Waiting for a name – or not!

Did you read my last blog? It was called Waiting for a name – A little bit of background information about my life as an adoptee. The pitfalls of having a little information, and hoping that the next piece of information I would get would put a little more of the jigsaw puzzle together.

I’ve recently asked Social Services for a fuller copy of my adoption file. Well – I’ve had a zoom with a great social worker called John, who said that my file was now ready to hand over to me. He asked all sorts of questions. What did I know about my history, how far had I gone with my search for answers? How supported was I in my life, what family did I have etc etc etc. He was surprised how much I knew. That I had done my DNA test, found 2nd cousins in America, established I was 50% Welsh, and 50% European, that included a smattering of Ashkenazi Jewish. Heinz 57 really. I told him honesty I was hoping there would be a name in the file. He said there was!

What I was waiting for was a bit more of a clue about what happened in 1959 with Elizabeth my birth mother and this mystery man she had met while working in Germany.

Well the file tells it all. There was an offer of marriage when he found out she was pregnant. She came home to Wales to have me, she didn’t want to keep me. Wasn’t financially stable, elderly parents to consider. She was planning on going back to Germany after my birth. He didn’t know I had been born. Sorry – it didn’t add up. but that’s her story.

I had done a lot of research around the 2nd cousins. Researched algorithms that would help establish where the birth father fitted within the family I could see I had connections in. I was hopefully my file would help me…..

There was a name. John told me not to be too hopeful. But I was – wouldn’t you have been?

The name in the file of the putative father was John Cross. Nothing like the family I thought I belonged in. I couldn’t see where it fitted in.

I think she made it up! The first name she could think of and her emotion at the time of finding her life would never been the same again!

John Cross!

Waiting for a name

Since I started this journey way back in 1979 I have been waiting for a name. Not just any old name, but the name of my birth father.

Actually let’s start again. 

When you’re adopted you have a few names that are circulating around that you would like to know. The name of your birth mother, the name of your birthfather, and the name you were given when you were born.

I found out two of these three from my adopted mam. Oh I hate calling her that! She was the mam who brought me up, changed my nappies, and fed me when I was a baby. Looked after me through the many bouts of illness I had growing up. The tonsillitis that kept me off schools for weeks on end, and the childhood illnesses that lots of us had in the 1960 -scarlet fever, chicken pox to name but a few.  SHE was my mam.

And of course when I talk about my mam to my friends they know who I’m referring to. But to those who are with me on my name finding journey, I have to clarify who I’m talking about.

When I was a baby she and my daddy told me how special I was, that I had been chosen from a room full of other babies, and taken home with them. They were told as parent to go home with their new baby, and make a life together. Which they did.

What she didn’t tell me was that in fact in February 1961 when she and my dad went to court to officially adopt me, the clerk of the court handed her the wrong birth certificate!! She was given my original birth certificate, with the name given to me at birth, and the name and address of my birth mother. She kept this information in her heart until I was 19, and told me the information!

I was called Jocelyn Harris at birth, and my mother was called Elizabeth Harris. Wow!

With the blessing of my mam – I tried to make contact myself. I wrote to Elizabeth – a very ambiguous letter along the lines of ‘you may know me I was born in 1960, and wondering if you would be interested in making contact’. I got a firm letter back saying – thank you but no thank you! It broke my heart. It wasn’t to be, and as I learned later on, I realised why.

Life moved on. I married, divorced, married again and had 2 children. This cycle of life together with the loss of both my parents spurred me along to make contact again. But first I wanted to find my birth records, for a bit more history.

I used the information my mam had given me when I was 19 to obtain my birth records, in the hope I could establish some sort of relationship with my birth mother. I had to go through social services to get this information, and I did this with the help of my social worker Mimi. She was amazing. She wrote to social Services in South Wales, who send me a one page, 5 line letter back! Who my birth mother was (of course I knew this anyway) her date of birth. Also the scant information of where she was when I was conceived, and the type of ambiguous information about the man who impregnated her! Didn’t give any other clues.  

Mimi suggested we try and make contact and she set about searching for her. Luckily Elizabeth lived in the same home she had lived in with her family since birth, so was easy to make contact. I got a call one day to say she had contacted Elizabeth – who would talk to me. I went into her office in a big soulless social services building, and she put a call though.

