I dread visits to the doctor. Not only the prod and paw routine but the inevitable questions about family history. I resent the fact that I have so little medical history — culled from the Social History the Children's Aid compiled for me.

I hate giving a dead-end answer:

"I am adopted."

to a leading question.

Three loaded words. What I really mean to say is:

1. My birth records are sealed.

2. I have no way of knowing the name (...)

2a much less the medical history of my birthparents.

3. I was given a few clues; a little out of date.

4. I can make something up if you like?

Passive reply: it is out of my control. I am not responsible. My ignorance is government-sanctioned.

I am met with impatience, or worse, pity. I respond with frustration and even anger. Every visit is a reminder of the intimate, private information about myself that I do not have access to because I was adopted in Canada in the seventies.

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