‘Sit yourself down, I don’t bite,’ she said, immediately reminding me of my meeting with Miss McFadden at the orphanage.
We were both aware that there was no need for any introductions, as I knew Lisa had filled her in with all the details. I felt relaxed in her company and was happy to answer any of her questions. I was eager to ask her a few too. She leant back in her chair, with her hands clasped, resting on her lap, but did not stare in the same way that everyone else had done previously.
‘What made you decide to trace your mother?’ she asked.
‘Curiosity got the better of me,’ I replied. ‘I’d always been told as a child that my natural parents had both died of TB.’
She paused and thought for a moment while she digested what I had said.
‘When you’re adopted you have a right to be told the truth. You need to know if there’s any history of genetic disorders or inherited diseases.’ I nodded in agreement.
There was a small box on her desk containing medical cards which she rifled through to find Bridget’s notes. I was surprised that it wasn’t as full as I’d expected. Taking into account her past medical history, her complex needs and present condition, I imagined her notes to be bulging.
Dr Watkins explained that the notes only went to 1958. My heart missed a beat as I leant across and noticed on a small medical card: Given birth to a healthy baby girl, 8lbs 2oz at Gulson Hospital in Coventry on 26 May 1959. Normal delivery. Baby and mother doing well.
I shouted excitedly, ‘That must be me. Is that how much I weighed?’
Dr Watkins was looking a little puzzled and asked, ‘What year were you born?’ She realised that I’d got mixed up, and explained, ‘That was your mother’s second daughter, Angela.’
Of course – the date hadn’t registered. I was born in 1956. Angela was born three years later. For a moment I felt very disappointed. Yet again, there was no documentation that my mother had ever given birth to me. Dr Watkins soon cleared up the confusion, and explained that my mother’s medical notes had been lost when she changed her surname to Ryan.
‘It must have been an awful shock for you to discover that your mother was a down-and-out,’ said the doctor.
I was a little unsettled by her description, so I paused to collect my thoughts. ‘I know what I found wasn’t exactly a perfect mother, but I don’t regret tracing her, and I’m glad that I found her. It’s the sort of nightmare all adopted people dread when they go in search of their mother, isn’t it?’ I replied.
‘Although what I found wasn’t good, it’s a terrible feeling to know you have a mother somewhere out there, but you don’t know who, or what, or where. You don’t know where you come from, or who you are, or what happened to you that made your mother give you away. There should be more honesty all along in adoptions: no secrets, no mysteries. I’d rather know the worst than nothing at all.’
Dr Watkins appeared to sympathise with what I was saying, and commented on how well I appeared to be coping. ‘It’s a good job you have such a strong character. Perhaps for another adopted person finding a mother like that might have done more harm than good. I’ll give you as much information as I can, although some of the details are rather vague and not too reliable.’
Now it was her turn to look confused, which wasn’t surprising as the medical card was rather contradictory. After Bridget’s original case notes had been lost, she gave the doctor at the time her past medical history. Knowing her, I think she may have deliberately tried to baffle the medical profession, and had tried to cover up her previous mistakes.
Dr Watkins was extremely helpful, and wrote down the information she had, for me to take away. ‘Well, I can only tell you what’s in front of me, but how much of it is true I don’t honestly know.’ She reassured me that there were no inherited conditions for me to be worried about. Her epilepsy and dementia were caused by her alcoholism.
Then she went on to tell me the birthdates of my half-siblings, although it still seemed rather muddled. There were three children born after me. Two were brought up together in foster care and the last was adopted.
It was a lot to take in. I was very preoccupied by my mother’s condition of course. As much as I could think about my half siblings, it seemed cruel to trace them just to tell them about what their mother was like today. I hoped they had had happy lives. Who was I to disrupt them? It could have done more harm than good. Dr Watkins said she felt I was coping well with the situation and that I was very self-reliant.
Over the next year I visited my mother about once a month, usually on a Sunday morning as it was much quieter. I never really enjoyed the visits. I suppose it was more out of duty than anything else, and I always came away feeling upset.
