The son I gave up as a baby has now gone for ever

DEAR BEL

SIXTY-THREE years ago, at 17 and alone, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy I loved dearly.

Such were my circumstances I decided, with a heavy, aching heart, to have my boy adopted. I wanted to give him a better start in life, with a mum and a dad.

All through the years my thoughts were always with my son, hoping he was happy and — with all my heart — that the decision I made had been the right one.

I met a wonderful man who became my husband and we had such a happy marriage for 54 years. Still, as ever, my thoughts were never far from my boy — hoping and praying he might want to find me some day. As the years passed that possibility seemed slim.

My husband died six years ago and my grief was almost intolerable. Then, three years ago, I received a letter from an organisation called Birthlink asking for my identity.

Nothing could have prepared me for such emotions. The son I’d parted with all those years ago wanted to find me. My prayers had been answered.

After corresponding with Birthlink, my son Brian and I were able to arrange a meeting. All I knew was his name had been changed and I couldn’t wait to find out about him.

We met a few weeks later. It was a bit strange at first, but as time passed into the small hours we shared our thoughts and feelings. From then on our mother-son relationship blossomed. No words could describe my happiness. I became alive again. I had my son back.

Brian told me he had cancer, but not how far it had developed. As always, he was protecting me from worry. Oh Bel, it came sooner than expected and my lovely son died three months ago, leaving me alone again.

I am devastated, heartbroken. But despite my heartache, I feel so grateful, privileged and blessed.

God answered my prayers, granting me time with my son, allowing me to be by his side when he passed away, telling him how much I loved him and that I will miss him for ever.

I write because sharing my grief with you gives me some relief, and your thoughts will help me cope. CATH

THIS is one of the saddest, most beautiful letters I have ever copied from a handwritten original.

Holding the four small pages in my hand gives me such a powerful sense of the sorrow behind every word that (strangely) I almost feel beside you.

I have no doubt thousands of readers will be sending heartfelt sympathy — as well as (perhaps) giving thanks that, whatever their own problems may be, they will gain perspective through reading this.

I feel like the narrator of a powerful, moving poem by Victor Hugo, commemorating the death of a seven-year-old caught in crossfire in Paris in 1851. Witnessing the devastation and rage of the child’s poor grandmother, he says that those present were ‘silent’ and ‘trembling before a grief that nobody could console’.

Similarly, there are no words here either. Nowadays we tend to expect problems to be solved by smooth therapeutic formulae, but who could attempt to harness a grief like yours and put it into a neat box?

You have to walk through the valley of the shadow; there is no choice but to endure. The only possible words of consolation have come from the only person with the right to utter them. You. Those prayers to see your lost only child again were answered; by a horrible trick of destiny your beloved son went before you to the grave; still you remain grateful for knowing and loving him at the end.

This is truly humbling — and true redemption, Cath.

Year after year you agonised about the decision you took for the best of reasons and, although you say nothing about Brian’s life with his adopted parents, I assume he was all right, because he had turned into the balanced man who could love his birth mother without resentment.

You gave him life, and chose to put him first when you felt you had nothing to give him. Your self-sacrifice was rewarded when he discovered how much he was loved. He could not have loved you back unless he understood.

Fate is so cruel. But within this heartbreaking litany of loss — despite all the pain — there is real joy. That possibility of redemption is what keeps us all going, through the darkest times. At the end of the long dark valley there is the light . . . even if it proves to be the light of eternity.

As I write this, I am imagining you sitting by your son’s bed, longing to be taken instead, regretting all the time wasted, wishing your wonderful husband had lived to see you reunited with your child and to help you through this grief, desperately making up for the years of loss with last words of love to your dying ‘boy’ . . . And truly there is nothing else to do but cry.

All I can do is wish you strength. We must share your rejoicing that he found you at last and you both discovered this precious, mother-son love.

I just hope the memories of that tenderness can sustain you and that you have a sacred place to visit — where you can talk to him still.