MY SPERM DONOR. It's a weird title for my first blog, I know. But it's the origin story of all origin stories, and it starts with those determined little swimmers.
When my mom was 16, she dated an older guy named Johnny, who convinced her he couldn't have kids because he had a low sperm count. They had sex and, of course, she got pregnant with me. If you know me even a little bit, the fact that one of those underdogs actually finished the race will come as no surprise.
THE EARLY DAYS…
Mom gave birth to me when she was just 17. Raised Catholic, abortion was out of the question. My grandmother, who had been a single mom much of her life, knew how hard it was. She encouraged my mom to consider adoption, but my mom couldn't do it - despite the fact that my pediatrician and his wife desperately wanted to adopt me.
She knew she'd make it work out. And she did. She dropped out of high school and got a job. She worked in a bar, diners, and even a factory. We lived in an apartment near the fire station. She said the firefighters fawned all over me. Mom was a looker back in the day. I think they were fawning over her. But she was focused.
By the time she was 20, she had saved enough to purchase a home from the HUD program in south Warren. It wasn't glamorous, but SHE BOUGHT A FREAKING HOUSE as a 20-year-old single mom. And it was just down the street from my grandmother, Gram, as we all called her.
GRAM…
I come from a long line of brave, determined, stubborn Italian women. I know this post is about the sperm donor, but it can't be told without a little background on my grandmother, so bear with me.
First-generation Italian-American, Gram grew up in a household with an abusive stepfather who made her quit school when she was just in middle school to help pay the bills. She and her older sisters were even put in foster care for a while when they were younger because of him. She had a tough life and didn't want that life for her daughters. But my mom was determined to make the best of it. And she did.
ALAN — AKA DAD…
When I was five, my mom married Alan, the man I call Dad. It wasn't long before my little sister came along. She was my baby doll! Then, two and a half years later, my little brother arrived. Even though my dad now had two biological children, he still treated me as his daughter – not his stepdaughter. When I was younger, he even asked me if he could adopt me. Unfortunately, it never happened because of the costs involved.
Regardless, he's my dad. To my kids and grandkids, he is a loving Papa and Great-Papa. A Vietnam Vet, he struggled with alcoholism when we were growing up. After getting caught drinking on the job and a mandatory stint in rehab, he's been sober ever since.
He's not perfect, but he has loved me for most of my life — even when I was a snotty pre-teen who decided to start calling him my stepdad and wondering who this elusive bio dad was.
HERE'S JOHNNY…
As you can imagine, from us living down the street from her for many years, I was very close to Gram. I began to badger her and anyone else I could for information. They always looked uncomfortable when I brought it up. I didn't know why, but I could sense there was more to the story. By the time I entered my teens, Gram had moved a few miles away. So, on one of our frequent sleepovers, she finally relented and told me who my biological father was.
I finally knew the reason everyone was uncomfortable around the subject. My bio dad is the brother of my now late Aunt Marlene's husband – my late Uncle Bill. It's funny. The clues were there, but they weren't readily apparent without the information. My uncle always took me to visit his sister, my Aunt Dot. At the time, I didn't know she was ACTUALLY my aunt, but I always called her Aunt Dot. As an adult, I appreciate that Uncle Bill and Aunt Marlene spent so much time with me and ensured Aunt Dot and my cousins could get to know me, even if I didn't know the details.
Once I knew my bio dad's name, it didn't take Gram long to divulge his whereabouts. I was as resourceful then as I am now. I called 411 (kids, look it up) and got a phone number. I wrote it on the back of a used envelope and stared at it. My hand trembled – out of excitement or fear, I'm not sure which.
FIRST CONTACT…
Back then, calling the town next door was expensive. Calling Vegas would surely have cost a fortune, but Gram let me use her phone anyhow. I can almost still hear the clickety-clack of the rotary dial as I put in his number, my finger unsure it wanted to let go when I turned the last digit. I looked at Gram, who smiled tenderly at me (did she? I don't really remember those details, but it sounds right), but I finally let go of the dial.
