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A Sign of Times

A Sign of Times

In 1963 I lived in a Roman Catholic Convent. I was 16 years old and during this time I became pregnant. Little did I know that I was about to face more bad times in my life. I was hidden away and remember having to hide under a bed so no one knew I was there. I could only go outside at night when it was dark to breathe fresh air so that no one could see me. I stayed there for the rest of my pregnancy. There was a great deal of shame and punishment heaped upon single mothers at the time but nothing ever happened to the fathers. They roamed scot-free.

When it came time to birth my baby I went to the small-town hospital. There was and is no accounting for how horrible I was treated. I am afraid that it was indicative of the way most single mothers were treated then. After lengthy and hard labor and not a nurse in sight, I was wheeled away to the delivery room.  They knocked me out for this because they did not want me to see my baby. I remember one of the nurses leaning over me, just before they put me under, and she said to another nurse, “Don’t tell her what it is”.

When I woke up I was in a room with another woman who had just recently given birth. At least they close the curtain around me, but I could hear her with her baby, and all I could do was cry and cry. Why could I not have my baby?

I did not know at the time but I was never meant to have my child. I was very ill and weak after delivery. Indeed, it took me three months to have the strength to walk around. The Dr. who took care of me should have been sued for malpractice. He left the placenta in me. One day when I was in the hospital bathroom this big quivering mess came out of me and plopped on the floor. I rang the emergency bell and a nurse came in and whisked it away without saying a word to me. I tried everything to see my baby but they would not tell me where she or he was. I was very weak and could barely walk to the bathroom. One day I decide to walk outside the hospital to try and look through the window where I believed them to be holding the baby. I was desperate to see it. Unfortunately, there was a big hole underneath the window so I could not look through it. After two weeks in the hospital, I was desperate to leave. I knew I could not recover there. A social worker visited me daily and I had to walk out of the hospital room and sit in a chair in the hallway and deal with her. I could not sit and Could barely walk but I did it. I was still very ill and had no strength to walk. There was no way they were going to give me my child. I signed the papers.

I was put in the back of a car and taken to another province. I recovered there for three months and was able then to think of what to do with my life. I had a grade nine education and seeing as how I was on my own, I worked at night and put myself through grade 10, 11, and 12. I then became a practical nurse so that I could earn enough money to go to university. I did this and worked at night so that I could go to university during the day. I had little money and not enough food to eat so I was down to 96 pounds. At least I had a room to live in. This was a very, very hard time for me as I was terribly unhappy about having my child stolen from me. This is something that you never get over. I drank a lot of beer at the university. Finally, when I had my daughter at 40 years of age, some of the pain subside. It never went away, but it was not as bad. I never told anyone about what happened to me when I was young. All the punishment I endured at the time and after, was enough to keep me quiet. I was made to feel like the lowest of low scum of the earth. I am still amazed I managed to educate myself and continue on with life because most of the time I felt like dying.  So I joined and Adoptees Association and there I learned that I could ask the Social Service in the providence where I had my child that I had a right to know what I had (a girl), and how much it weighed, how healthy she was and what type of people adopted her. I did this in 1980. I could never try to find her because I has signed the papers giving her up. But she could look for me if she wanted. Thank goodness I stayed in touch with social services with new information if I moved or my contact information changed. Finally in my 70’s my daughter began looking for me and she found me because I had kept up in contact with Social Services. At the age of 75, I know now who my daughter is and what kind of life she has had. We are close and I am happy that I finally go to meet her before I died. She is also very happy that she got me and was totally accepted into my life. IMAGINE after 57 years, being able to meet your very own daughter!!

 

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