I took her the new clothes and toiletries that she clearly needed, but as I’d been advised not to take in any ornaments, her bedroom remained very much the same as I’d first seen it. At least she had some new clothes to wear and smelt nicer.
I sometimes helped the carers give my mother a shower if she became aggressive towards them, but it was something I found increasingly tough to do. It was difficult to be her nurse any longer. Seeing her in a state of undress, she was so frail, the years and the alcohol had taken their toll. I wanted to step back from being her nurse and openly be her daughter. But sadly I could never do it the way I wanted to because of her dementia.
Most of the staff in the home were friendly, but one or two of the carers did appear a little hostile towards me. I think they had come to their own conclusions, not knowing that I was adopted and had only traced my mother when I was an adult because it wasn’t in her care plan. The relationship I had had with my mother was not going to be the same as if she had brought me up, yet, strangely enough, I had cared for my mother in a way that most daughters would never have to. I can honestly say our relationship was unique.
I reminded myself that I had come to visit my mother and I shouldn’t feel that I have to justify myself to different staff every time I visited. I tried not to think about their attitude towards me. It is so easy to judge someone without knowing the full facts. It certainly gave me a much greater understanding of how difficult it is when a loved one is living with dementia. I now have genuine empathy with relatives when they are visiting loved ones in the care home where I now work.
One morning, when Tom was about 18 months old, I was off from work and hadn’t decided what to do. Stuart and Hannah had just gone back to school after the Easter holidays, and I was getting Tom ready to take him out for a few hours before lunch. At this point I had not decided where to go. It was a cold, rainy day, so I knew it needed to be somewhere indoors.
I was sitting on the floor next to Tom in the lounge, building a tower with his wooden bricks. He thought it was great fun to knock them down again, clapping his hands and shouting ‘Yeah!’ at the top of his voice. It always gave me such a warm glow to see his face light up with such pleasure.
At times like that my mother would often come into my thoughts, and I was saddened to think that she never had such memories of her own children. Suddenly I said, ‘I know what we can do today. Shall we visit your grandmother?’ I remember Tom shouting back ‘Yeah!’ because he’d just knocked down the second tower of bricks I’d only just finished building.
However, he’d answered my question, and I suddenly realised that she’d never met any of her grandchildren. It somehow seemed the right thing to do. I realised that Tom was too young to remember the occasion so, if things didn’t turn out as planned, it wasn’t going to upset him at all. I felt I had nothing to lose, and at least I would have Tom with me for some moral support – sometimes the visits seemed so meaningless, as she never knew who I was.
We arrived at the home just before lunchtime. There was now an intercom by the front door, so I pressed the red button and spoke through the mouth piece. I said, ‘I’ve come to visit Bridget Ryan.’ I immediately felt relieved, for I recognised Lisa’s voice as she instructed me to push the door open. She gave me h
er usual welcoming smile, and of course was excited to meet Tom, who was enjoying all the attention.
I wheeled his pushchair into the small lounge as Lisa had suggested. She asked one of the carers standing in the corridor to bring Bridget in so she could ‘meet her lovely grandson’. I started feeling apprehensive in case she became aggressive towards him, but Lisa reassured me and said, ‘Your mother is more manageable these days. Some of her medication has been changed, and she seems much calmer. Well, as long as she’s got her cigarettes, that is.’
In the distance I could hear some shouting and then, recognising that distinctive Tipperary accent, I knelt down to reassure Tom, as by now he was becoming a little fidgety. I said, ‘Can you hear your noisy grandmother?’ I took him out of his pushchair and squeezed him tightly, which comforted me as much as him, and headed towards the sofa. I could hear Bridget shouting as she walked in.
‘Ah, Jaysus Christ I want a cigarette.’ Lisa was also not far behind, and doing her best to persuade Bridget that it wasn’t such a good idea to be smoking around a small child, but she was far from convinced.