I don’t remember what I said, probably how good it was to be able to speak to her, and where I was in my life. She lived alone with her cat, both parents and her only sister had died. We established that I could call her again.  Which I did, a few times. Funny though there wasn’t such a magical connection that I though and hoped there would be. It was difficult and strained. I had no idea of her personal circumstances, so didn’t know how supported she was with me calling here.

I had a group of other adoptees who met regularly. The group had been set up by Mimi and a colleague as part of the counselling given to adoptees to be able to gain their birth records. It worked so well. And oddly enough on the day I walked into the first meeting, who should be sitting there but a friend of mine – Vikki. We looked at one another and both said ‘I didn’t know you were adopted’ we burst out laughing and hugged. It made being in the group so much easier. Although the group jelled as a whole, 3 of us have stayed in contact. Vikki and I and another friend Bev. All with different stories, all a great support.

I digress. But gives the picture of how I felt supported on my journey. Unlike Elizabeth. She told me she was disabled and lived alone. Only her mother knew about me, and I’ve realised that her sister was still alive when I contacted her in 1979, perhaps that’s why she wasn’t able to form a relationship with me when I first contacted her.

I made an arrangement to visit Elizabeth in her home. I travelled to south Wales with my husband and two young boys. The youngest still a bottle fed babe in arms.

The instructions were to call at an address across from her house. The lady who was her carer would make an arrangement and let me in.  

I finally go to meet with my birth mother Elizabeth. For me a momentous occasion. She told me a little about her life, where she worked when she met my father. But then the curtains came down. She refused to say anymore. She had a cat who entertained us for a while, my hubby arrived back with my two sons, her grandchildren. We stayed for a short period, but left soon after.  I met her once more, and we kept in touch via scant telephone calls. It’s difficult to make a connection with someone you have nothing in common with, who doesn’t leave the house, and has no visitors. I was also a busy mum, I worked full time too. Am I making an excuse for not making more effort? I don’t think so, we contacted one another as much as we wanted to, or were able to.

I sent her a birthday card in February 1997, only for it to be returned to say she had passed away.

I did a DNA test to try and get more info about my birth father. I have no hope he is still alive, he would be in his 90’s now. But this is the name I’m searching for now. I’ve found 2^nd cousins in the USA, but they have no idea where I fit in their family. It’s a complex history I think. As she was in Germany during the Cold war, he could be German, American – who knows.

I went back to social services and asked if there was more information in my birth file not just this 5 line synopsis of the start of my life. It’s been 5 long months of wait. Finally I’m going to have the file handed to me.

I’ve been told there is a name in the file, but not to place too much hope on it. I’ve come this far I’m not backing out now!

The elusive family

Isn’t it funny that something you have been searching for a long time, was right within arm’s reach all along?

It’s a problem probably only a few of us can appreciate. When your adopted, that feeling of not belonging in a family. Looking for something else, that elusive feeling of being part of the same tribe, familiar looks and the same DNA. I’d dreamt all my life of belonging.

What a load of old tosh!

My maternal grandmother kept saying that if I didn’t behave she would send me back to where I came from. That didn’t help the feeling of not belonging. My dad was the youngest of his siblings, he married late and they didn’t adopt me for another 10 years. My mum was in the middle of her siblings, two older and two younger. So I’m now at a disadvantage before I start, the youngest runt of the cousins. All older than me, being closer together than I was.

I moved away when I was 19, most of them were married and established with their own families by then. I lost contact. It didn’t worry me.

I didn’t ‘belong’ anyway.

I did find the youngest cousin on my adopted mother’s side on a genealogy site – he was 14 years older than me and luckily was the family historian. He had made up a great tree of 4 generations back, I learned so much from it.

My adopted father’s side was different. I had lost touch altogether. I searched social media in the hope they were interested in the town they had lived in till they moved away. And then one day – there she was. My dad’s niece, commenting on a link to the village she had grown up in. The cousin who I had been a bridesmaid for, whose mum had taught me to make French omelettes when I was younger in her kitchen. I tentatively sent her a message, and opened the flood gates of communication. She had been hoping to find me, I had been hoping to find her.  She too is the family historian, thankfully. She has so much useful family information, photographs and anecdotes, conversations and personal memories. She remembers my dad fondly her uncle Trevor.

We met. Her husband and my husband sitting on the periphery of the room like two china cats- while we caught up on 50 years of lost time. It has been an incredible experience, and one I am so very grateful for.

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I was looking to belong
to mix with those who looked like me
to mix with those with shared the same DNA.

We’d laugh at the same jokes
we’d share the same parentage
well one at least!
We’d belong in the same tribe.

