Growing up, it was only natural that I was curious about my biological background. Who do I look like? Where do I come from? My focus was always superficial. But when I hit my mid-twenties, I found myself facing some health issues. Then, my focus became medical. What health issues could be genetic? What should I be on the lookout for? No, biology isn't always a definite indicator of medical needs, but it can certainly help in preventative medicine and in diagnosing problems.
The information that I had was minimal at best. So, I set out in search of answers in an attempt to build a stronger knowledge base for my health when I was about 25 years old. At this point in my life, I was nearly 150 pounds overweight, and extremely unhealthy. Regardless of this glaring factor in my illness, my doctor wanted to know more about my medical history, as did I.
The medical need, combined with a request from my sister to search at the same time that she searched, spurred me to take the plunge. I had been holding onto what I thought were the addresses of my biological parents for about a year now. I wrote letters over and over, editing and then editing more. Then, I held onto the sealed envelopes. Mailing these letters could forever change my life, and there was no way to determine the outcome.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
The definition of REAL
If you read my previous blog, you know that I ended rather vaguely. A conversation with students has uncovered the fact that the other woman at our school who shares my last name of Jagodowski is, in fact, my sister. The students have also discovered that we do not look alike because we are not biologically related. They also learned that we were not adopted from an exotic country, rather, right here in Massachusetts. And, they learned that I am older by five years.
The last question I was asked by a student was, "So, she's not your REAL sister?" My response? She is absolutely my REAL sister.
What is real? Merriam Webster offers several definitions, one of which suits my situation perfectly:
I know that not everyone agrees with me on this classification of a real sibling or real parent, but to me, real is about more than common DNA when it comes to family.
In my heart, I always knew that I am where I am supposed to be in life. I am meant to be a part of this family, have Lindsay as my sister and be living the life that I am. I am a firm believer in fate and intentional paths in life, even if we aren't sure where we are headed exactly. That doesn't mean I haven't wondered about this other side to my life, the fact that I was put up for adoption and that somewhere out there are people who I mostly likely resemble physically.
There's no denying that I have always been curious about my background, and in my mid-twenties I embarked on a search for answers about where I came from, who I was biologically related to and, at the same time, get some practical information like a medical history.
What I found in this journey was more than I expected ...
The last question I was asked by a student was, "So, she's not your REAL sister?" My response? She is absolutely my REAL sister.
What is real? Merriam Webster offers several definitions, one of which suits my situation perfectly:
- "not artificial, fraudulent, or illusory : genuine <real gold>; also : being precisely what the name implies <a real professional>"
I know that not everyone agrees with me on this classification of a real sibling or real parent, but to me, real is about more than common DNA when it comes to family.
In my heart, I always knew that I am where I am supposed to be in life. I am meant to be a part of this family, have Lindsay as my sister and be living the life that I am. I am a firm believer in fate and intentional paths in life, even if we aren't sure where we are headed exactly. That doesn't mean I haven't wondered about this other side to my life, the fact that I was put up for adoption and that somewhere out there are people who I mostly likely resemble physically.
There's no denying that I have always been curious about my background, and in my mid-twenties I embarked on a search for answers about where I came from, who I was biologically related to and, at the same time, get some practical information like a medical history.
What I found in this journey was more than I expected ...
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
What are the chances?
I work in education, and one of the reasons I chose this career path was to be around children. They make me smile every day thanks to their humor, amazement, confusion, surprise and ability to make me feel like a rock star despite having no extraordinary talents that warrant celebrity status.
One thing that has made me "famous" at my school is the fact that my sister also works here. I'm amazed by how many students cannot put two and two together and figure out that we are sisters. We are both single, so still go by our oh-so-common Polish last name of Jagodowski. What are the chances of having two people with the last name of Jagodowski at the same school? Rather slim, so chances are, we're related. There are a select few students who immediately get it and don't need to be told we're sisters. And a few of them think we're twins. But the majority don't realize we are related.
"Wait, you're sisters? Really?"
Once they discover that we are, in fact, sisters, the students start searching for physical similarities. We both have brown hair, that's an easy one. But the similarities seem to end there. We have different color eyes. She is tall and thin, I'm short and ... not thin. She's all legs, I look like a weeble. Our noses are drastically different. Our face shapes are not even close. Our hands are different, so are our smiles. We don't wear the same size clothes or even the same size shoes. We don't even have the same styles in clothing. Beyond the brown hair, there aren't many similarities. Yet, students will search for ways in which we might resemble each other.
After a few minutes of their attempts to find similarities, I'll drop a bomb on them. You're right, we don't look alike. In fact, we aren't supposed to look alike. We're adopted.
"Adopted?" Wide eyes and open mouths usually follow. This is my favorite part, answering the questions about adoption. Inevitability, the first question is if we were adopted together as sisters. No, we are not biologically related. Where were we adopted from? There's typically some disappointment to discover we aren't from an exotic country, and some intrigue by the fact that we each were born within 30 minutes of where we grew up.
"So, who is older?" This one stumps them often. Typically, in a group of six or so students, they are divided fairly evenly on who is older, with a few comments of we have to be close to each other in age if we aren't twins. I'd say that on average, 55% of them guess that my sister is older. One of the reasons, I'm told, is because she wears high heels which children tend to associate with adults. Me? Flat boots, funky colored retro Born kicks and Crocs tend to round out my shoe collection. I'm a comfort over fashion type. I love the wide eyes and, "I knew it!" side comments that come when I finally announce that I'm older. They are even more amazed by the fact that I'm five years older. I guess I'm doing well for my age!
