After all, my mother had dementia and wasn’t aware of what she was doing. I hung on for a moment until I regained control.
I’ve tried so many times to remember what I did actually say to the carer-with-no-name as I left my mother for the last time. Still severely shocked after my mother’s attack, I asked to see the manager. I was told, ‘She’s not here on Sundays, so if you’ve got a problem you will need to speak to me.’ I blurted out something along the lines of, ‘I think it’s best if I don’t visit my mother any more. I just can’t cope with her aggression. I don’t want to hate her, so it’s better if I stay away. If she’s really ill, then phone me.’
What she thought about my outburst I can only imagine, but I realise now how much I’d been misunderstood on that day. The anonymous carer clearly wasn’t aware of the circumstances, or that I’d been adopted. If she had known the effort I’d made to find my mother, she’d know that I’d never have wanted to sever all connection with her.
Whatever was written in my mother’s care plan that day inevitably led to the mix-up that followed, and to why I never saw her again. I remember very clearly my mother’s tormented face as I walked away that last time. It is something I deeply regret, as it was to be the last image I had of her, and to this day it remains etched in my memory. All I ever wanted was for her to find some peace and happiness before she died. I didn’t look back as I hurried out of the home. Sitting in my car with a heavy heart, and sobbing uncontrollably, I knew I’d reached the end of the line.
Over the next 18 months I often telephoned the home to enquire how my mother was getting on. I was always told the same. ‘She’s fine, no real change in her condition.’
I shall never forget the night of 17 February 2003. I was at home with my youngest son, Tom, who was by then 11. About 9 p.m. the telephone rang. I rushed to answer it.
‘Hello …?’
An unexpectedly sharp voice on the other end of the line demanded, ‘Can I speak to Bridget Ryan’s daughter?’
Feeling a little startled, I said, ‘Er, yes. Speaking.’
Not giving me a moment to collect my thoughts she blurted out, ‘Just to let you know your mother’s passed away.’
My voice cracking, I asked incredulously, ‘Why wasn’t I kept up to date about her health deteriorating?’
Her cold, disapproving reply shook me to the core. ‘It’s written clearly in her notes: daughter only wants to be contacted in the event of her mother’s death.’
‘Why was she admitted to hospital? How long has she been there?’
‘Your mother was with us for three weeks. She came in with dehydration and a chest infection, which inevitably led to pneumonia, which was the main cause of her death. Dementia was the secondary cause.’
Not one mention of her alcoholism – it was almost as if she’d been teetotal all her life. Her death was such a shock. It didn’t help that the woman on the other end of the line dismissed my attempts to explain why I was not there at her bedside. I said there must have been some misunderstanding when I gave my instructions to the home. I had asked to be told if her condition worsened, and that hadn’t happened. But nothing was going to shake this woman’s belief in my apparent lack of interest. Her opinion shouldn’t have mattered, but after my complicated history with my mother it really hurt.
Thinking about it now I still feel very cross. As a nurse myself, I believe it is part of our role to comfort and care in times of need.
She gave me the number of a social worker who was dealing with my mother’s case, and the rest of the conversation remains a blur. When I put the phone down, if I had to sum up my feelings in three words they would be: stunned, tearful, angry.
It was inevitable that one day her death would come, but the woman’s tone was so mean. I felt bewildered as to why she told me in such a cruel way. I desperately hoped that my mother’s life had ended with some degree of dignity, which unfortunately she had been denied when she was alive, and that her death was tranquil.
Tom looked puzzled. ‘Why are you crying, Mum?’ he asked. Then realisation hit – I hadn’t told him I had been adopted. There had never been any point, because what would have been the benefit? Yet it now felt wrong, morally wrong. His own flesh and blood, his grandmother, had just died and he didn’t even know of her existence.
I had told my two older children, although they’d never known the circumstances. How could I have ever introduced my children to such a grandmother?
I shook my head, conscious of how closely I was being scrutinised. Before I had time to gather my thoughts I found myself telling him a blatant lie. ‘Work has just phoned. One of the residents at the nursing home has just passed away.’
His expression suggested that he wasn’t convinced. ‘You wouldn’t be this upset, Mum. Who’s really died?’ I’d never envisaged having to tell him in this way, but he was so sensitive to my emotions.
As he sat beside me on the sofa, I started to explain. ‘I have something to tell you that I haven’t mentioned before. You know how some people are adopted …’ and I went on to tell him about my mother.
