Kennish Kathryn - Switched at birth : the true story of a mothers journey

To all the people who have given me hope and guidance on this journey, especially my familyJohn, Toby, Bay, Daphne, Regina, and Adrianna.

When I sat down to begin this book, to tell my story to the world, I thought that I would write about how a family was turned upside down and still managed to land on its feet.

To a large extent, thats what I have done. But in the process, Ive discovered that landing on our feet was only the first test. The real trick is going to be staying there.

The people you will meet in this humble memoir of minemy husband John, my daughter Bay, my other daughter Daphne, my son Toby, and Daphnes mother Regina (to name only the main players)are in danger every day of losing the very precarious footing weve established. Imagine turning cartwheels during an earthquakethats what we were up against, what we continue to be up against, and sometimes it seems like the aftershocks will go right on shaking us for the rest of our lives.

But we havent given up yet, and I think that says a lot about us. But not all.

So in the following pages I will reveal to you the events and the emotions, the accidents, the errors in judgment, and I will endeavor to explain to you how these moments have defined who we are and the paths we have taken. I think you will all relate to the challenges Ive faced, even if your children werent switched at birth.

And if, by some chance, they were, then this is definitely the book for you.

I may not have the answers, but I do have my answers, and if mine can, in some small way, help lead you to your own, then Ive accomplished what Ive set out to do.

This book contains my advice for those who find themselves doing cartwheels in an earthquake, turning somersaults in a storm. Sooner or later you will land on your feet. And when you do, stand strong.

I promise you, youll make it.

Kathryn Kennish

You marry a mannot just a man, but your dream manand together, you plan things. Like where you will live, the kind of carpet youll have in the family room, how youll invest your money. But most of all, you plan your family. The word itself, when you finally find the courage to say it out loud, is nothing short of magical. At first you concern yourself with the practical things, like whether or not youre financially prepared for such a life-altering undertaking. But once youve decided youre ready, you begin to imagine in a million different ways the children you will bring into the world. You find yourselves whispering names to each other, trying them out to see how they will sound when cheered at the top of your lungs from the bleachers at the big football game. Or when announced over the PA system at the commencement ceremony of some Ivy League school. You wander into the baby furniture store and tell the clerk youre just looking, but the truth is, you already know exactly which crib you want, and exactly where it will be placed in that big, sunny room at the end of the upstairs hall.

And after the planning comes the wondering: Will our baby have my eyes? Will she have my husbands gift for sports? My love of anything chocolate?

You plan, and you dream, and you hope and you wonder.

And then one day, after the longest (and somehow, shortest) nine months of your life, you get to take part in a miracle. Its a blur of pain (which you promptly forget) and joy (which you remember forever). And then, suddenly youre cradling a tiny bundle in your arms.

Your daughter.

You feel overwhelmed and overjoyed at the same time. And now youre wondering again: Is she warm enough? Am I holding her too tightly? Has my husband installed the car seat exactly as described in the instruction manual? He has, of course, because you made him go over the diagram a thousand times, but still, you wonder....

You wonder if you have enough diapers waiting at home; you wonder how her big brother will react when he sees her for the first time; you wonder if she will be a good sleeper, a fussy eater, colicky, calm? Will she be musical, artistic, athletic?

But the one thing you absolutely do not wonder not for one moment, not even for a single heartbeat, as this tiny, precious baby girl clutches your thumb and gazes up at you with absolute unconditional trust the one thing you do not wonder is if she is yours.

Perhaps somewhere, someone has done the research, has calculated the precise odds of a newborn child in the United States of America accidentally being given to the wrong parents. I suspect the likelihood is similar to the chances of a person being struck by lightning. Virtually nonexistent. A near impossibility.

Well, this is my storythe story of me and my daughter, of my husband and my son and of two perfect strangers. It is the story of how one day, sixteen years ago, without notice, without warning, we were all struck by lightning.

It began with, of all things, a science project.

My daughtermy beautiful, dark-eyed, raven-haired daughter, Bayhad discovered through a lab experiment in science class, that her blood type was AB. For most people, being AB would be considered rare. For Bay, the daughter of two type A parents, it was genetically impossible. Naturally, my husband John and I simply chalked it up to an error, a mistake. Bay wasnt a kid with a particular gift for science after all; she was an artist. A great kid, a smart kid, but to our everlasting frustration, a kid to whom school was not a top priority. Which was why John and I were so easily inclined to shrug off her AB findings as merely Bay not giving the work her full attention. Obviously, she had misinterpreted the data.

But Bay felt differently. She was, if not freaked out exactly, troubled by the results. On our drive to school that morningafter Bay revealed the news about her blood type at breakfastshe reminded me, not unkindly, that she and I had almost nothing in common. Then I reminded her that this was due to the fact that she was a teenager and therefore if she did have anything in common with me, shed be laughed right out of high school.

Maybe it was at this point that some tiny seed of panic began to form deep, deep within me. I dont know now, and I may never know. If I did feel something, I do know that I ignored it. If I sensed itsome small, gnawing sense that perhaps, just perhaps, something really wasnt adding upI tamped it down.

Denial? Maybe.

Terror? More likely.

Because I was happy. We were happy. The Kennishes were happy and whole, and we would always be exactly as we were, as wed always been.

God, how wrong I was.

As we drove toward school, Bay went on to muse over the fact that her coloring and her body type were nothing at all like mine. And then she admitted, haltingly, in a tone Im sure shed meant to sound indifferent but that to a mothers knowing ear echoed with deep curiosity and no small amount of worry, that shed been teased more than once about being adopted.

That nearly floored me. Adopted. It was not a bad word, of course. It was a lovely word. It just wasnt a word Id ever had cause to apply to my family. Our family. I gave birth to two beautiful, healthy childrenToby and Bay. I held them seconds after they were born, nursed them, loved them. And as I jokingly told my daughter that morning, Ill show you my stretch marks.

I remember she didnt laugh.

So we dont look alike, I conceded. I explained to Bay that as evidence went, this meant nothing. I, a strawberry blonde, had always taken a vive la diffrence stance when it came to the physical attributes of my little girl. I loved her glossy black hair and envied the way it tended to curlunlike mine, which required boatloads of product to muster so much as a wave. Id always bragged that her deep, dark chocolate eyes were her most beautiful feature. And I told her what Id always believedthat her skin tone and dramatic hair color were attributes passed down to her from my Italian grandmother.