The Girls Who Went Away (35 page)

Two days after I returned home, I went back to see the priest to sign the final relinquishment papers. My aunt went with me. We went to the priest’s
office and he was very nonchalant, very cavalier about the whole thing. You know, “Oh, how are you doing? How’s school?” I said, “Well, I haven’t returned yet, you know.” “Oh, feeling good? You look wonderful, you’ll be back with your friends, things will be good.” “Yes, Father. Yes, Father.”

He hands me a sheet of paper. None of the blank lines were filled in with my name, or with Madlyn Jeanne’s name, or the date of birth, nothing. It was completely blank. He pointed to a line and said, “Sign here.” My aunt signed as a witness. I mean, I was only seventeen and I knew that was wrong. I knew those lines should have been filled in. I said, “Shouldn’t this be filled in?” It was just a standard form with “said child…said child…” I remember feeling so hurt. My baby has a name. My daughter has a name. Her name is Madlyn Jeanne.

But my feelings weren’t any of their concern. Their business was to get my signature on that line. And that’s how I signed my baby away, on a blank sheet of paper. The social worker sent me those papers after I found Madlyn. She photostated everything and that paper was there. It was exactly as I had remembered it—my name on a blank sheet of paper, not the least bit legal.

I made up my mind that I would find a boy that my father and mother approved of and I would marry him and have his babies. That was my new mission. By Thanksgiving, I had found that boy. I knew exactly who I was going after. There was this boy that I had become friends with as a sophomore. He and I could talk about anything. He was on the football team; he was a starting player. He was tall, dark, and very handsome—the greatest guy ever. And I was gonna marry him. We spent the rest of our senior year together. He was wonderful to me. He treated me like the lady I pretended to be. I always felt bad that I didn’t tell him what I had just been through. I let him believe that I was your normal, average teenager, that I was a good girl.

We went to the senior prom together. I loved being with him. He made me feel the way I thought I should feel. I didn’t love him, not even in the slightest. I still loved the father of my baby. After we graduated from high school, my new boyfriend asked me to marry him and I said yes, even though I knew I didn’t love him. I didn’t know if I could ever grow to love him, but I hoped I could.

My reasoning was: Now that we’re engaged, I’ll fall in love with him.
Well, that never happened. Our wedding was planned. We were married the following September, in 1970. And as the wedding date neared I thought, “I’ll fall in love with him once we are married.” I wasn’t gonna turn back. I was gonna be married because he was gonna give me the babies I wanted so much. I figured once I had his baby I will love him. I will fall in love with him then. We had two children. We had our first girl in 1973 and our second in 1976. I still didn’t fall in love with him.

I refused to go to work. There was no way, not any chance, I would ever leave my children in day care or with anyone else. In 1978, when my second daughter was two, the indifference that I felt toward my husband was wearing on me. It’s very difficult to have to get into bed with a man you don’t love. I felt I wasn’t being fair to myself and, more importantly, to him. I felt that he needed a wife who could love him and give him all the wonderful things he gave me that I couldn’t give back. I had reached a point in my life where I didn’t like myself for pretending. It seemed my whole life I pretended. I pretended I didn’t have a child. I pretended I loved this man. My daughters were the only true happiness in my life.

I finally told my husband in October of 1978 how I felt. I came clean. He was crushed. All he kept saying to me was “This whole thing has been a lie?” And I couldn’t even help him by saying it wasn’t, because it was. The day that he moved out, I went upstairs to tell my parents; we owned a two-family home with them. At that point in my life, I had become such a good actress that even my parents, who lived in the same house as us, didn’t know I was unhappy. I was able to hide any emotion I felt to suit my purpose.

My husband left right after New Year’s. The relief I felt was beyond words. I felt happy that I didn’t have to pretend to this man or pretend to anyone else that I was in love with him. I still loved Madlyn’s father. I thought about him every day. I thought about Madlyn and I thought about her every single day. No matter where I was with the girls, I was looking for Madlyn, always searching for a little face that looked like me or my daughters. There were times I’d be caught staring at little girls, like at swimming lessons or Brownies or dancing school and I would notice that their mothers were watching me watching their children. I’d feel so pathetic.

