Something about the ornaments from my first Christmas hits differently now that I know I am donor conceived. I have no independent memories of the ornaments. Instead I found them while moving my grandmother and mom out of their houses, respectively. I think about what these ornaments must have meant to them as they hung them on the tree in 1982.
My grandmother had waited so long and eagerly for a grandchild, and she had always wanted a daughter of her own. To her, my arrival was a miracle. I was like a living doll to her.
And I think about my mom. She undoubtably celebrated my arrival as a miracle as well, but it was a miracle with a secret—I was donor conceived, and she and my first father were never going to tell. What must this ornament have signified to them? Once they left the treatments with a positive test was it simply a matter of never speaking about it again? Just pretending as if it never happened? Was there ever a thought about the truth that Christmas?
Lastly, I wonder about my biological father that Christmas in 1982. Did he even wonder if any of his “deposits” in what he called “business transactions” during the previous two years had resulted in children celebrating their first Christmas? As the holiday approaches, try as I might, I still think of him and how he manages to pretend he doesn’t have a biological daughter living 30 miles away. Does he remember the cake I baked for him the Christmas we were in contact? How he wanted to give my boys pieces of his old drum set? Now he and his family would rather not know that I ever had a First Christmas to celebrate. To them, my existence is a nuisance or anomaly, not a miracle.
A Donor Conceived Adult 