True Account

Maybe Tomorrow

I’d always known I was adopted

Clarification — In this article I talk about my Mum; the woman who brought me up. And my birth-mum; the woman who physically gave birth to me.

When I started primary school I used to tell everyone –

“I’m adopted.”

“What’s that mean?” My classmates would ask.

“My… Mum… chose me.” I would say with pride.

Mum described it to me in that way. I’d always known I was adopted. The picture in my head consisted of a room full of babies in cribs and prospective parents walking along the rows until they saw a child who took their fancy. Pointing,

“I’ll have this baby please.”

Of course, the reality was very different.

My teenage birth-mum, a Catholic, became pregnant in the late ‘60s.

Later, when I found out my birth-dad was a sailor, I envisaged the conception taking place down a dark alleyway before he was summoned back to the ocean by the sound of a ship’s horn blowing in the background. I’d probably seen too many adult movies.

I was born in a Catholic mother and baby unit. My birth-mum had agreed to give me up while pregnant but once I was real, and in her arms, she wrote to the authorities informing them she‘d decided to keep me.

Her wishes were ignored and they persuaded her it was best for me to be given to another family.

Can you imagine having your baby snatched from you?

For the first six to nine months of my life, I lived with a foster family. Then the woman who became my Mum, legally and joyfully adopted me.

My birth-mum had a nervous breakdown. She then married the first man to court her and within eighteen months of my birthday and had another baby. Naming him after me. Her tale continued along a tragic vein but this is the story of my roots so…

So…

Very early on in life, I remember staring in the mirror and feeling like I didn’t belong. Confused, thinking I looked different and was in the wrong nest. I was a very serious youngster, and certainly have become more childlike as the years have passed by. Being told I had been chosen made me feel special. But when I informed my primary school buddies, they went home and came back the next day with:

“That means your Mum is not your real mum, I came out of my mummy’s tummy. You didn’t come out of your Mum’s tummy.”

Suddenly it didn’t feel so special and the feeling of being a cuckoo became stronger.

My Mum was wonderful. I loved her. She was glamorous, loving and cooked wonderfully. She had been unable to have her own children — TB infected her womb and she had to have a hysterectomy. Mum put her heart and soul into our little family.

Her own Mum, my Gran, was an incredible woman. A well-educated individual, years ahead of her time. I was lucky. I also had a couple of fantastic uncles who nurtured me. My dad, well he was a different matter.

After being informed by my peers that I was not special, as I had not been inside my Mum’s tummy, I decided not to tell too many people that I had been chosen.

By the time I was seventeen only a few people in my life were privy to this information. At secondary school, I knew a boy who was adopted. He was forever bleating on about how awful it felt — in a quest for sympathy from the girls. I could see he had a great life. Well educated, well off and with very decent, caring parents. I was cross with him for his attitude. It was important for me to be respected and appreciated for the person I was. Not pitied for a past I had never had a say in.

Even with this pride in place, looking back I didn’t really feel I had any roots. There was a disconnect between me and most others. Don’t get me wrong — I was liked and had a friendship group that chose me as a member. But even though I loved them, I didn’t feel I belonged with my adopted family or my peers.

In those days the law dictated that your birth-mum could not contact you. Also, the information given to my Mum regarding my parentage was minimal. As a young woman, I went to St Catherine’s House records office with my birth certificate and started to search. I found out my original name and took things from there. Soon I had my file sent to me from the Catholic Society. That’s when I found out the age of my birth-mum and the fact that my birth-dad was a sailor. The file contained a lot of sensitive information. Reading the letter she had written about wanting to keep me was — let’s just say difficult.

This was a huge amount to take in. I processed it for many months not really knowing how to proceed.

The turning point for me was having a child of my own. Before then I had never looked into eyes that resembled mine. When I held my baby I knew there wasn’t a choice. The experience was a revelation. Looking down at this tiny, tiny person I realised she was the first blood relative I had ever seen or touched. The enormity of that moment should not be underestimated. But my daughter was the future and I knew it was time to delve into the past and find out about our roots.

I discovered I had a few half-siblings and found a chap online who was confident that with a last known address he could find anyone. I trusted him and he delivered the whereabouts of one of my half brothers.

Tentatively I wrote him a letter.

Anxiously I awaited a reply.

I knew I might be opening a can of worms. What if I was a dreadful secret and my birth mum had another family who knew nothing about me? But life is too short for “what ifs”.

When the letter arrived I put it on the table and there it stayed for about half a day. Then, with my heart in my mouth, I opened it. The first line read,

“We have been waiting for you.”

The effect that had on me was enormous — gigantic — massive — astronomical.

It turned out my birth-mum had always talked about me and told her other children I was their big sister. She was happy I was finally in contact. All my half-siblings welcomed the idea of me with open arms.

They lived many miles away so I organised a trip to visit them and stayed at a hotel for a few days. The initial meeting was incredible. I felt extremely akin to these people. We shared mannerisms and physical features.

One of my half-brothers had checked out the details regarding our heritage. So finally I knew about my ancestors.

However, because of the loyalty I felt for my Mum I kept my birth-mum at arm’s length, but not my half-siblings. Getting to know them was an intense, amazing experience.

They embraced and enchanted me in all ways.

I was awash with so many emotions and even though they’d had a tough upbringing, I was envious. I wanted my time again. To be the big sister. To talk about boys and make-up with my little sister. Irrational feelings, but understandable? I suppose. These people were able to get under my skin in a way that nobody else had managed.

That terrified me, and I retreated.

Now it’s well over twenty odd since I met them all, and I’m in spasmodic email contact with one of them. I used to tell myself I didn’t want regular contact because of not wanting to hurt Mum’s feelings. But she died, and I still have chosen to keep myself to myself.

Each aspect of the experience was too much for me to handle. Reflecting on the past and yearning for a life I never shared with them caused me to lose touch with my true self.

I had to move on for my own sake.

Maybe that will change. But maybes are for tomorrow…

More of May’s writing here…

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