So this Friday I turned 24- an elegant number for what will hopefully be an elegant year. There were some choice details I’d like to share if I’m allowed. I feel like its appropriate to write about how I celebrated my birth, after I’ve been complaining about it so much…
First, the facebook notes ensued. I had long lost friends from all over the globe wish me a quick gefeliciteerd, or grattis födelsedagen or a joyeuse anniversair- delightful in any language. Then the phone calls: close friends, Sister, Mom… “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear…” her song went. Mom’s voice, followed by my little brother’s delivered two separate “I love you’s” and “good-bye’s” (no step-dad in the audio-mix). When I was a kid I used to revel in imagery of my mom sacrificing her body, joy and resources for my soul benefit. I imagined her delivering me in a frightening hospital, with a stranger doctor invading her privacy as he tried to do his job. She would be pained and regretful. Then I would try to imagine how much money she’s spent on me in a lifetime. I thought of what seemed like a huge number, one thousand. I bet she’s spent at least one thousand dollars on me. I would always comment to her every birthday, “Mom, thank you so much for giving birth to me.” This year I didn’t say those words. I chose to rephrase my gratitude. Instead, I said, “Mom, thanks for loving me and giving me so much of yourself.”
It’s not that I’m ungrateful for an array of precious moments my life has privileged me to; it’s just that I’m not sure life and birth in itself deserves celebration, but rather, the successful delivery and development of a life force: human energy.
I joke with one of our readers, Dawn, who once made the comment, “I don’t understand why donor kids don’t just go out and enjoy life more- like go to the beach!” I understand her point, it often accompanies the ever-so-common question from anyone and everyone who was not donor-conceived, “so you’re saying you wish you’d never been born?” Which places me in a position where I’m forced to measure and weigh my positive vs. negative life experiences and make a judgment call to total strangers about whether or not my life itself has been worth living.
I don’t know how I pulled it off, but this year’s birthday party added mega points into the “worth it” bucket. Bare with me, I’m about to brag a little. We converted my garden-backyard into a performance stage and invited Brooklyn’s finest to celebrate my existence with music, cake, and freshly bloomed sunflowers. Jenny Wilson, pretty much one of my favorite musicians of all time, not yet well-known in the US, but one of Sweden’s A-list female performers, somehow wandered into my party and gave us an unexpected, and much cherished performance.
I bonded with her on my shared Swedish roots- so thankful to have the real stories of my ancestors from my mom’s side. It makes bonding with my favorite Swedish Indie-pop stars so much easier. “How do you speak any Swedish?” she asked. “Well… my family founded this town called Swedeborg see…” I talked about going to the cobble-stone pier in Göteborg, where 90% of all Swedish immigrants boarded and left for America. I talked about what a mistake my ancestors made in immigrating- if they had only stayed I wouldn’t have to sell precious items like my guitar or my eggs just to get a little dental work every so often.
It’s so nice to know where you come from. It’s so nice to know who you come from. For times like this very special birthday I just experienced, when feelings of isolation disappear and connections are made with people I respect and admire, the bucket tips and it becomes worth it.
But what about all the Polish pop stars I’m not bonding with because of my ignorance of that other half of me!
Categories: General
Comments (4)
Happy 24.
““Mom, thanks for loving me and giving me so much of yourself.””
Very nice.
A belated Happy Birthday Alana!!
Glad it was a good one.
Just this morning I was pondering the meaning of (my) life. Soon I will celebrate my 65th birthday. Having just been to the funeral of a loved old friend who died aged 68, birthdays are no longer taken for granted!
Like you Alana, I am living my life with only half of my genealogical history known to me. As an adult child of war and adoption, I lived the first 25 years of my life with a total loss of personal history. Meeting my first mother gave me one half of that lost heritage; however, she was opposed to me knowing the identity of my father. I believe he was a US serviceman posted to the Pacific region of WW2 conflict.
I wish so much that the circumstances of my conception had been different. That my parents had loved each other (and me) and we had been able to share our lives together. Without any shadow of doubt my first father is unaware of my existence. However, I know he exists (or existed) and will, until the end of my life, feel deep sorrow that I was denied the opportunity to know him and his (my!) kin. It is possible of course that I am his only descendant; he may well have lost his young life in battle. So my children (his grandchildren); my grandchildren (his g-grandchildren) may be all that remains of his life on this earth.
This is my/our loss and we are constantly told to trivialise or ignore its meaning in our lives.
I would not wish to be a person who disregards a loss of this magnitude.
Wow. Thank you so much Polly for sharing that.
I know its our responsibility as adults to take the reigns of our own well-being, find the joy, find our purpose, and go after it aggressively, so as not to be totally consumed by the tragedy of a lost parent.
for me, before I found people like you, and family scholars, and other DC kids, I thought that I was just crazy- being so alienated by a loss I couldn’t share with my peers (nor my family!).
We’ve got to keep telling our stories so that others in our situation know that they’re not going insane by qualifying a lost parent as negative.