An Unfinished Puzzle Christina Romo I have battled a number of health issues throughout my life—all of which I am asked to share whenever I see a new physician or specialist—but there is one section on every form that always gives me pause. In theory, it is the easiest section for me to complete, but emotionally, it serves as a reminder of the losses I have experienced. When I am asked to complete the same forms for my sons, that section becomes a source of guilt for me. Guilt over not knowing what I have passed on genetically to my sons. Guilt over not being able to protect or shield them from the losses I have experienced in life. When I meet with a physician or specialist for the first time, and upon reviewing my health history and lack of family medical history, the response is often the same. “I see you wrote ‘unknown’ in the Family Medical History section. Can you tell me about that?” “I don’t have knowledge of my family medical history because I was adopted.” “Oh.” Upon learning of my adoptee status, the exam room is often filled with a heavy and rather awkward silence. Some medical personnel seem less sure of themselves in that moment—not knowing what to say and seemingly frustrated over the fact that they caught this case that has now been complicated by the overwhelming unknowns. Some doctors insist on pressing me for more information, as though it is completely unfathomable to them that I would have no knowledge of my family medical history. Some doctors cannot seem to move on from that question fast enough and proceed to stare at my chart throughout the duration of my appointment, rather than make eye contact with me. The more adoption-competent doctors take my answer in stride and continue to treat me like a human being who deserves the same compassion, consideration, and medical care they offer to all of their patients. Though my lack of family medical [End Page 128] history is something I had no control over, it can sometimes feel as though I have done something wrong by existing as a complicated and unfinished puzzle in that space. In January of 2010, at the age of 28, I came down with strep throat, which is something I had never had before. It took a couple of visits with the doctor to treat, as I did not respond well to the medications prescribed. After successfully completing a round of antibiotics, I noticed that I still was not feeling well. I felt weak and achy, had low-grade fevers, and found it impossible to stay awake throughout the day. It eventually progressed to my barely being able to walk without the use of a cane. I also had a wheelchair for the days when I was too weak and in too much pain to walk at all. Throughout this period of deterioration that occurred over the course of a number of months, I was seeing my general practitioner and other specialists on an almost weekly basis while undergoing a seemingly endless series of tests. It felt like a seemingly endless battle for 3rd opinions and 4th opinions and any possible explanation as to why this was happening to me. I had stacks of medical records and was sure to bring symptom lists with me to every appointment. On many occasions, I would hear a specialist tell me that “this would be so much easier if [I] had [my] family medical history.” In the meantime, I was in a constant state of fatigue and excruciating pain, and I wasn’t receiving any course of treatment to combat the effects of the symptoms. Some physicians were sympathetic, while others treated me like I was an addict in search of pain meds and refused to believe there was anything wrong with me. The game changer happened when I developed a strange rash all over my body. The rash consisted of what appeared to be angry, red lesions and seemingly appeared out of the blue. A skin biopsy revealed traces of lupus. Armed with this information, my general practitioner was...