and bits and baubles from a number of other regions. One genetic genealogist claimed I had the most diverse ancestry she’d seen.
I am made of everywhere.
And no one.
That same DNA company linked me to 6,000 matches on my paternal side, but for the life of me I can’t find my dad.
But, good genes. Healthy genes. No apparent markers for Alzheimer’s or cancers, and I’m beyond grateful for this information. Yay science! Still, I can’t shake this bitterness. Much of this—I should’ve known years ago. Maybe it would’ve changed nothing. Or maybe everything.
The doctor continues Charlie Brown teaching me, but I’m done with today’s lesson.
“Awesome! Lemme just dust off my time machine, fly back to 1995 and pop out a kid or two.”
She tells me I’m funny, though neither of us laughs.
What I don’t tell her is….
I used to think (and by used to I mean not just when I was a kid, but until pretty recently), that maybe I was from another planet. I had no proof that I wasn’t. I possessed a fully fake birth certificate direct from the government. I mean, come on! So, I thought my spawn might also be alien, might just crawl right out of my belly.
I mean, it wasn’t the only reason I didn’t reproduce, but it was on the list. Near the top.
I know it’s illogical but so is having no history, no identity.
Anyway, I am prove-ably human now.
My super fancy, practically genius genetic scientist doctor says my genes are superior. Okay, maybe not superior. Not super-model or Ensteiny-smart genes, but really healthy. The best she’s seen in years.
And they will die with me.