Even though the sister told me that Madlyn had been given to a Boston physician and his wife, I never believed her. I always felt in my heart that she
had been given to a family in Fall River, which is about fifteen miles from here. I would go to the Fall River Knitting Mills. It was always full of kids and parents shopping for school sweaters. Once I got married, I made that my Christmas pilgrimage. Santa Claus would be there giving out balloons and candy canes. I would go all by myself and sit on those benches and watch the children, looking for a little girl.

Once my husband left, I was broke. I wouldn’t accept any money from him. I went on welfare. It helped, but it was still hardly enough. So I got a job working in a nightclub as a cocktail waitress. I would work eight to two on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. And my mother, because she lived upstairs, would watch the girls. There was this disc jockey there that I was very attracted to. I had probably gone out with him for two months when I knew how strongly I felt, how much I loved him. It had been fourteen or fifteen years and I finally wasn’t thinking of Madlyn’s father. I thought, “Before I get any more involved with this guy, he has to know about my daughter.” So I told him the story of Madlyn. And he looked at me and said, “Well, if she’s your daughter why wouldn’t I love her, too?” We were married in 1982. My daughters were my bridesmaids. They were six and eight. I still hadn’t told the girls about Madlyn and I knew I had to.

Every time I thought about it, it made me sick. I’ve been quite ill for most of my life from the time of my relinquishment: pneumonia, urinary-tract infections, migraines, nightmares, depression, anxiety. But it was never so bad as it was after I had my fourth daughter in 1984. I was thirty-three and the pain and longing for Madlyn just came rushing back at me after having that last child. I got sick with pneumonia shortly after her birth. I thought my depression might be due to my feeling so lousy all the time. My pneumonia lasted for about sixteen weeks. I was in and out of the hospital. They didn’t know what was wrong with me because I didn’t have a temperature. I had lung biopsies. My pulmonologist was absolutely baffled. He even wrote up my case for a medical-association meeting. He sent me to Boston and the doctors there couldn’t find anything wrong with me, either. Years later, I received a post from one of my birth-mother groups that explained post-traumatic stress. I had all the classic symptoms.

Madlyn’s twenty-first birthday was coming up and my first daughter from my marriage was gonna be sixteen. I knew that when she turned sixteen
I would tell her about Madlyn. She was very mature and wise for her age. I knew she’d have some good advice as to how I should tell her younger sisters, who were fourteen and five, about their sister. I couldn’t wait for the day to come. Two weeks before her sixteenth birthday, she was diagnosed with leukemia. She died five months later.

My grief was so great. I felt God had punished me for giving my first baby away. I didn’t know what to do. The night she died, we drove home and I didn’t know how I was gonna get up the next morning. I had lost two daughters. I had two more and I wondered how long it would be before I lost them. I didn’t know how I was gonna face the girls and my parents when I got home. I had nothing to say to them. I was totally empty. We pulled into the driveway and it was loaded with cars. My brothers were there. My godparents were there. My cousins were there. And I didn’t want to get out of the car because I couldn’t face them. When I opened the door and my daughters came running to me, I knew exactly why I was gonna get up in the morning: I was gonna get up for those two girls. I never felt so loved. The contrast between losing this daughter and losing Madlyn was so different. Why could my parents and family see that I needed comforting after my daughter’s death but not see that I needed it after the relinquishment of Madlyn?

My search was put on an indefinite hold. I was emotionally unstable. Again, I received no counseling. I figured I was strong enough. My illnesses became worse: the pneumonia, the urinary-tract infections, the nightmares. The nightmares were the worst part; I call it my running nightmare. I was always running, running—sometimes in the street of the neighborhood where I grew up and sometimes on a beach. Always running after a little girl in a diaper. And I could never catch her because there was a man running after me and he would always catch me before I could catch the little girl. And I would try so hard to hit him and shove him away, but my arms were weighted down and I couldn’t raise them. I would try to shout to the child to stop, but when I opened my mouth no sound would come out. This had been happening for twenty-eight years. I had to do something. I had to find this child. It was killing me, emotionally and physically.