At this point, there is usually one student who asks me, "So, she's not your REAL sister?"
To which I always respond, she is absolutely my real sister ...
One thing that has made me "famous" at my school is the fact that my sister also works here. I'm amazed by how many students cannot put two and two together and figure out that we are sisters. We are both single, so still go by our oh-so-common Polish last name of Jagodowski. What are the chances of having two people with the last name of Jagodowski at the same school? Rather slim, so chances are, we're related. There are a select few students who immediately get it and don't need to be told we're sisters. And a few of them think we're twins. But the majority don't realize we are related.
"Wait, you're sisters? Really?"
Once they discover that we are, in fact, sisters, the students start searching for physical similarities. We both have brown hair, that's an easy one. But the similarities seem to end there. We have different color eyes. She is tall and thin, I'm short and ... not thin. She's all legs, I look like a weeble. Our noses are drastically different. Our face shapes are not even close. Our hands are different, so are our smiles. We don't wear the same size clothes or even the same size shoes. We don't even have the same styles in clothing. Beyond the brown hair, there aren't many similarities. Yet, students will search for ways in which we might resemble each other.
After a few minutes of their attempts to find similarities, I'll drop a bomb on them. You're right, we don't look alike. In fact, we aren't supposed to look alike. We're adopted.
"Adopted?" Wide eyes and open mouths usually follow. This is my favorite part, answering the questions about adoption. Inevitability, the first question is if we were adopted together as sisters. No, we are not biologically related. Where were we adopted from? There's typically some disappointment to discover we aren't from an exotic country, and some intrigue by the fact that we each were born within 30 minutes of where we grew up.
"So, who is older?" This one stumps them often. Typically, in a group of six or so students, they are divided fairly evenly on who is older, with a few comments of we have to be close to each other in age if we aren't twins. I'd say that on average, 55% of them guess that my sister is older. One of the reasons, I'm told, is because she wears high heels which children tend to associate with adults. Me? Flat boots, funky colored retro Born kicks and Crocs tend to round out my shoe collection. I'm a comfort over fashion type. I love the wide eyes and, "I knew it!" side comments that come when I finally announce that I'm older. They are even more amazed by the fact that I'm five years older. I guess I'm doing well for my age!
At this point, there is usually one student who asks me, "So, she's not your REAL sister?"
To which I always respond, she is absolutely my real sister ...
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Growing up Adopted
My parents, my real parents who raised me, told me I was adopted from an early age. I vaguely remember a conversation at the kitchen table with mom and dad, them telling me what little they knew about my adoption. It may not have been the first conversation, but it was a conversation. I remember bits and pieces, them telling me they loved me, that my biological parents were young when they had me and couldn't give me the life I deserved, and that they were so grateful to have me in their lives.
I was never upset about being adopted. It was sort of a fact of life, no different than knowing you have brown hair. I'm adopted. In fact, I thought it was pretty cool. I was suddenly a mystery, well, my background was a mystery. I would figure out which celebrities were old enough to be my bio-parents and look for resemblances. The closest I came was a resemblance to Candace Cameron, and I would imagine that she was my sister. Plus, I was in love with the show Full House.
Some people would act weird when they learned I was adopted. Adults often didn't want to talk about it, and children didn't know what to make of it. Some adults would wonder if I knew. After telling someone on the school bus that I was adopted, something I thought was actually kinda cool, she told me she couldn't hang out with me because I was a mistake, which meant no one wanted me. My parents told me that many children are not planned, and that mistakes could be good sometimes. Regardless, I was wanted, no matter what. My parents always knew what to say to make me feel better.
Most surprising to many folks, old and young, is my willingness to talk about my adoption. Why hide it? I'm not ashamed. My parents aren't ashamed. My biological parents have nothing to be ashamed about either. In fact, I think that this whole situation is quite noble on the parts of the adults in the situation. My biological parents made a mature and difficult decision to give up a child so that she could have a better life. My parents opened their hearts and lives to a child who needed a home. How could anyone want to hide such strong actions?
I was never upset about being adopted. It was sort of a fact of life, no different than knowing you have brown hair. I'm adopted. In fact, I thought it was pretty cool. I was suddenly a mystery, well, my background was a mystery. I would figure out which celebrities were old enough to be my bio-parents and look for resemblances. The closest I came was a resemblance to Candace Cameron, and I would imagine that she was my sister. Plus, I was in love with the show Full House.
Some people would act weird when they learned I was adopted. Adults often didn't want to talk about it, and children didn't know what to make of it. Some adults would wonder if I knew. After telling someone on the school bus that I was adopted, something I thought was actually kinda cool, she told me she couldn't hang out with me because I was a mistake, which meant no one wanted me. My parents told me that many children are not planned, and that mistakes could be good sometimes. Regardless, I was wanted, no matter what. My parents always knew what to say to make me feel better.
Most surprising to many folks, old and young, is my willingness to talk about my adoption. Why hide it? I'm not ashamed. My parents aren't ashamed. My biological parents have nothing to be ashamed about either. In fact, I think that this whole situation is quite noble on the parts of the adults in the situation. My biological parents made a mature and difficult decision to give up a child so that she could have a better life. My parents opened their hearts and lives to a child who needed a home. How could anyone want to hide such strong actions?
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