by Cassie Harte
I went along to see the doctor with him but everything that was said made me realise more strongly that I couldn’t do it. It was against everything I believed in. I wanted to have this baby. On the way home I told Larry what I had decided.
‘I can’t do it, can’t have a termination. It wouldn’t be right.’
His face contorted and went scarlet. ‘Right for who?’ he growled. ‘It wouldn’t be right for anyone if you had a baby who had no father!’
‘But it would have a father and a mother. It would have us.’ I was sobbing. ‘It would be loved.’
‘No, that’s where you’re wrong. I wouldn’t love it. I don’t want it,’ he shouted. ‘If you continue with this pregnancy, you’re on your own. And don’t think you can come to me for money. I won’t give you a penny of my hard-earned cash!’ He slammed the car door and drove away, leaving me on the pavement outside my house, shaking and sobbing.
I was on my own again, hurt and confused. Perhaps things would always go wrong in my life. Perhaps I deserved this pain and confusion.
I continued to harbour a secret hope that Larry would come round once he’d thought it through. I was still working in the pub and I knew he would be there for the New Year celebrations. Surely this would be when he came back to me? When the clock chimed twelve, he would come over. While everyone else was sharing New Year kisses, he would come over and kiss me and tell me everything would be OK.
What was it with me and hope? Why did I never learn? New Year came and my dreams went. The father of my baby danced with and kissed another woman and left me alone to watch. So that was that.
For the first few months of the pregnancy I hadn’t told anyone about it, but just after New Year Mum asked me to come and stay in her house to look after Bobby while they went away on a trip and I found myself telling her about my predicament. Perhaps she would understand. After all, I had been conceived outside marriage. Maybe this would give us a common bond.
But why should she sympathise? What was in it for her?
‘You stupid, stupid girl,’ she snapped. ‘You’ll have to get rid of it. What will people say? What will they think?’ She was almost talking to herself now, having dismissed me and my worries as she paced around the room. ‘You will have to get rid of it and then stay away for a while.’
‘I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be right,’ I said softly, trying to calm things down. ‘I don’t believe in abortion.’
‘Typical. That’s just typical of you, having so-called high standards and ethics. Well, they won’t do you any good now, my girl. Not believing in abortion won’t make the alternative OK.’ She stood in front of me with her arms folded and I felt as though I was seven again. Scared, confused and unloved. ‘If you keep this bastard, you are on your own!’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could she call my baby that name? I wanted to remind her of how I came about. I wanted to say to this woman that I would be different from her, I would love my child, no matter how he or she was conceived. I wanted to scream at her, all of these things.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was at my lowest ebb and had no energy to fight her. So I would be on my own. Nothing new there, then. That’s how it had always been. At least I wasn’t totally alone now. I had Melissa, my beloved daughter, and I was naïve enough to think that everything would turn out right.
I still went round to the house sometimes to see Dad but Mum insisted that I check first that she didn’t have any visitors because she was embarrassed for her friends to see my condition. I found out later that she had been telling people I had a cancerous tumour and that’s why my belly was swollen. This was just one of the despicable lies she told.
I stopped working in the pub and stopped taking my antidepressants, just in case they harmed my unborn child, but soon I was suffering from horrible withdrawal symptoms that lasted for most of the pregnancy: I had terrifying dreams, hallucinations, panic attacks, and sometimes I ran from room to room crying hysterically. When I told my GP about this, he said it was just the stress. He knew my marriage was over and how this pregnancy had come about. I had been fine during my first pregnancy, when I was happily married and looking forward to the future, but he said my symptoms now were due to my changed circumstances. He didn’t relate it to the fact that the antidepressants I had been on before I got pregnant this second time were much stronger than the ones I’d been taking before. He refused to believe there could be side effects when I stopped taking them. He was very concerned about my ability to cope, though, so he persuaded me to see the church adoption service, just in case.
I was determined to keep my baby, but I was so weak and tired of struggling that I went along for a meeting with them—not intending to let anyone take my child away, but to keep everyone off my back.
I was assigned a social worker since I was a single mum. This lady was very kind but told me straight how it was. She pointed out that I would have no money to bring up the new baby and that the maintenance I got from Edward for my daughter would not be enough for two children. She made me look at the reality of the situation and told me that my little girl and my unborn child would both suffer if I kept my baby. I couldn’t take it in. My thinking was distorted because of the benzodiazepine withdrawal, and my sense of reason was nonexistent. My life seemed to be a constant foggy battle. She was telling me that I had to choose between my precious baby girl and my soon-to-be-born baby. She persuaded me that the best thing I could do, if I loved my children, was to let the baby go for adoption.
One day, when I was eight months pregnant, the lady from the church adoption service called. She brought me a layette to take into hospital, a dozen terry towelling nappies and a bottle. She talked non-stop about the people who would give my as-yet-not-here baby a loving home.
But I could give my baby a home! I would love this unwanted-by-his-father baby. I thought this but didn’t have the strength to say it out loud. I felt defeated. Defeated and desperately lonely.
