Day 15 - Mothers' Day

For me, the best place to start is with Isaiah: "Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!" 49: 15).

I have always found that to be helpful - and true!

The place I was born - St. Monica's Home for Unmarried Mothers - is under investigation by the local council. It is no longer there. When we found it, 44 years ago, it was an Old People"s Home, but the Anglican Diocese has records. It was considered the worst Mother and Baby Home in the country.

I don't remember it! I don't know how long I was there. I was 8 weeks old when I was adopted, but I don't know if I stayed there for 8 weeks.

I have never heard the truth about my origins. My adoptive mum told me that my mother was a 20-year old secretary. Her parents couldn't afford to look after me, so they had me adopted. And I came with a Teddy Bear, a children's prayer book and a children's hymnbook. None of this was true.

She was a 21-year old "Boot and Shoe Operative - Leather Uppers". I've always been amused that she put that detail on my birth certificate - "Leather Uppers"!

Her parents never knew I existed. They were married in the February after I was born (I was given away on the 26th March). And when I met my mother and showed her the Teddy Bear and the books she didn't recognise them - they didn't come from her. All my life they had been my links to her, and they were not real.

I asked her about my dad - there is a blank in the box that says, "Father's Name". Not even a line. She said she thought his name was Frank (how could she forget?). He was a married travelling salesman. He never met me. He knew I existed, but he didn't visit her again until after I was gone. She told my wife that put her off men for life. Ten months later she married a travelling salesman, and over the next couple of years they had a daughter and a son. They didn't want to know me. So was her husband my dad?

I don't know. I had so many questions to ask, but she just lied to me. I met her several times over a 2 year period, but I felt nothing for her. I tried to imagine what it would have been like growing up in that family, but given the adoption trauma, I don't imagine I would have been me. So, it's hard to say.

That's mother number one.

I thought for mother number two I would tell some amusing stories. They say that if you don't ask questions you will never learn anything.

I remember coming home from school one day - I'm guessing we had an RE class and Abraham and Isaac were in the lesson, but I can't remember. What I do remember is the question I asked my mum: "Have I been circumcised?" "Oh, yes", she said, "It was done when you were born". How would she know, she wasn't there! Anyway, I go into the bathroom and I'm standing there looking, thinking, "What did they cut off?" I haven't been circumcised!

Then there was the lesson on Britons, Celts and Picts etc. Our teacher said that probably none of us were pure Britons. So I ask my mum, and she says, "Oh yes, you are." She just made up the first thing she could think of.

Then there was my question about Dean Martin. Remember him? There was a boy in my class called Mark Dean. My first name is Martin; his surname is Dean. So I asked my mum why Dean Martin put his surname before his first name. I didn't know that Dean was also a Christian name. Education was frowned upon in out house. My mum's answer was, "That's what the Americans do; they put their surname first".

And so it's Mothers' Day. I remember watching Peter Pan when I was young and the Lost Boys singing, "Who needs a mother?" And the song ends with each one of them singing individually, "I do"; "And I do". And I wondered if I did; and if so, why?

I have never been properly mothered, but I don't know how I would have handled it if I had been. I imagine I would have been very different, but there still would have been that latent trauma from being adopted.

Anyway, I'm going to stop now. I had a letter from the urology department yesterday. They had met to discuss me, and decided to do nothing more about my urachal diverticulum. They are still concerned about my PSA levels, and as I was only copied into the letter written to the medical centre, they have instructed them to arrange a blood test every 6 months, and if the level goes up by 1 ng/ml in any one year period, I am to be rereferred to the hospital.

I just have to see what the gastroenterologist says about me now.

So that's going to be it for a while. I am tired, aching, sore, my head aches; I still have brain fog, but I'm taking a break from this blog.

When I hear anything more from the hospital I'll be back.