After a few rings, a woman answered. I said hello and asked if I could speak to Johnny Garnett. That's the bio dad's name, you see. The woman hesitated. I heard her cover the receiver and call out his name. A moment later. He said, "Who is this?" when he finally came on the line.
"Melody... I'm your daughter." My timid voice croaked out. And I do remember that one. My gut was wadded up in a ball. I thought I might be sick just saying the words out loud.
There was a long silence. You could tell Johnny never anticipated receiving this call. Still, I was assured he was aware of my existence and that my aunt and uncle kept him up to date with photos whenever they went to Vegas.
I don't really remember the gist of the awkward conversation that followed, but it ignited a firestorm. Gram was chastised by my mom and her sisters for interfering. She gave it right back to them, insisting that I had a right to know. And she was right. I did have the right to know but didn't realize the cost of knowing back then.
CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR…
You see, my dad's alcoholism had me believing that a relationship with my bio-dad would magically solve everything. I would finally have the fairy tale I had created in my mind. So, when he offered to buy me an airplane ticket so I could visit him in Vegas, I knew all my dreams had come true.
I recently found out that my mom and dad had a big fight over the whole thing. Dad didn't want me to go. He worried about me traveling alone and staying with strangers. My mom did, too. She worried how his wife would react, but she argued with my dad that if they didn't let me go, I would never forgive them. They were both right.
But I've always had to do things my way. At that point, the furthest I had ever been was on a family road trip to visit my cousin Rocky in Virginia, and I'd never been on a plane before. So here I was – thirteen, alone, and flying across the country for the first time. This was also a time when unaccompanied minors didn't have special escorts. You just hoped the person you were flying out to visit was on the other side of the gangway when your plane touched down. (Being able to meet loved ones as they disembarked is another discussion altogether.)
But he was there. It wasn't the romantic rushing into the arms of your loving father I had envisioned. He was a stranger, after all. A couple of phone calls could never have prepared me for the visit or lived up to the fairytale I'd written in my mind.
When we arrived at his house, I met my stepmother for the first time. She put on a good show at first and even quietly told me to tell her if I needed any lady things while I was there. But her friendly mask quickly came off. After a couple of days, it was apparent she had tired of my presence. She wasn't prepared for Johnny to spend all his time trying to ensure his daughter enjoyed her visit.
And, of course, wouldn't you know it, my period started, too. But did I ask for those lady things? HELL NO. I decided to look in the cabinet myself. I didn't find any pads – just tampons. But I did find their stash of porno mags. I had never used a tampon, had never seen porn, and now I was horrified. Luckily, my flow was light that month, because I never did ask her for pads. She probably wondered where all her toilet paper went, though.
And there was the other reality – my bio dad was also a functioning alcoholic. So was the stepmonster. Their vegetable crisper was full of beer. There wasn't much food in the house that a teen girl would eat, either.
The trip wasn't all bad. One day, he dropped me off at the local water park. Yes. Alone. I'm lucky to be alive, probably, but I didn't care. I had never been to a water park. It was the most fun I had on the trip, except for the sunburn. That Vegas sun isn't kind to freckled-faced redheads. But it was totally worth it.
He also took me to see the casinos. I couldn't go in, which made me sad, but I got to see the strip and thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. Still, I was very homesick. Between hormones, never being away from home before, and the iciness from the stepmonster, I just wanted to go home. I'm pretty sure we were all relieved when I boarded my return flight.
HOME SWEET HOME…
Who knew that trip would be the calm before the storm? After I got home, things got really interesting. The stepmonster decided that I couldn't be Johnny's daughter. After all, he never managed to get her pregnant.
Forget the fact that my mom provided her with the proof that my blood type is O+, just like his – not my mom's. She also didn't believe my mom when she said she was only with Johnny. There was zero chance he was not my father. And you couldn't easily get a DNA test back then.