Chapter Eighteen
When I went into labour, Edward moved into my little bungalow to look after Melissa while I was in hospital. The birth wasn’t too bad this time, but the placenta wouldn’t come away. The young nurse holding the little scrap of life that had just been taken from my body didn’t know what to do with him when the midwife asked for her help, so she placed him in my arms. He was a boy, and so beautiful. I held on for fear of someone taking him away from me. The midwife rushed over after the birth was complete and admonished the poor young nurse, taking my son out of my arms again. The arms that were trying so hard to hold on.
They took him away, but the next day I managed to wander out of the ward and down to the nursery, where I peered through the windows until I found him. Taking care that no one saw me, or so I thought, I went in. He looked so small. Small and beautiful. And then I saw the name tag. It read ‘Unknown’ and that broke my heart. He wasn’t unknown. I knew him. I had known him for nine long months. The lack of a name on his tag made it sound as though he didn’t belong anywhere.
I reached in and lifted him out of the crib. Suddenly the nursery door was flung open, he was wrenched away from me and I was chaperoned back to my room. I couldn’t cry. What would tears have done? They had never helped me before, so I didn’t cry.
The next morning a nurse told me that the social worker had come to take my baby away. She had in her hands the outfit I had brought for him to go home in—a tiny white broderie anglaise romper suit and little white socks. She placed these in my hands then left and came back in with a carrycot holding my precious son. I couldn’t move, couldn’t look.
‘Would you like me to dress him?’ she asked.
I couldn’t speak. I was afraid of what might come out of my mouth. But nothing would have, as there were no words to describe how I was feeling. Or was I feeling? I don’t know. After a while, I nodded yes.
Then the social worker appeared. I was shaking at that point; no tears, just falling apart inside.
‘I w
ant you to read the words on this card out loud,’ she said brusquely.
I looked at the card. The words that shouted out at me were ‘I declare that I hand my child over to the care of the Church of England Adoption Society.’
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say the words that took away all my rights over my baby son. I just couldn’t.
I had chosen this particular society because I thought they would be the best. Although God hadn’t listened to me as a child, I had always remembered ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’ from my Sunday school days. I thought God would listen this time and do what was best for my baby.
My head was swirling. I felt hot and faint. This can’t be best.
The social worker was becoming impatient. ‘Come on, time’s ticking along. You have to take baby out of the carrycot and hand him over to me. It’s for the best, you know that.’
For the best? Best for whom? Doesn’t she know my heart is breaking? Can’t she hear it?
The ward sister knew how hard this was for me because we’d had a chat after the birth. I looked up at her, pleading for help.
‘She doesn’t need to do that,’ the sister said. ‘I’ll read the words for Cassie and she can touch the blanket. That will be enough.’ She sounded firm, as though the decision was made.
‘I suppose that will have to do,’ came the reply. ‘Let’s just get on with it.’
I was shaking my head, silently sobbing—no tears, just silent sobs in my heart. The ward sister took my hand and placed it on the blanket that was keeping my baby warm, and she read the words from the card.
And then he was gone.
I don’t remember what happened next. I just don’t remember.
Some time later, I was taken into a room to register my son’s birth. I was in a daze. I couldn’t take it all in. The registrar asked his name.
‘Jack,’ I whispered. ‘It’s Jack.’
I didn’t expect the next question; I wasn’t prepared for it.
‘His father’s name?’ he asked, in a matter-of-fact way.
He waited. I waited. What for? What did I think was going to happen?
‘Do you have the permission of his father to name him on the birth certificate?’ he asked. ‘Do you have written permission?’
Of course I didn’t. Larry hadn’t accepted our baby, so no, I didn’t have his permission.
‘Then we will have to put Father Unknown.’ He continued to write as he spoke. I felt dead inside. After I got home from hospital, the next few days were a blur. I was dangerously depressed and my GP put me back on the tablets, which made me a little stronger. But it was as though there was a knife in my heart. I had this heavy burning pain inside that never left me. I couldn’t sleep or eat. The only thing that kept me going was the need to look after my daughter.
About a week after my son’s birth, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I phoned the adoption service and asked to see him. They said it wasn’t possible. I cried down the phone, but to no avail. I made many calls like this but nothing worked. Then I remembered being told that he would be in a foster home for a few weeks, before going to his adoptive parents.
I was distraught and only just functioning. Yes, I looked after Melissa and managed the home but I didn’t look after myself. As a last resort I telephoned my mother. The pain I was feeling about my baby was so momentous that I suppose I hoped, in my grief, that even she would understand and want to help me. He was her grandson. Surely she would help?
But hope ran true to form. Of course she wouldn’t help me.
‘You’re nothing to me and neither is the bastard you’ve given birth to. I never want to see you again, especially if you’re going to get him back.’ She was angry, heartless, uncaring. She went on. ‘Stay away from me and my family.’
‘My family,’ she said. That said it all, confirmed what I had always known. I wasn’t part of her family. Later I found out that she had told her friends that the baby was my exhusband’s and that it had died at birth. All she cared about was what ‘people’ might say.
