My father's legs

I never thought much about genetics before I before I started getting older. Growing up, the big joke in my family was that I was adopted. I was the last of four children, coming after my brother, Ira, who was my parent's first biological child, and my sister, Michelle, whose fate was decided upon--possibly at birth, or maybe conception--when she died at three months from SIDS. My oldest brother, Darrell, who's technically my "half-brother" but I've never seen it that way, is six years older than me and has struggled all of his life with issues of abandonment. His mother left when he was five years-old and she has never resurfaced since. My brother was always attached to my father. He was Darrell's comfort blanket, his favorite stuffed animal, his friend.

By the time I was born, life was busy for our family. Pictures were less of a priority and 8mm video was fast becoming something that was only used for special occasions. The recording of my first several years was minimal.

I also didn't look much like the rest of the family.

Darrell had blond hair and blue eyes, Ira was always a chunky kid (he was mistaken for a girl once at a restaurant, probably because of his longer hair and boy-boobs). I was short and thinner than my brothers, and my facial features didn't seem to resemble anyone. Hence, the joke.

Whenever my brothers wanted to get me mad or make me cry, they would simply remind me that I was different. I was different for only one reason: because I was adopted. My parents were in on it too. They thought it was funny, I guess. It was such a common joke that as I got older, I began to wonder if I really was adopted. I wondered if I had to embark on a quest to find my real family, to see if I could fit in there, to see if I had "real" brothers and sisters.

I've always been the proverbial black sheep. I was the only one to like school and the only one to go to college. I am the only one who converted from Judaism to Catholicism. I am the only one who hasn't been arrested, who likes his job, the only one who has coached his children in sports, the only one whose wife homeschools. I've never thought it makes me better than anyone else. It just makes me, me.

As I've gotten older, I have started to see things differently. Physically, as well as behaviorally. When my father was sick in the hospital, I noticed that we have the same legs. More specifically, we have the same calves. It's a strange thing to notice, but when you spend hours staring at a person in a hospital bed, you tend to look at them, I mean really look at them. And I noticed my father's legs.

He was a hairy man. He had a full mustache at 13. He was one of those men who could grow a thick beard in a week. I'm not like that. I've tried to grow a beard, but it just comes out all wrong. Patchy, thin, and nowadays, the parts that do grow in are gray. Being hairy isn't something I think I missed out on. I mean, he had hair on his chest which is, again, sometimes seen as manly. But he also had hair on his back and on his stomach, and I think on his butt. My father used to sleep naked when we were kids. It kind of creeped me out and I think he knew that.

With all of the hair on my father's body, his legs were probably the spot that had the least amount. He had hair, but it was light colored and thin, barely noticeable. My legs are the same way. The hair is darker, but the amount is negligible. When I was a competitive bodybuilder, my calves were thick and strong. I think they measured 16" or 17" around. Now, even though I still workout on a regular basis, I'm lucky if my calves measure 13". My thighs have always been thick. Still are today. But today, like right this moment, when I reach down and put my hand on my left calf, I feel more skin and bone than muscle. And they feel cold when I touch them. Just like when I touched my dad's legs as he lay in bed, dying.

They were worried about circulation, so we needed to move pillows around, adjust things, even rub them at times. I never went so far as rubbing his legs (my job was to remove, clean, and re-insert his dentures...yeah me!), but I touched them.

Thanks to this tactile memory, I think about my dad more often than I expected. If I am laying in bed reading, and my legs cross, I think about my dad. If I have an itch on my leg and I scratch it, I think about my dad. When I wear shorts, I think about my dad.

As I get older, I think I am beginning to look more like him too. The hair, the expressions, my short stature. He had this thing he used to do--my grandfather, his father, used to do it too--whenever it was cold outside and he had to perform an activity like pumping gas, he always puffed his cheeks up and blew out steady burst of air, repeatedly during the entire activity. I do the same thing, occasionally but with more frequency. I've even started walking like him, hunched over a bit and quickly.

Darrell was the best man at my wedding. He had to give the Best Man Speech. It was short and to the point, welcoming Cyndi and her family to ours. He ended with a simple proclamation: "You were not really adopted."

I'm beginning to believe him.