Staying in touch with him was difficult. The stepmonster made his life hell if I called or he called me.
One day, I tried calling him, and the stepmonster hung up on me. I called back, and her daughter (from a previous marriage) answered. She said she couldn't get my bio-dad. Her mom had forbidden it. I asked why. She didn't have an answer. You could hear the anguish in her voice. The fact that she had to tell me wasn't easy for her. That was the last time I ever talked to her, as well.
Then, one day, my aunt and uncle would arrange it, so I was at their house when he was planning to call so he could talk to me. He told me he knew I was his daughter and he was sorry, but he couldn't keep in touch with me anymore. I guess the stepmonster had thrown down an ultimatum. Me or her.
HE CHOSE HER…
And for some sick reason, I still wanted to have a relationship with him.
In college, I told some friends this story. They couldn't believe it. One of them came up with the idea to call his house. The stepmonster answered. My male friend, posing as an East Lansing Police Officer, said, "Ma'am, we are looking for a Mr. Johnny Garnett. I'm from the East Lansing Police Department and we have his daughter, Miss Melody Enloe---"
She cut them off before they could even finish.
"He doesn't have a daughter." She exclaimed before hanging up on them.
I could have been dead. The stepmonster didn't care. And, if my bio dad knew about the call, neither did he.
I began to heal from the trauma of all of it as I grew up. I grew closer with my dad and accepted that I was lucky I had had him all those years. I know it must have been painful for him to watch me go through all of that. It's painful for me to think about having hurt him.
MOVING ON…
Years went by. I had my own kids and tried to focus on the people who mattered. Eventually, when they were old enough, I told my kids about the bio dad. They had a right to know. I didn't want them to find out randomly. It's a good thing I did.
Unbeknownst to me, the stepmonster had passed away, and the bio dad was renting a house with several other people, apparently. He must have told them the story about me because one of them followed my daughter's Facebook page. An actress and singer-songwriter, I had set that page up for her when we first moved her out to L.A. Bio dad's roommate messaged my daughter. They said she was her grandpa's roommate and went on to say all sorts of things.
She had no idea that I managed my daughter's page. I was LIVID. I told her she was lucky that I had already TOLD my kids about Johnny. And after giving her a piece of my mind, I blocked her from the page. And I thought that was that and put him out of my mind.
But several years ago, I got a call from my cousin telling me Johnny had had a heart attack. They didn't expect him to make it. I was ANGRY. What was I supposed to do with that information? I told her. He had been dead to me for years at that point. I felt a little bad for shooting the messenger. She was just trying to deliver information she thought I deserved to know.
But he didn't die. Because, as the song says, well, you get the picture.
THE FINAL CHAPTER…
Here we are, several more years down the road, and another call comes in. I could hear the hesitancy in my cousin's voice when she delivered the news. The bio dad has stage 4 lung cancer and is in hospice. This time, however, I wasn't angry. I was sad. Not for me, for him. He spent all these years alone. Choices have consequences. He missed out on having me for a daughter, three wonderful grandkids, and two great-grandkids he'll never know.
Now, I'm faced with a decision. How do I want to handle my bio dad's dying days? I honestly don't know. Writing this was the first step. I'll take the next step when and if I choose to. And at least I have some important medical history to add to my files.
And the best part of this story is that I have two wonderful dads. Even though my mom and Alan divorced decades ago, I remain close to him. He'll always be my dad – not my stepdad, as I once so cruelly called him. And, about 28 years ago, I got another wonderful dad when my mom met and eventually married my stepdad, Tommy, aka TOPPY. My kids are so lucky to have my dad and Toppy – who I call Pops – in their lives.
The Sperm Donor may have ripped a hole in my teenage heart, but my dad and Pops filled it with unwavering love.
Melody and her dad, Alan (in the red tie) at her sister's wedding, and Melody and her stepdad Pops, aka Toppy, aka Tommy enjoying Taco Tuesday in Florida.
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