The pain I was feeling was indescribable: an ache so great that I thought it would kill me. Physically I was drained. Even if I tried to forget I had just given birth, nature wouldn’t let me. My breasts had filled with milk and were very sore. This was so cruel. I hadn’t been able to feed my daughter for more than a couple of weeks because I had very little milk, but now, with no baby to suckle, I had an abundance of food to give. How could this happen? Didn’t my body know that he wasn’t there? Couldn’t it hear my heart crying out for him?
The days were made bearable by my three-year-old daughter. It’s hard to be down when you have a small child, full of energy and laughter, around you. But there were times when she sensed my grief and came to me for a cuddle. She would keep saying that she loved me, showering my face with kisses. On the rare occasions when I was able to cry tears, she would gently brush them away with her tiny hand and comfort me. She was my blessing and my sanity.
But I couldn’t accept I would never see my beloved son again. I started ringing anyone I thought might know where he was. I pretended to be a social worker, a nurse from the hospital, a receptionist at the GP’s surgery, anyone to try and find out where he was. And then. It happened. Pretending to be from social services, I rang the church adoption society and said I needed to call the foster parents of a child who went for adoption on 6 July and whose mother’s name was Cassie Black (my maiden name). I held my breath as a woman said she would go and get the number from the file. She returned and not only gave me the telephone number but also the foster parents’ address. I thanked her politely, hoping she couldn’t hear my heart pounding in my chest. I put the phone down.
Thinking back, I realise how stupid my next actions were, how unfair they were on my little three-year-old girl. But back then, desperate to be reunited with my son, they didn’t seem stupid or unfair at all.
The town where the foster mother lived was a few miles away. The day after I got the address, a few weeks after Jack was born, we boarded a bus to go there. Not knowing the area, I wasn’t sure how far out of the town centre it would be so Melissa and I walked and walked for what seemed like miles. Then I saw it: the road where my baby son was living. The house I was looking for was towards the end. My heart was pounding in my chest, my hands were sweaty and my whole body shaking.
I hadn’t looked beyond seeing him again. I didn’t know what would happen or what my next move would be.
For a while I just stood there, on the opposite side of the road, holding Melissa’s little hand. The house was large and surrounded by a beautiful garden. There was a pram just outside the front door. It was a hot day and someone had draped a canopy over the occupant. Was that him? Was he in there? Was it Jack?
Although I wanted to see him, to look in the pram, I was terrified and frozen to the spot. I didn’t know what to do. If I went over to the pram and it wasn’t him, what then? But if I went over to the pram and it was him, what then? Perhaps I was scared I might pick him up and run. I don’t know. My emotions were all over the place. Terror filled my heart and before I knew what I was doing I began to walk quickly back down the road. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t be able to see him and then walk away. I had to try and think things through.
The next day I went to a baby shop and bought some blue booties. Again Melissa and I boarded the bus and took the long walk that led to where my baby was. I was calmer that day. I don’t know why. The pram was outside and I took a deep breath, making sure no one was in sight. I told Melissa to stay where she was, on the other side of the road. It was a quiet road. I hadn’t seen a car either time we’d visited. I walked towards the gate, hoping and praying that my baby son was there, in the pram. As I got closer, I knew he was. My heart racing, I bent over to see the bluest eyes I had ever seen. He was beautiful, a beautiful baby boy. My baby boy. My son.
I just gazed at him, full of love for this tiny human being. Then I began to feel scared, scared of what I might d
o, scared that someone would come out of the house and catch me. I placed the booties in the pram and ran back to my little girl. Now I was crying, crying like I wouldn’t ever stop. I had to get home, we had to get home. She took my hand and we hurried back to the main road, and the bus that would take us back to the bungalow where we lived.
That evening I just sat and stared into space. I had no one to talk to about all of this. Was I doing wrong by seeing my baby? Was it against the law to see my son? How could it have been? I had given birth to him just a few weeks before. I felt so alone and wished yet again I had a caring mother, the kind I could confide in. I thought about everything I had been told about adoption: that it is best for the child. He would be given new parents, a new mother. But I was his mother. Couldn’t I be the best?
It seems that there are winners in adoption but there is also a loser. A loser of the most momentous kind ever. Yes, perhaps it would be best for my son to have two parents and everything he needs. Yes, it would be wonderful for the family he would go to because they would have a new baby to love and care for. And yes, he would be happy. But then there was me. I had so much love to give him and all I got was pain. Pain, grief, heartache and guilt. What could I do with the feelings that were raging inside me? How could I cope with the huge, huge loss I had suffered?
I was told once that to lose a child to adoption is like losing a child to death. But it isn’t. It’s worse. Death is final. You grieve, accept and eventually move on. It is irreversible. When a baby is taken for adoption and placed with another mother, the grief is far harder to bear. I would always know that somewhere out there was my son. A little boy growing up in a new family. He would be unaware of me but not a day would go by without me thinking about him. Death had to be easier than that.
After a restless night I decided to go back to the house where he was living and sneak another look. Maybe this time pick him up for a cuddle. A very much needed cuddle.