‘Jaysus, will you just give me a bleeding cigarette? The little boy isn’t going to be bothered with me smoking,’ she said. She was duly given some Park Drive cigarettes.
With all the commotion I hadn’t had time to reflect on Tom’s first meeting with his grandmother. He seemed more than happy exploring his new environment, and wasn’t disturbed by his grandmother’s noisy expletives.
Lisa had arranged a tray of tea. As expected, my mother soon calmed down when she’d had her cigarette. She sat next to me on the sofa and started to stare at Tom. I felt overwhelmed by the whole experience. She was staring at her grandson, but sadly she would never really know him.
After a few minutes I looked into her eyes and said, ‘Say hello to your grandson.’ If only for a split second there seemed a glimpse of recognition in her face. I held her hand and emphasised, ‘This is Tom, your grandson.’ She smiled and continued staring at him for a while and then in a caring way – a side to my mother I’d never seen before – she said so tenderly, ‘He’s a beautiful little baby.’ Within minutes I had lost that moment, but it was one I will treasure forever.
Suddenly she looked scared. It’s hard to explain, but it was as if she had switched off all her emotions. Instead of the alcohol causing the communication block, it was now her dementia. Her expression just completely changed. Tom, with his blonde hair, was very like me as a child. Maybe it had triggered some memories that she’d rather not think about.
Within minutes she was like a totally different person, acting very bossy and shouting, ‘Why isn’t he at school?’ I tried to explain that he wasn’t even two years old yet, but she wasn’t listening and just started to ramble, as she so often did. I had to smile to myself. There was my own mother telling me how to look after my son, when she herself had been far from ideal.
Tom then moved one of the cushions on the sofa and she started shouting at the top of her voice, ‘Put it down!’ She made him jump, as she had such a piercing voice, and he started crying. I’m sure she frightened him to death. To my annoyance she then started mimicking him. ‘Ah, he’s a cry-baby.’ I picked him up to comfort him and she shouted, ‘Leave him, leave him.’
Her horrible words rang in my head. ‘Leave him, leave him.’ I felt so angry. I wanted to shout back at her, like you left me when I was crying as a baby.
By now I wasn’t thinking rationally. It was the first time I’d felt such anger towards her and I needed to leave with Tom. I’d lost the mother I had found, so why did I think things would be any different with her as a grandmother? At least I’d tried. The one thing I was certain about was that I wouldn’t be taking Tom to visit her again.
As we left the home I whispered into Tom’s ear, still smelling the cigarette smoke on his little head, ‘Say goodbye to your grandmother.’ It was so poignant to see his little hand waving goodbye to a grandmother he would never know.
10
Her Final Years
Over the next eight years I visited my mother a few times a year. At Christmas and on her birthday I always took a card, but never one with the word ‘mother’ on. It’s hard to explain, but it wouldn’t have felt right. She never knew me as her daughter, so I was more at ease with sending her a card for ‘someone special’ which, in spite of all that had happened, is what she was to me.
Sometimes I visited her in the spring because it’s such an optimistic time. It was always emotional, invariably I would come away feeling upset. By now my mother was at the end stage of dementia, and often could be very aggressive. I was also busy bringing up my own children and I needed to make sure that the impact of visiting her wasn’t going to affect them in any way.
At least I knew she was safe and being well looked after. I’d often phone the home to ask how she was getting on. Usually I was told something along the lines of, ‘She’s fine, no change in her condition.’ This didn’t give me a great deal of comfort, but at least I knew she was still alive and kicking. Literally, in her case.
My mother usually sat in the small day room with another resident called Rose, who also had dementia, although not as advanced as my mother’s. She was never physically aggressive towards Rose. They’d often sit together for hours, smoking and chatting, clearly not remembering what the other had said. But they were good friends and seemed to enjoy each other’s company.
It was quite amusing to watch them together. One minute they’d be pouring out a torrent of abuse, blaming each other for the argument, but within minutes they’d forgotten it and were the best of friends again. I was glad that my mother had made one friend who she could chat to, or at least argue with.
