Miracle Baby

November 6, 2013. That was the day I got some new brothers. Sort of. You see, they’d always been my brothers, I just didn’t know that they were. In order for this to make sense, I need to take you back in time with me…we’re traveling to the late 1960’s, so put on your bell-bottoms and your tie-dyed t-shirts because things are about to get groovy, man.

It wasn’t until 1978 that the first in vitro fertilization baby was born. Prior to that, if you wanted children but were unable to conceive, you adopted. During the 1960s, my parents wanted children but couldn’t have them, so they adopted my older brother and then my sister. A couple of years after my sister was adopted, my mom miraculously became pregnant with me. I was a “miracle baby,” or so I’ve always been told.

I grew up in a small neighborhood where everyone knew each other. There was a couple in our neighborhood, (I’ll call them “Madge” & “Joe”– because those names sound so 1960s). Prior to my birth and afterward, my parents spent a lot of time with that couple. They hung out at Madge & Joe’s house on Saturday nights, picking crabs and drinking beer while my older sister and brother played with their two sons. I was too young to play with the older kids and I distinctly remember sitting on their living room floor watching Hee Haw while the adults sat in the dining room at a table covered in newspaper.

Eventually, both couples divorced, and by the time I was a teenager, those Saturday nights had long since been forgotten. Madge & Joe’s sons, however, still lived in our neighborhood and we still saw them all of the time. As a matter of fact, my sister was great friends with the younger brother, and he was over our house often. By this time, my mom had passed away and my sister and I lived with our father in a different house, but still in the same neighborhood.

Shortly after I had my son, my sister began talking crazy. She was convinced that Joe was my biological father and said the fact that I looked like the older brother was proof. “You both have full lips,” she’d say. She said that her friend, so-and-so, was in full agreement with this theory. I blew it off because I just saw it as a convenient explanation: “Well, they adopted twice and then all of a sudden she ends up pregnant with Amy. Amy has full lips, Joe & Madge’s oldest son has full lips…it’s elementary, Watson, they must be siblings!” It wasn’t until one of my friends, who was friends with the older son, said something to me along the lines of, “I think he’s your half-brother. You look alike and you have a lot of the same mannerisms,” that I began to wonder…

My father passed away in 2011. Since he never mentioned anything about it before he passed, I assumed it must not be true. If it was, he surely would have told me, right? Joe had passed many years before and my mom had been gone for over 30 years, so if Joe really was my biological father, that secret had been taken to the grave with its originators and I’d never know the truth.

In September of 2013, however, I learned that not only were paternal DNA tests available to the public, now there were also sibling-ship DNA tests. Joe’s younger son agreed to take the test with me. We stood in my sister’s kitchen, swabbed our cheeks with funny little scrubby sticks, and I sent the sticks off to a DNA testing company in Canada. Then, I waited.

On November 6th, after getting ready for work, I checked my email before heading out the door. The DNA lab had sent my results. I opened it with the expectation that it would be negative and I could finally put those silly, convenient rumors to rest. Or not. Here’s what it said:

The theoretical ideal sibship index between two unrelated random individuals is 1. A sibship index greater than 1 indicates a higher likelihood of sibship. A sibship index lower than 1 indicates a higher likelihood of non-sibship. The half-sibship index for “J” and “Amy” is 101.19 (probability of relatedness as half siblings = 99.0%).

I was stunned. I called my sister and said the words that are her favorite words to hear: “You were right,” and she replied with the words that are her favorite words to say:  “I told you so.”

Next, I called my new brother. When he answered, I seized the once in a lifetime opportunity to say, “Luke, I am your father.” That’s not exactly how the line goes, and I’m not his father, but it was still fun to be able to say it. I think it would have been even better if he’d seen Star Wars.

While it was exciting to find out that these two guys I grew up with and really liked were actually my brothers, I also found myself in disbelief. Plus, I had so many questions that I’d never know the answers to. It also didn’t take too long for me to sink into a mild state of depression.

If you know with 100% certainty who both of your parents are, it may be hard to understand why I became depressed, so I’ll do my best to explain: For over 40 years, I had believed one thing about myself, and in a matter of seconds, that belief was shattered. People had always asked me if I was related to the Voltaire, and I’d always answered that I wasn’t sure. Now I was sure that I wasn’t. I literally felt like I wasn’t me anymore and I had no idea how I came to be…well, I mean, I knew how I physically came to be, but that was all I knew for sure. Who knew about it (did my dad know)? Was it an act of friendship? Was it infidelity? Who was I? And why was I? Add a healthy dose of shame, bake for 45 minutes at 350 degrees, and your depression is ready.

A few months later, I was at a conference. I was speaking with an older, Christian couple and telling them about the whole thing. I said that I was feeling down and a little ashamed. The man looked at me and said something I’ll never forget: “God wanted you here, so he found a way to get you here. Don’t ever be ashamed of that.”

It took a while to get over the feeling that I’d lost who I was. I realize now that nothing about me has changed. I’m still me. I’ve always had full lips. I’ve always had certain mannerisms. My sister and brother have always been my sister and brother and the love I have for my family will never be diminished by the fact that I now have even more family to love. And my dad? Well, he’ll always be my dad, even though his friend and former drinking buddy is the reason I’m sitting here at this very moment, typing this story.

The way we got here doesn’t define us and we should never be ashamed of who we are. God knew what he was doing when he created each and every one of us and we all know that He doesn’t make mistakes. Plus, our parents’ actions are their actions, not ours. It took me a while to come to terms with the whole thing, but I ended up in a good place with some new siblings that I think the world of.

I may not be a “miracle baby” in the way my parents always led me to believe, but the fact that I’m here, that I have wonderful family and friends, and that I’m healthy and happy, is miraculous enough for me.