False Finding John…. From the Cradle to the Grave, Behind Enemy Lines, Finding Forester, Silence Of The Lambs……. when I considered a title for this piece all of the above words were in my head. Not that the stories behind their titles are similar to mine but they could suitably describe a time here in Ireland of inhumane proportions which should be considered alongside other human rights issues. I am a woman, mother and wife, at a ripe and mature age of 70 years. I now have the freedom to speak out. I have paid my dues to society and now it is time for me. I lived a tough life as most of us did in the early years. Our lives were harder as women and mothers. Few women of my generation were articulate, we learned from our mothers or each other. We managed differently because we did not have a choice. Our ‘ coping’ was suppressed alongside much that we did to get by in a time where they were little or no facilities to be women or mothers. No domestic appliances to make life at home that little bit easier. No disposable waste, no disposable income. Wash and scrub everything and anything with spared water heated in pots and pans. Exhausted with life’s coping but so ‘ lucky’ it was not the place to complain. And we didn’t. Giving birth in Ireland up to 20 years ago was indeed on paral-lel with stories you now hear and read about of abuse both at a physical and verbal level compared to any. I have 7 children and I had seven children. Six are here to enrich my daily life and my fourth baby John died at birth. I am lucky to be able to say my other six children survived the awfulness of childbirth, lack of understanding of what it was all about and medical knowledge that surpassed any torture chamber. Animal’s were treated better and I have seen that to be true. We were spoken to as if we were brain dead it was almost as if we should have apologised for any inconvenience caused. My blood boils at my memories of that time and the hardest thing about it is that it was mostly women who were responsible for the harshness. I could write a book about my seven experiences of childbirth and everyone would think I was making it up and that is what is so unbelievable about that time in Ireland. Ask any mother of my generation what their experiences of pregnancies and childbirth and see for yourself. It has taken me forty years to break the silences that live inside me. I didn’t understand why until I had more freedom in my life to express. Being a mother leaves us with little time for ourselves or certainly it did in my day. As life went on and my children were reared and I found the confi dence to say I did a good job I realised it was now my turn to put myself on the map! Time also made me realise that I had never been given a chance to stop and feel. I couldn’t, it wasn’t allowed. I must explain otherwise you’ll think I’m cracked!! I had three children almost within a year of each other because at that time that’s how it was for most women who were mar-ried. I had a good husband but we didn’t talk about planning a family because that would have been unheard of at the time. Most of us took our chances and were ‘ blessed’ when another baby was on the way. I was exhausted with three babies at home, one sleepless night after another, hand washing all our clothes and up to 20 nappies a day. I had to walk to a well twice a day for water and carry buckets back to the house for all our uses of it each day. We had a dry toilet outside so that used water too. My neighbours were just as poor and I say that comparing it to today’s standards. We robbed Peter to pay Paul and that was the way of life at that time. Juggling was an art form and most mothers excelled at it. We didn’t even speak about our despair at times because it was the way and no other. When my third child was six months old I discovered I was pregnant again. Hand on my heart, my fi rst thoughts were how will we manage ?, how will I manage? Months passed before I ventured to the hospital, as I knew the welcome I would get and it never felt very welcoming. Towards the end of the preg-nancy I felt very tired and for some reason nervous about the delivery. My baby was due on the 4th March but in those day no one really paid any heed to dates … in most cases we were left until we went ourselves. In this case I visited the hospital the week of the 4th but the doctor said there was nothing hap-pening and sent me home. Come back in two weeks unless we see you in the mean time. On the 15th March I woke with the crying of my other little one during the night and while nursing her I felt numbness inside of me. Life was still unlike sleeping. I was alarmed and frightened. No one those days had a phone or car. I sat through the night until daybreak and walked down the road to the local shopkeeper who kindly allowed me to use his phone and I called the hospital. They said “ I suppose you better come in”. My husband, like most, was up and off to work at 6.30 am, on a push bike and would not return until after 6.30 in the evening. There was no way of contacting him throughout the day – no mobile phones then. Most employers did not consider preg-nancy or delivery of babies as any big deal and most dads did not get any time off event when everything went okay. I went home got my other children up, dressed and brought them on the bus to my mothers and then journeyed on the bus to the hospital on my own. In those days it would have been unheard of for your husband to go with you and I’m not sure event if it was an option that he would have been there. I ar-rived in the hospital a very frightened and weary twenty four year old mother. My experiences in this same hospital in the past were cruel; something inside me told me that this was to be different again. I was admitted. It was a lifetime before anyone checked me out. I knew by the expressions on the faces of those that examined me that they knew something was wrong but no one said anything. I asked continually for reassurance that my baby was okay but no one listened. They mumbled around me I was left alone, uncared for and felt really scared. Some long time later a doctor appeared and engaged in more mumbling with the Sister at the foot of my bed. He turned to me and in a hard tone delivered to me the news that my baby was dead. Asked me if I had others at home and said “ well they’ll keep you going.. won’t they” Nothing was explained to me from there on. I was numbed to silence by fear and ignorance. I was even afraid to cry. I remember the Sister saying that they were going to ‘ bring on’ the baby and some how I thought that meant that everything was normal. I was fourteen hours in labour. There are no words to describe such pain and despair. The comments were inhumane. “ This will teach you to control yourselves in the future,” “ Like rabbits you are”, “ Don’t look isands newsletter 62

