Julie Ryan McGue - Twice a Daughter: A Search for Identity, Family, and Belonging

When you stifle curiosity about yourself, you stifle many other things as well. You shrink your area of perception. You live in a smaller space.

~ Betty Jean Lifton, Lost and Found

L atching the narrow gray locker, I slip the curly plastic band with its tiny key over my wrist. My hands shake as I retie the over-laundered smock with its opening in the front. In the waiting area, I join several women dressed in matching hospital gowns. They thumb through outdated magazines or stare at the overhead TV. Neither of which I do. Instead of being here, I wish that I were walking along Hinsdales streets bursting with purple magnolias and dainty redbuds.

Perching on a vinyl chair, I squeeze my eyes shut, not in a light dreamy way, but willfully to stem a spray of tears. I think about my twin sister and wonder why shes escaped the threatening female health issues I face. For the first time in years, I consider my closed adoption and wonder how my biological background factors into the six areas of concern in my right breast. I pick up the chain of prayers that I began after last weeks suspicious mammogram.

When I return from Walgreens after the procedure, Steves sedan occupies the prime spot under the porte cochere by the side door. I park my Buick behind his car and skirt around both, being extra careful not to jostle my right side. The heavy wooden side door complains as I lean into it. Inside, I breathe in the smell of the old housethe lemony scent of furniture polish and the sweet mustiness of the drapes and carpets. It feels so good to be home. Steve calls out to me from the front of the house.

Kicking off my loafers, I avoid the creaky spots in the wood floor as I head toward his office. I expect to find my husband seated behind the antique desk. Hell either be deep in thought, gazing out at the brick street, or sorting and paying bills on his computer. In the doorway, I finger the crinkly prescription bag in my hands.

His high-back desk chair swivels away from the computer screen. How did it go?

Not my best day. Lifting the sleeve of my red sweater, I swipe at a tear.

Its a few seconds before I realize that my husband of twenty-three years is not rising out of his chair to offer me a careful hug. I cant believe this. I need his compassion right now. After all Ive been through today, and now this infuriating insensitivity. My anger flares, and I move closer to his desk. Gripping the edge of the big desk, I spare no detail as I fill him in on my breast biopsy.

It was just me... alone... with the nurse and doctor in a cold, dark room... in the basement of La Grange Hospital. I bled each time the needle pierced my boob. Three tries to get it right. I scowl at him over his computer.

Adrenaline from my rant courses through my system. Still he doesnt get up. Im shaking with indignation and hurt. I imagine theres spittle forming on my lower lip. One benefit of being a twin is that you know what you look like when you laugh or let hell fly.

As I wind down, my voice whines. Waiting five days for biopsy results is inhumane.

Steve leans away from the desk, tilting his chair back. I read something in the dark eyebrows that lift into his receding hairline. Im too spent to wonder about his expression. All I want is sympathy.

Sounds like I should have gone with you then. His chair twists ever so slightly.

I shouldve insisted. I head for the foyer. Im getting an icepack and going upstairs.

Steves reply hits my back. Are you ready to get at your medical history now?

As I turn to face Steve, the staple on the prescription bag scratches my palm. What are you saying?

His eyes meet mine. Its time, Julie. Youve been delaying this for years. Get your adoption records. Access your family medical history. We have four kids to consider.

I blink. His ultimatum whipsaws me. We havent had a serious conversation about my closed adoption for a very long time. Not since I sent that letter to the adoption agency eighteen years ago. Since then, my mystery genes have become an inside joke, a good-natured riddle that has gifted three of our children with the skill to play college sports. Ive been fine without knowing where all that talent came from. Well, sort of.

You really want to talk about locating my birth parents now? After Ive had a biopsy? You have terrible timing.

My husbands bent on honesty at all costs, a result of his military background, is a trait I usually respect and appreciate. Not today.

As I storm toward the stairs, a stream of silent, angry excuses ricochet in my head. I dont need this stress right now. There are loads of people who dont have a family medical history. Its not like I havent tried to look into my adoption.

When I was thirty, my twin sister Jenny and I sent a letter to Catholic Charities in Chicago requesting information about our adoption that occurred in 1959. A month later, we received a one-page reply: Nothing can be shared at this time. When I wrote that letter back in the 1980s, Illinois adoption statutes favored the rights of birth and adoptive parents over those of adopted children and adults. Powerless to access personal information from my closed adoption file, I moved on. Eighteen years later and halfway through raising a family of four, Ive grown content with the course of my life. Why invite uncertainty and trouble to dinner? To be honest, I havent been that hungry. Besides, I have my people, the ones who wanted me, me and my twin sister both.