He seemed partly relieved because at first he thought I was about to tell him that he had been adopted. I quickly reassured him that in fact it was me, and he listened attentively to the whole story. He was amazed when I told him that he had actually met his grandmother when he was 18 months old, but obviously he had been too young to remember that.
Children are much more resilient than we realise. He didn’t seem upset by what I told him; he wasn’t emotionally involved, so he was able to adjust easily.
‘Good night, Mum. I love you,’ he said on his way to bed. Putting his mind at rest I told him, ‘I’m fine, and I love you, too.’
Close to midnight, with sleep eluding me, I tried to make sense of things. Don’t we all live life for the simple desire to be happy? My mother had never stood a chance. I hoped that now she was at peace.
Because of her past it seemed a merciful release, and there were now no loose ends. But it was so final, and I grieved for a mother who never knew me as her daughter. Sometimes death can be neat and tidy, and fit into place like the last piece of a jigsaw. Although at times I was troubled by finding such a dysfunctional mother, I’m so glad I did. She was the last piece of my own jigsaw.
A few days passed before I summoned up the courage to telephone the number the nurse had given me. A cheerful man with a distinctive Irish accent answered my call.
‘Can I speak to Michael Dwyer, please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘My name’s Phyllis. It’s about my mother, Bridget Ryan.
‘Ah, I’m so glad you called, I’ve been thinking about you. I’m Bridget’s appointed social worker and I’ll be helping you make the funeral arrangements. I’d like to convey my condolences on the loss of your mother, who I believed you nursed for many years, without her ever knowing you were her daughter.’
I was touched by his kindness, and was relieved that the nursing home seemed to have passed on the full story this time.
‘It may take several weeks for the funeral to be arranged. I need to sort out your mother’s affairs. She had some money in a building society account, which I’m sure she’d forgotten.’
He wasn’t certain of the amount, or if it was enough to cover all the funeral costs, but he reassured me that he’d keep me informed of any further developments. I put the phone down, feeling that a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I knew then that I wasn’t alone and that he was there to support me.
As promised, a few weeks later he phoned, and told me that my mother had enough in her account to ensure that she would be able to have a respectable funeral – although of course that was something I would have always made sure of.
So, while she rested at the funeral parlour and all the arrangements were being made, I consulted my diary and decided that the second week in March would be a suitable date for her funeral.
I telephoned the funeral directors to arrange fo
r a wreath to be placed on my mother’s coffin. They asked if I wanted any special message written on the card. It was only then that I was able to say, ‘Please write: To Mum with love from your nurse, who was your daughter Phyllis, and your grandchildren send their love x.’
My daughter Hannah was now 18, and had arranged to have the day off from work so she could give me some much-needed moral support.
We left the house with time to spare before my mother’s coffin was due to pass the care home, where she’d spent the last 13 years of her life. I will always be grateful to Hannah for the thoughtfulness and sensitivity that she showed me on that difficult day.
‘Let’s have a quick half, in memory of Nan,’ Hannah said. We had spotted the run-down pub on the corner, near the care home. I recognised it as the pub she frequently drank in more than 20 years ago, when I’d first met her. It seemed quite fitting to do something like that. After all, I’m sure it was where she’d spent a lot of her time.
As we stepped inside our feet stuck to the carpet. The air tasted like a damp sock, hitting the back of my throat so hard I started to cough, which only made us more conspicuous as we walked to the bar to order our drinks.
The appearance of strangers aroused interest and the locals muttered to each other at the other side of the bar.
As we looked over we noticed a few furtive glances, and then unashamed stares. We raised and clinked our glasses, ‘Cheers to Tipperary Mary. God bless her,’ we said in unison.
Realising the time, we hurried across the road where the funeral car was waiting. The hearse had already left, as we’d spent too much time in the pub, which somehow seemed fitting. Hannah joked, ‘Nan would be proud of us.’
It was a low-key affair, with the five-strong congregation travelling together in one funeral car. There was Hannah and me, and a carer from the home that I didn’t know, but who seemed a very gentle type of girl. She was escorting Rose, my mother’s one and only friend.
Last was Sister Katherine, with whom I struck up an instant rapport. She was calm and kind, but delightfully eccentric. She knew my mother very well and had visited the home every Friday afternoon when she tried to give her Holy Communion but was always told to ‘clear off’ by my mother. With a little giggle she said, ‘Well she used the “F” word but it’s best if I don’t use that sort of language as I am a nun. Ah, but she wasn’t of sound mind and God will absolve her of all her sins.’