False now when this is all over you wont be allowed to see it any-way” “ be good” and I was. My baby was delivered and the silence was deafening. Their mumblings were only surpassed by the cries of a newborn in the next cubicle. I lay there in grief and in awe of these powerful people around me. Through the gap in the curtains that surrounded my chamber I saw my baby being put into a plastic bag and taken away but I was too scared to cry out. My shame and disgrace overpowered my motherly instincts. I did not even know what I had. I was later moved to a ward of too huge proportions to how I was feeling. It was fi lled with newly delivered babies, pink and blue cards and fl owers. My bed was barren in comparison. All the well meaning comments passed my bed hourly “ well aren’t you lucky to have three at home” you’ll have to pull yourself together for their sake” “ you’re young enough to have another” “ sure you must be sick of washing nappies anyway” It’s a rest you need not another baby to care for” and so on and on. Later that evening my husband came through the doors. His face was grey and sad. Unlike the other visits to me after our other children were born. It was unfamiliar territory for us both. We spoke and yet it was not connected to the awfulness that had just happened. The other children were discussed and the need for us to avoid our sadness seemed as if that was how it was meant to be. My husband said repeatedly “ you’ll be alright”. Some how I felt strangely unattached to him and his remarks. As he walked through the doors a cool breeze hit my humid body. Days later I was told I could go home. I picked up the cour-age to ask a nurse who had shown some compassion to me if she could tell me if I had a baby boy or girl. It appeared to me as if she avoided me for most of that day. On leaving she did however whisper to me that I had a boy and that was my prayer answered. I was told what I wanted to hear. I could write chapters on the days, months and years that fol-lowed. They were unreal. My world fell apart, my coping mechanisms were gone. My other children all needed me to be there for them and I was desperately trying. Others around me avoided me and my tragedy. Life was hard so why should you whinge, everyone was coping with something. Others had coped with a similar loss and got on with it so why not me. Get yourself together girl as you were told and get on with it. “ Have another” and I did a year later and another a couple of years later. Both fi ne thankfully. And the years rolled on with this silent grief inside me growing in age with my other children. Family times, school, Christ-mases, just life without Him, my no name, no place child. I lived a good life. When my children were big enough to fend for themselves I returned to the education system as I had little to start off with. I successfully completed my Leaving Certifi - cate and continued on to college where I fi nished with a degree in business studies. I later started my own business, which is now a successful growing business, run by family members. One day two years ago I read an article about the Blessing of Remembrance for babies graves in Glasnevin Cemetery. It mentioned that the Chairperson of the organisation of ISANDS had traced her own sister who had been buried in Glasnevin 33 years earlier. I cried all day when I read the paper and yet I was drawn to it over and over. The next morning when all was quiet on the western front I rang ISANDS. I spoke to Ron Smith Murphy who is the National Chairperson of ISANDS. She helped me open a cold chamber of horror with warmth, love and compassion I can compare to no other in my life. She gave me over forty years of care in one hour on the phone. There was no rush . Forty years takes a long time to tell, and I felt that. I met with Ron some time later and she helped me to talk openly about him, trace where my son was buried, she came with me to that place. I went back to the hospital as arranged by Ron to a more welcoming place where I was made to feel important and my loss recognised. I was able to get a copy of my chart and later ‘ stillbirth certifi cate’ where I can proudly see my sons name John. The hospital staff named him at the time, seemingly that was the practice, if it was girl they name her Mary or Margaret and if it was boy they were usually named him John or Joseph. I did not have a problem with that as my father and late husband were called John so it seemed fi tting that he should have their name. I wrote his name in the special ISANDS Book of Remembrance and my family came with me to do that. It was a very proud moment for me. In June of this year I attended the Blessing of Remembrance in Glasnevin organised by ISANDS. This day was the funeral I never had. Hundreds of people were there to support me and remember John, my son. Beautiful songs were sung. Balloons were released and I stood there feeling proud that I was doing this for John. I was there with others acknowledging the children in their families. It felt good. Even though it is a sad place, a sad story, I feel I have given it some happier ending, before my ending. I wanted to for so long. I needed to for so long. Thank you to the very special people out there who helped me, thank you Ron. My thanks to my family who encouraged me to write this on Ron’s invitation. I agreed on the condition that she would not edit the acknowledg-ment of her wonderful work for parents and the love she has given through her own great loss of her daughter and sister. I also wanted to write this to encourage other parents who had a baby long ago to contact ISANDS for support. I now feel I have been a mother to all my children. Phyllis O’Connor isands newsletter 63