I confirmed my pregnancy with a GP
in September 1973, in a town 30km from where I was working. He referred
me to a local curate, and I went to see him. I had no idea at that time
what I was going to do.
I had told nobody about my
pregnancy, so the priest told me that I could go to a mother-and-baby
home called Bessborough House, in Blackrock in Cork. I knew nothing
about these homes, and I don’t think I had ever heard of them.
A month later I told a friend, who
told me I’d be welcome in her parents’ home. Some weeks later I told my
own mother. I knew that she’d be upset and that I wouldn’t be able to
come home with my illegitimate baby.
I was 24 and from a middle-class
home. I had been well educated and was the oldest in a big family. My
mother would not want the neighbours to know.
She didn’t throw me out, though,
or condemn me, and nor did my father. But at that time this was by far
the worst thing that could happen to a girl like me. I knew I had to go
away somewhere to hide, and that’s where the mother-and-baby home came
in.
I gave up my job and my flat, and I disappeared to Bessborough House.
I was a primary-school teacher,
and it would have been impossible for me to keep my position in a
Catholic school then – or to get another job – if I had kept my baby.
There were no boards of management
in Catholic primary schools at the time. The parish priests managed
them, and they alone selected candidates for posts.
It might be hard for anyone
reading this to imagine that time and my actions. I have one daughter,
who is married, but I could not imagine having sent her to a place I
knew nothing about if she had become pregnant when she was single.
I would never criticise my mother
for sending me away. That’s just what you did then, particularly if you
came from what was called a “respectable family”. That was the way it
was 44 years ago.
I resigned from my permanent job
60km from my home town, pretended I had got a job elsewhere, and went
home for a few weeks, staying indoors, then stayed another few weeks
with my friends’ parents.
In early December 1973, when I was six months pregnant, I drove myself to the mother-and-baby home in Cork.
I changed my first name
I had been in a convent boarding school for five years, so I was well used to nuns and an institution.
It was like boarding school. I had
a cubicle with a door I could lock. In the bathroom was a row of
washbasins and a number of toilets, just like in the dormitory at
boarding school.
People didn’t shower in those
days, nor even wash daily. My home didn’t have a bathroom, and we only
had an outside toilet. We washed in the kitchen sink.
No personal belongings were taken from me, as someone else who was in Bessborough has said happened to her.
I changed my first name to my
confirmation name, and I changed my surname, too. I think most changed
their names. You didn’t have to, but it was suggested that it would be a
good idea to change my name.
My mother, who wrote to me
frequently, told me she was glad I had changed my name, as people she
knew in the post office would have seen my proper name on envelopes
addressed to the mother-and-baby home.
Every girl had a job in the
mornings.
Another girl and I had to make up about 80 bottles.
That
involved boiling kettles, measuring out milk powder and filling the
bottles for all the babies for the day.
Other girls cleaned corridors and rooms. They’d come into the kitchen for tea at breaks.
A nun would appear, keeping an eye
on us from time to time.
During my time there I never heard any nun
condemn any girl for what she had done, as has been said by others about
some of the Bessborough nuns.
Some girls who had attended rural
schools may have had no experience of nuns. Most nuns were stern, but
one or two engaged in conversation.
In general the place was grim. The
food was basic, although I don’t remember being hungry or cold in the
winter. It never dawned on me that someone, somewhere had to be paying
for my keep, but it seems the government gave the nuns a sum of money
for each girl they had there.
As far as I remember the
afternoons were free. Some of us went into the city, walked around the
grounds or sat around inside. There were no restrictions about leaving
the home. I don’t remember having to ask if I could leave at any time.
Some girls had had their babies
and stayed in the home, and fed and changed them, some with babies over
three months old. I also remember that some girls whose babies had been
adopted remained in the home too. I don’t remember why they stayed.
Some girls had visible deformities
and some had special needs. I wondered if some of those vulnerable
young women had been raped.
On some afternoons I went to the
Douglas shopping centre, for coffee and a break from the home. I had
very little money, so I didn’t go into the city. In the evenings we
could watch TV in a room that was always in darkness. I don’t know why.
Most went to bed early. I read or made a rug I was working on with a hook and pieces of wool.
We would have heard if a baby had died
Once a week a doctor would come to
the home. I remember him as an elderly man, so he may have been an
obstetrician. As girls with problem births went to St Finbarr’s Hospital
I presumed he was from there.
I’d lie on an examination table
and he’d press my stomach and feel the position of the baby.
A nun would
be by his side. I had no complications. I had no morning sickness, but I
had bought a book on childbirth, and I’d have questions for him.
I remember the nun being inclined
to hurry me along, to make way for the next patient, and he mostly gave
me monosyllabic answers.
Nobody had scans, but my last baby was born in 1982, eight years later, and the hospital near me had no scanner even then.
There were no antenatal classes,
nor was any advice given when leaving about postnatal check-ups nor, of
course, any advice about contraception. No antenatal classes were
offered at my local hospital. They were available in 1982.
I was not aware of any babies dying while I was at the home, and it would have been known to all.