Sister Katherine gave me a sympathy card, which she wrote on the way to the crematorium. She asked me my daughter’s name so that she could include her, which was so thoughtful.
Although my mother’s passing was tinged with sadness, there were comic moments thanks to lovely Rose, who was such a lively character. Because of her condition her short-term memory was poor, so she was constantly asking the same questions.
‘Has someone died?’ she kept asking, before bursting into tears, as if it was the first time she’d heard the sad news that it was Bridget who’d died. Rose wept a little and sang a little, although she couldn’t always remember why she was crying.
During the journey she seemed to be in a trance, as if in deep thought, and then she leant forward and whispered, ‘What was it that killed her exactly? Did I know her?’ Sister Katherine replied, ‘Yes, she was your dear friend, but she was sick.’
Although Rose also had dementia, she sometimes had lucid moments. Suddenly she said, ‘Ah it’s funny Bridget going like that, and she’s still got some of my fags!’ This caused such laughter while we were on the way to the crematorium that it must have looked a little strange to onlookers.
But then my mother’s funeral – and her whole life – was anything but normal.
I began to feel apprehensive as we approached the entrance of the crematorium and saw the hearse draw up at the gates. It seemed almost odd for her to have such a tidy, respectable and conventional end to her life.
I caught sight of my mother’s coffin. I needed to show respect, but I know an onlooker would not have thought I looked sad. Maybe part of me felt relief.
As she was carried into the chapel I thought of how I knew as a child that she was still alive somewhere, even though my adoptive mother had always insisted she was dead. I knew my story wouldn’t have a fairy-tale ending, but I never regretted finding her. We all have a right to know who we are and where we come from. I was able to look after her for eight years, without her knowing I was her daughter. When I did tell her it was too late, but I hoped she could now rest in peace.
Walking into the empty chapel really tugged at my heartstrings. I often attend residents’ funerals from the nursing home where I work, and the crematorium is usually full to capacity. But my mother’s passing had gone almost unnoticed by the outside world.
I tried not to dwell on that for too long. Did it really matter? My mother would never know who did or didn’t go to her funeral.
The organ played ‘Abide with Me’ and the undertaker standing in the doorway did his best to conceal a smile as Rose sang at the top of her voice. She didn’t know the words and was totally out of tune, but I was so glad she was there that day.
My eyes still stayed dry. I felt as though I was watching it all from the outside. I muttered prayers under my breath. There were a few suitably solemn hymns that I hadn’t even been asked about, but I cleared my throat in an attempt to hum the tune. Again Rose came to my rescue, singing loudly, although it was a different hymn. I smile as I think of it now.
Then the priest started talking about my mother and I realised he had no idea of the type of person she really was, and the heartache she’d had. He was talking about the woman who had brought me into the world, but who had been denied the joy of ever being a real mother. It was only then that I felt tears running down my face.
III
Epilogue
The two mothers who shaped my life truly believed they had my interests at heart. Bridget handed me over to the orphanage to save me from her dysfunctional life; my adoptive mother gave me stability and in her own clumsy way protected me from the truth.
I actually grew closer to my adoptive mother in her later years. Stephen and I drifted apart and separated in 2004. We divorced the following year. Both my adoptive parents helped out with Tom, who was still young at 13. I’d leave Tom with Dad, while I went shopping with Mum, coming home for one of Dad’s teas.
When Dad died from a stroke in 2007, Mum went to pieces. She’d never had to pay bills before, and she had no one to boss about! I also realised she was showing signs of dementia. I visited her most days on my way to work and took her for a trip out when I could. Often she’d cover up how ill she was. Mum had always wanted to appear respectable and she would have hated people to know that she had dementia. What was touching was that she sometimes let her guard down, saying things to me like, ‘Oh your hair looks nice’ or ‘Thank you for helping, I’d be lost without you’. Things she’d never said before. In her final years, because of my nursing skills, at last my mother valued and respected me as her trusted daughter.
In July 2013 she went into hospital, and a few months later died in my arms. I feel privileged to have had that time with her to say goodbye. Five days later my first grandchildren were born – Hannah’s twin girls, Isabelle and Emmy. It was so special to have the opportunity to meet my birth mother, and to love and care for her. At her funeral, when I said goodbye, I promised one day I would tell our story.
Mum, I hope I’ve done you proud…
Finding Tipperary Mary Page 17