Western Morning News (Saturday)
She was a lovely baby... even now I miss her
What long-lost mother told district nurse, not realising the woman before her was the daughter she’d abandoned
PHYLLIS WHITSELL began the search for her birth mother as a young woman, and although it was many years before she finally met her, their lives had crossed on the journey without their knowledge.
When they both eventually sat down together, the circumstances were extraordinary, moving and ultimately life-changing.
This is a daughter’s personal account of the remarkable relationship that grew from abandonment into love, understanding and selfless care. In this breathtaking passage, Phyllis, a district nurse, finally plucks up the courage to knock on her long-lost mum’s front door…
A DIFFICULT BEGINNING
I tried knocking hard on the front door but still there was no reply. Now I felt really sick. Had I prepared myself for nothing? Would I never be able to meet my mother?
I decided to try the house next door. They were terraced houses and the neighbour’s front door was at arm’s length, so I only had to lean across to press the bell. Bingo. It rang immediately.
An Asian man answered the door. I smiled politely at him, though feeling even more nervous than before. I tried to appear calm as I didn’t want to arouse any suspicion about the real reason I was visiting his neighbour.
From somewhere I found my voice. ‘Do you know Bridget Ryan, the woman next door?’ I asked. He paused for a moment, just staring at me. Then looked me up and down, clearly clocking my nurse’s uniform.
‘Too b **** y right I do. She’s a crazy mad woman, a drunken Irish woman who should be ashamed of herself. She’s a dirty b***h. I don’t know why they don’t just lock her up for good and throw away the key.’ I tried to calm him down, which helped me get into my role as the district nurse visiting her alcoholic patient. He clearly had a lot of pent-up anger. I realised that as soon as he saw someone he considered to be an authority figure – me on this occasion – he just had to let it out. There were tears in his eyes as he continued with his rant, but I was relieved to see he seemed to be getting a little calmer. Sadly, he was just gathering strength for the next outburst.
‘I mean, it’s just not fair, I have a young child to think about. She’s a s**g and should not be living next door to families. My wife’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.’
By now I was feeling out of my depth and losing control of the situation. And I hadn’t even met my mother. My anxiety must have shown, as he then changed his attitude completely. He apologised for his rant, put his hand on my shoulder, and spoke in a calmer voice.
‘I’m sorry, love, for shouting. I know it’s not your fault but can you please do something to help? Please.’
I felt upset and guilty that I was powerless to help him, but also horribly aware that I was wasting valuable time. To lighten the mood, he said, ‘You can take her home with you if you like, and then you will know what we have to put up with.’ I had heard enough and
needed to get away. If he had known the real reason for my visit I dread to think what his reaction would have been.
It had all been a terrible shock and I was close to tears. I considered my options. I was still determined to face my mother. Drunk or sober, I had to meet her. I was her nurse, not her daughter. I just had to keep telling myself that.
I thanked him for his time and he shook his head saying, ‘You will need to knock on the door hard as they don’t get up until the afternoon in that house. They are usually hung-over.’
Finally, next door, as Bridget walked down the stairs, or rather banged down each step, with every thud I heard I knew that she was that bit closer to me. The moment I had anticipated for so long was now only seconds away. I couldn’t wait another minute, so I peered around the corner, trying to see if I could at
least get a glimpse of her.
FIRST SIGHT
The light was poor and the stairs were steep, but I spotted her sitting on a step, as if exhausted. I stood back, and suddenly the door flung open with some considerable force and there she stood.
My own mother was standing there in front of me.
It was as if she was someone else. Even though I had been told what to expect, for some reason I just couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe that this poor crumpled creature was indeed my mother.
‘Are you Bridget?’ I asked. Half of her face was swollen and badly bruised, and her left eye was black, perhaps from a recent fight or a fall. Her hair was grey and smelled of stale alcohol and tobacco. It was thickly matted at the back, as if it hadn’t been washed or combed for
months. She was wearing a semitransparent short nylon nightdress in what had once been a luminous colour, revealing mottled rings on her legs caused by sitting too close to the fire. Her fingernails were filthy as if she had been digging up potatoes and I could see she was also a heavy smoker as she had yellow nicotine stains on her fingers.
I stood staring at her for a short time, almost in disbelief. Years of abusing her body had clearly taken its toll. I felt sorry for her. It was clear that alcohol was now completely controlling her life and that she had lost all self-respect and self-control. I peered at her face, looking for some similarity, some sign of myself in this human wreck. Yes, I thought, there is some likeness there – the cheekbones perhaps, the tilt of the chin. This was my mother, and I was determined to recognise her.
A STRANGE CONNECTION
I wonder if it was some kind of strange telepathy because, within moments of our meeting, Bridget began talking about a girl she had given away once, called Phyllis. ‘Ah, she was a lovely baby, a lovely child. I miss her, even now I miss her.’
She told me about other children, but didn’t want to dwell on them and it all seemed muddled.
The one she kept coming back to was me. I thought maybe it was because she had looked after me for eight months and perhaps the others had been taken away from her much sooner. She rambled on about how much she wanted to find Phyllis again; how the orphanage had refused to tell her where her daughter was.
She even told me about the letter she had written in 1973. She remembered the name of the orphanage and she remembered my birthday, which meant so much to me.
I peered at her face, looking for some similarity, some sign of myself in this human wreck... Yes, I thought, there is some likeness there. Phyllis on her nervewracking first meeting with her mum