A midwife attended at births. Some
of them were nuns, but there were lay women too. They were helped by a
young woman who had already given birth. It was usual on many days for a
girl to come to the cubicle area and announce loudly to all, “Mary had a
baby boy at four o’clock – 6lb 12oz – and she had four stitches.”
I have no doubt that we would have heard if a baby had died.
I wondered where the fathers were
My friends’ family invited me for
Christmas, which was wonderful. I stayed two weeks with them and
returned to the home in early January.
Baptisms were held once a week, in
the chapel, at five o’clock. I always found them most upsetting. The
new mothers would dress up and present their babies. There would be a
line of mothers and babies at the baptismal font, maybe about 10 each
week.
I always wondered where the
fathers of those babies were at this time of the evening. I decided that
I was not going through with that when my baby was born, and I didn’t. I
also knew that if my baby was adopted the new parents could give the
child their choice of name, irrespective of the name chosen by the birth
mother.
Throughout my time in the
mother-and-baby home I wondered about the huge question facing me about
the future of my baby. I wondered could I keep the baby.
But I had nowhere to live. Many
landlords at this time didn’t let rooms to single mothers. I had no job,
and even if I got one who would mind the baby? There were no creches
then.
I discussed this a lot with one
nun, who leaned heavily in favour of adoption.
She said that even if I
gave my baby away I would see the baby one day. This, of course, is not
actually true, as some people who are adopted have no interest in seeing
the mother who gave them away.
Coming up to the birth, I decided
to have my baby adopted. I told the nun that I wanted the baby to go
soon after the birth. I felt the longer I was with the baby the more
difficult it was going to be to give the baby away.
I cried and cried and cried
My baby was due on February 26th,
1974. In the early hours of the morning of February 22nd my waters
broke. I leaped out of bed and stood in my cubicle as the water poured
out of me.
I wasn’t afraid. I had read the
book on childbirth. I knew what was happening. A girl in the cubicle
beside me walked me across a quadrangle in the middle of the night to
the section where the wards, nursery and labour ward were located.
I was put into a six-bed ward.
Nothing happened until later that evening. Because there was a danger of
infection I was given an injection of an antibiotic.
When some pains started, at about
7pm, I was given pethidine, and the girl who was usually with me making
up the bottles stayed by my side.
My baby boy was born at about 4am
on February 23rd. I found the second stage of labour very painful, as no
gas was given to ease the pain, but once my baby was born the pain was
over.
But as my son was little more than
6lb in weight, and my stomach had looked big, according to this
midwife, she thought another baby might be in there. So she waited for a
while, and I lay there hoping I wasn’t about to have twins.
She didn’t check for a foetal
heartbeat. She just waited. Then, as there was no sign of another baby,
she cleaned me up. My son was taken to the nursery. The nurse had no
kind words for me at all throughout the labour and birth. She was a
gruff person, and most girls hoped to go into labour during the day when
a nun, who was much nicer, was on duty.
For the next five days I didn’t
feed him, change him or hold him. I went into the nursery and stood by
his cot and cried and cried and cried.
I wasn’t quite ready to give my son away
The mother had to supply clothes
for the baby to go away in. Some girls waited until their baby was born
and went into the city to choose clothes to match the baby’s colouring. I
couldn’t have done that.
So a friend sent me clothes her
nephew had outgrown. On the morning of February 28th the nun who was
handling the adoption came into the ward with my baby all dressed up and
ready for his first outing.
Remember that this was what I
wanted. Nobody made me do this so soon. I hugged and kissed him, and
then she left with him. I remember having a bath then, and in the
privacy of the bathroom my tears flowed and flowed into the bathwater.
My baby went to a foster home for a
few days; then his adoptive parents came for him. I signed the
preliminary adoption forms before I drove to my friends’ home two days
later, a week after the birth.
I was told I could omit the name
of the father of my child, or give a different name on forms, but I
wanted my son in time to know his father’s name. I spent three months in
the home in total.
I got a new job in April, and I
began my life again. I was lucky. I had a qualification, but some young
girls told me they had no idea what they’d do when their baby was gone
and they’d left the home.
I got my baby’s original birth certificate so that I would have it to help me find him in later years.
In September I signed the final
adoption paper.
The priest who had helped me initially took me to a
peace commissioner, as he had to witness my signature.
I couldn’t post
those final papers. I wasn’t quite ready to finally give my son away.
I
kept wondering could I rear him myself, but eventually I posted the
papers three months later, one December evening.
It was great to see him
In 1994, when my son was 20 years
old, I contacted the adoption society. It contacted his adoptive
parents, telling them that I wished to meet him. And so I met him after
all those years.
By this time I had married and had
another son and daughter. Meeting him again was wonderful. It opened
all the wounds, but still it was great to see him.
He is married with a son, and now
lives abroad, but we talk occasionally. I meet him sometimes when he
comes back to Ireland, and he has met my other two children, too.
He and
his wife attended my daughter’s wedding.
So that’s my story of my experiences in a mother and baby home in 1974, the same year Bishop Eamonn Casey’s son was born.
I have omitted details about the
father of my child, but like many men at that time, he gave me little
support during my pregnancy.