a paradoxical mixture of intense emotion and
love and the endurance of equally intense pain.
Because I’d had so many stitches, both internally and externally, even the simplest things, such as walking and sitting, were excruciatingly painful, and would be, I realised, for many
days. I also had a new problem to contend with: my milk had come in, an agony that soon became equally excruciating. But the pain could not, under any circumstances, be alleviated as nature
intended, because breastfeeding was strictly forbidden at the convent. I don’t know if this was because the nuns had decided it would make the coming separation harder for both mother and
baby or because it was the prevailing fashion of the day – at that time, formula milk was marketed as a form of liberation, and young mothers were taking to it in droves. Perhaps it was
another form of atonement that was designed to punish the mother but also punished the baby. I still don’t know. Like every other mother further up the line, I simply accepted that
breastfeeding was not an option. It hurt to have a part of my body trying to do one thing, but being made to do another, despite the pills I was given to dry up my milk. In the meantime, I just had
to endure it.
Despite all the pain and discomfort, not to mention my complete ignorance of how to hold him and what to do for him, my little son and I enjoyed moments of pure bliss. Sister Teresa had taken
over my milk kitchen duties and I left the room only for meals during those first four days. I even received my mother and stepfather there when they came to see us on the second day.
That visit was incredibly difficult. It would have been naive of me, I suppose, to expect it to be any different, even if I hadn’t known about her coming to the hospital. My mother was now
coming to visit the daughter she’d felt she had no choice but to abandon to her fate all those months back; the daughter who was caring for a newborn grandchild that she would never see
again.
‘How are you, Angela?’ she said stiffly as she entered.
‘I’m fine,’ I told her, following up her platitude with my own.
I had decided that I would only mention her visit to the hospital if she did, and I suspected she would not. And she didn’t – not in words. Nevertheless, on that day, she did express
real emotions about what had happened to me, emotions other than disappointment and anger at my folly and shame.
‘May I see him?’ she asked, gesturing towards the cot beyond the bed. So formal. So not like a grandmother.
I nodded, and she went around to peer in at my sleeping child. ‘He’s beautiful,’ she said, her voice cracking as she spoke. Though I could only see her face in profile, I knew
she was struggling not to cry.
It hit me then, hard: I really was going to have to give up my baby. Up until the moment my mother broke down on seeing her little grandson, I had nursed a hope – albeit one that was
deeply buried and never, ever voiced – that she would have a change of heart about him being adopted and admit she was wrong about what was best for both of us; that somehow we’d find a
way for me to keep him; that she’d support me and help me and the nightmare could end.
But it was clear to me, watching her sniffing and dabbing at her wet eyes with a hankie, that there was no change of heart now nor would there ever be. She didn’t want to be his
grandmother. It was a role that she’d relinquished. She was crying because the reality of things had hit home for her too. She was crying in anticipation of my loss.
My stepfather spoke little and was only a stiff, sombre presence in the corner that day. I think he had long ago settled into his position that none of this was anything to do with him –
with either one of them, in fact.
When Paul was five days old Sister Teresa removed my stitches, snipping them and slipping them all out, one by one, as she did for all the new mothers. It was probably just as
love and the endurance of equally intense pain.
Because I’d had so many stitches, both internally and externally, even the simplest things, such as walking and sitting, were excruciatingly painful, and would be, I realised, for many
days. I also had a new problem to contend with: my milk had come in, an agony that soon became equally excruciating. But the pain could not, under any circumstances, be alleviated as nature
intended, because breastfeeding was strictly forbidden at the convent. I don’t know if this was because the nuns had decided it would make the coming separation harder for both mother and
baby or because it was the prevailing fashion of the day – at that time, formula milk was marketed as a form of liberation, and young mothers were taking to it in droves. Perhaps it was
another form of atonement that was designed to punish the mother but also punished the baby. I still don’t know. Like every other mother further up the line, I simply accepted that
breastfeeding was not an option. It hurt to have a part of my body trying to do one thing, but being made to do another, despite the pills I was given to dry up my milk. In the meantime, I just had
to endure it.
Despite all the pain and discomfort, not to mention my complete ignorance of how to hold him and what to do for him, my little son and I enjoyed moments of pure bliss. Sister Teresa had taken
over my milk kitchen duties and I left the room only for meals during those first four days. I even received my mother and stepfather there when they came to see us on the second day.
That visit was incredibly difficult. It would have been naive of me, I suppose, to expect it to be any different, even if I hadn’t known about her coming to the hospital. My mother was now
coming to visit the daughter she’d felt she had no choice but to abandon to her fate all those months back; the daughter who was caring for a newborn grandchild that she would never see
again.
‘How are you, Angela?’ she said stiffly as she entered.
‘I’m fine,’ I told her, following up her platitude with my own.
I had decided that I would only mention her visit to the hospital if she did, and I suspected she would not. And she didn’t – not in words. Nevertheless, on that day, she did express
real emotions about what had happened to me, emotions other than disappointment and anger at my folly and shame.
‘May I see him?’ she asked, gesturing towards the cot beyond the bed. So formal. So not like a grandmother.
I nodded, and she went around to peer in at my sleeping child. ‘He’s beautiful,’ she said, her voice cracking as she spoke. Though I could only see her face in profile, I knew
she was struggling not to cry.
It hit me then, hard: I really was going to have to give up my baby. Up until the moment my mother broke down on seeing her little grandson, I had nursed a hope – albeit one that was
deeply buried and never, ever voiced – that she would have a change of heart about him being adopted and admit she was wrong about what was best for both of us; that somehow we’d find a
way for me to keep him; that she’d support me and help me and the nightmare could end.
But it was clear to me, watching her sniffing and dabbing at her wet eyes with a hankie, that there was no change of heart now nor would there ever be. She didn’t want to be his
grandmother. It was a role that she’d relinquished. She was crying because the reality of things had hit home for her too. She was crying in anticipation of my loss.
My stepfather spoke little and was only a stiff, sombre presence in the corner that day. I think he had long ago settled into his position that none of this was anything to do with him –
with either one of them, in fact.
When Paul was five days old Sister Teresa removed my stitches, snipping them and slipping them all out, one by one, as she did for all the new mothers. It was probably just as
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