I found some who came so close
I reached out, and almost got to touch
but just as it was offered
it was snatched away.

Fear I’d got too close?
Fear I’d find out?
Fear of a family secret?
Fear of a past history?

Rejected again I kept searching.
Then the unexpected happened.

I found someone!
Someone unexpected, from my past
someone who knew my life –
intimately.
Knew my family secrets, didn’t judge.
Was happy to have me back!

All those years of fruitless searching
for the family who wasn’t to be
to finally find someone
who had been with me from the very beginning!

Healthier babies, happier parents.

I found a book this week while clearing my loft out! It was called ‘Healthier Babies, Happier Parents. A practical guide by Specialists’ First published in 1959, which fits in with when I was born.

 

What is most poignant about this book, is not so much the book itself, but the fact that in the front cover of the book is a note book with lots of handwritten pages lovingly written by my mother.

How do I know it was written lovingly your probably thinking? Surely each and every mum who is able to – takes love and care over things that concern her child.

There are 3 sets of notes. 5^th Months old, 6 month and finally 7 months. It’s really poignant to me as I was adopted at 6 months old, and these notes show that perhaps initially she wasn’t sure when I would be coming into their lives. She wanted to be prepared I’m sure, and be ready for me when I arrived.

When I found the book, it was instantly recognisable as something that had been around me when I grew up, but the note book at the front brought me to tears as it was something I don’t remember and was so very personal.

My parents had always told me that I was a special baby, one who had been chosen from lots of others, and when I look at this snap shot from my young life – I know deep down in my heart I was so very much loved, and they wanted to do their very very best for me!

All the love they showered on me over the years, and the kindness they showed me at the darkest times of my life culminate in this simple book of handwritten notes produced even before I became part of their life.

 

Of course I’m special

Please believe me when I tell you I’m special. not in an arrogant way either.

I was born into a loveless relationship, I have no idea who my father was and my birth mother wouldn’t speak of him. I was born in a mother and babies’ home in Wales, and Wales is where I stayed for most of my young life. I was given up at 6 weeks old. When I say given up, I’m assuming I was. I’m assuming she didn’t want to keep me. Probably not.

I never really asked her when I met her. Her mother knew, but not her father. He was something in the church, so I can imagine the shame of finding out his daughter was ‘in the family way ‘would have been terrible. So I couldn’t stay with her. Perhaps I do her some injustice, by saying she probably didn’t want to keep me. Sounds like she had no choice.

So I was given up for adoption. And this is how I know I am special. I was told by my mam that when I was 3 years of age, we all went out for a picnic together, my mam and my dad and myself. I can imagine the picture in my mind, she would have put my very best frilly dress on, crisp white sock, and lovely red patent leather shoes with a little silver buckle. So that I looked my best. She would have taken time over her appearance, her hair as curly as she could make it, and with a lovely summer dress on too, and a dab of her CHANEL No 5 behind her ear. The very best sandwiches, and I know there would have been a slab of fruit cake and a hot steaming flask of tea. My daddy would have had his favourite red and grey jumper on, and his crisp flannel trousers, hair slicked back, and that crooked smile on his face, that was – my daddy. Those long fingers and strong hands carrying the wicker picnic basket, and the checked blanket. We were probably on holiday somewhere.

She told me what when I was a little baby, all cosy and cuddly in my cot, together with rows and rows of other babies, they went to choose the baby they wanted to take home. And that baby was me. I was chosen out of lots of other little ones, and so I was very special. Apparently I was so very excited when she told that, and kept running round and round.

She kept reminding me of this story when I grew up so I never forgot it. That was their fairy tale, and mine. It may not have been highly accurate, I’m not sure how there would have been such an incredible choice, so many unwanted babies, just lying there for the picking. But I don’t care about the reality of it. I know that my dad was tall and handsome, my mam bubbly and vibrant. And I am a mix of the two of them. You wouldn’t know I wasn’t conceived from their union, I think there is a little bit of both of them in me.

So you see that I was made to feel special. At 3 I wouldn’t have known what it all meant. I wouldn’t have understood about the concept of adoption, to have been left by one mummy and then given another! But a 3 year old would understand the idea of being special, being wanted, loved and cherished. And that’s what it was for those two people who were unable to have their own children.

And that feeling of being special, having a life with two people who loved me very much has carried me through all my adult life. I’m so very grateful to those two people, who took me in and loved me unconditionally, and gave me an amazing start in life.

All I can say is  – Thank you.