In 1996, Tom was in nursery and Hannah had joined Stuart at secondary school. District nursing was changing. Computers were coming in, we had to log our times and mileage, and the job was becoming more stressful.
I loved visiting patients in their own home, but now we didn’t have as much time to spend with them and I decided I needed to have a career change, so I left the district and started working in care homes. But I made sure I avoided my mother’s home. I was Phyllis now, not her nurse.
My mother’s health continued to decline. It was August 2001 when I visited her for the last time, although I wasn’t aware that it would be the last scene of our complicated relationship.
It had been almost a year since my last visit, but the sun was shining and I was in a pleasant frame of mind.
That was to be short-lived. I arrived to a hostile reception when I informed the carer, ‘I’m Bridget Ryan’s daughter.’ She seemed irritated by my visit. ‘She’s still in bed,’ she replied.
She led me into the dining room where it was quieter, as the other residents were sitting in the communal lounge. Not even bothering to introduce herself – I’d never met her before – she instructed me to wait in the dining room until they got her up. She continued talking as she cleared away the breakfast dishes from the table. I felt that she deliberately made no eye contact.
‘Your mother’s been a real pain, shouting and screaming for most of the night, disturbing all the other residents and causing such trouble for everyone.’
Before I had a chance to reply, she left the dining room, making absolutely sure she had closed the doors firmly behind her. I was alone with a TV programme that no one was watching. My mood dipped dramatically. Perhaps I had a premonition of what was to come. I felt like running away and never going back, but I wanted to see how my mother was getting on as it had been almost a year since I’d last seen her.
I suddenly heard a commotion. I turned my head to look, and there was my mother flailing about in her wheelchair, being pushed through the double doors by the carer-with-no-name.
She looked very frail and had lost a lot of weight. As a nurse, caring for patients with dementia, I knew the right questions to ask, but no words came out. In my head I wanted to ask: Why is she in a wheelchair? Is she now immobile? Why has
she lost so much weight? Is she not eating very much? Why does she look so frail? Has her condition deteriorated? Why is she not sleeping at night? Can’t she be prescribed some medication to help her sleep? There were so many ‘whys’, and I probably knew the answer to all of them.
But it’s different when it’s your own mother. You seem to forget all the things you know. I often have to answer relatives’ questions and give them reassurance. I suppose I needed some reassurance myself that day.
Bridget had been wheeled to a big round table in the corner of the room and two trollies appeared outside the door. I was handed a lidded plastic beaker which I assumed had tea in it. I moved it towards her mouth, but she shifted her head away and kept her teeth clamped shut. I desperately tried to give her a few sips.
A different carer, whose voice was much kinder, and whom I recognised from one of my previous visits, came over and said, ‘Your mother isn’t drinking much these days.’ How ironic, I thought. If only I’d been told that when I’d first met her almost 20 years ago, things could have been very different. But of course it was tea we were talking about now, not alcohol.
I sat for some time, holding my mother’s hands. She spoke infrequently and when she did, it made little sense. Her words gradually became a babble, often screaming, as before. I smiled and tried to make some kind of connection, but she had such anger in her face and seemed so tormented.
To my horror, she became extremely aggressive towards me, shouting and digging her fingernails into my wrist. It was really hurting, but I just couldn’t escape her grasp. Her eyes were wide open and she looked like a woman possessed, grinding her stained nicotine teeth and using all her strength to dig further into my skin. I felt the tears rolling down my face as I screamed in sheer disbelief. We were alone in the dining room; there was nobody to come to my rescue, and the pain from my wrist became unbearable.
Why did my mother want to hurt me so much? I was in such agony, emotionally and physically, but I mustered all the strength I could and eventually managed to escape from her grip. My wrist throbbed with pain and started to bleed, and the marks of her nails stayed on my skin. I didn’t want to hate my mother, but I was upset and hurting. I felt shocked and completely powerless. I’d dealt with aggressive residents on many occasions, but this situation was different. I desperately wanted to detach myself from what had just happened.
Finding Tipperary Mary Page 16