At some point, I called Catholic Charities and told the woman there that I needed to contact Madlyn because her sister had died of leukemia and I
wanted her to know that if she or any of her children ever got sick they would have an entire family of bone-marrow donors available to them. And the reply I got from the social worker was “Do Madlyn and your other daughter share the same father?” I said, “No.” She said, “Is leukemia hereditary on your side of the family?” And I said, “No.” “Then the chances of Madlyn’s having leukemia are slim.” I was very angry. Who made her master of all medical likelihood? What gave her the right to decide that?

I searched the Internet for one year in secret. I searched every day, every adoption list. I registered in every site I could find. I joined the International Soundex Reunion Registry. Then after one year of searching, I knew I had to come out of this birth mother closet and start making some noise or I’d never find my child. First I told my husband and then the girls that I was searching. They were very happy for me. I told my brothers, told my parents, and I didn’t receive one negative response. Everyone was happy for me. My parents couldn’t believe it because I had always told them I’d never look for her. I didn’t want them to think that everything they went through was in vain—all the secrets, sending me away, just for me to find her in the end. I always tried to protect my parents, but they didn’t blink an eye. They encouraged me every step of the way. It was such a wonderful feeling to be able to tell people I gave up a child and I am looking for her. I am a birth mother.

I haven’t had a migraine since I found her. I did, however, finally seek the counseling that I needed, not only for my relinquishment of her but for my daughter’s death. My husband found a very awesome lady to help me. She said before you can grieve your daughter’s death properly, you have to grieve the loss of Madlyn. I finally feel peace.

My mother and I had never spoken about my relinquishment, even when I was searching and after I found Madlyn. It had been a taboo subject. It wasn’t until after my dad’s death, a couple of years ago, that my mother was able to talk to me about her decision. At first, she tried to tell me she never felt guilty because it was “in my best interest.” And all I could say to her was “If you never felt guilty, I’m disappointed in you.” Because I could never understand how a kind and caring mother, like my mother, could give away a grandchild and not feel guilty. I think those words made her realize that she wasn’t being honest with herself.

Through counseling, I finally realized that my feelings count, because I
never thought they did. When you give up a baby, you don’t feel you deserve much of anything, let alone happiness. After those conversations with my mother, it was the first time she told me she was sorry she gave my baby away. And she hugged me and told me she loved me. I know she was being honest. I know she really meant it. And the healing that took place within me, with just those two words: “I’m sorry.”

Having to give my daughter away made me realize how precious life is and that it can be taken from you and that you’re powerless to stop it. I was powerless because I was seventeen and unmarried. Society and my church and my parents felt that was the right decision for me. I had no voice.

I made sure that I spent every day with my girls. When my daughter died, I was so happy that I had spent every day of her sixteen years with her. I cherish those memories. And now that I have Madlyn back we are making memories. I can’t get back the thirty years I lost with her; they’re gone forever. I can either choose to sit and dwell on that or I can just accept that they’re gone and enjoy what I have now. And I have a lot.

I’ve been asked the question What is worse, adoption or death? Before I found Madlyn, I thought adoption was worse, because I knew where my second daughter was—she was in heaven—but I still worried about Madlyn and where she was. After I found Madlyn, I now know death is worse because I’ll never see my second daughter again.

The lack of counseling at the home for unwed mothers was a mistake. Many of us have had bad marriages. Many of us married men for the same reason I married mine—just to have a baby we could keep. That’s not fair to anyone. It’s not fair to the husband. It’s not fair to the children. My girls were separated from their father because of me. The consequences are far-reaching. What I did was wrong, but I did it to survive. The only way I knew I could get up again was if I had more children. Little did I know back then that none of them, none of the children I had after, would ever replace Madlyn.