My Inconvenient Birth
Having just experienced another birthday, it inspired me to muse upon the launch of my unceremonious rollout in life, 76 years ago. For, unlike other babies, whose mamas blissfully flaunt their eye-popping dimensions, my mother’s pregnancy was shrouded in heavy camouflage. Ultimately, she spent the final months of her pregnancy in a home for mothers and babies in Birmingham, desperate for the whole wretched episode to finalise. It was not socially acceptable in 1946 to produce offspring outside the framework of marriage. When such a scandal transpired, the neighbours should at all costs remain ignorant of the fact, to preserve the ‘good name’ of the entire family. Consequently, rather than crescendos of rapture at my appearance into the world, it was rather more a cataclysm for those involved. To endorse my unwelcome existence, I was forthwith detached from my bio-host and whisked away to an undisclosed location, so by choice, she actually never even laid eyes on me. Had I had a say in the matter, I would undoubtedly have embraced a little cuddle with the architect of my being, having been part of her for nine months. I might even have enjoyed a cocktail-suckle to celebrate my genesis into this hostile setting. Unable to sense too much of her initially, there might have been a sporadic bond created at some level of my being. This is precisely the tactical reason for rather abruptly banishing me from the scene. The only one with no choice in the matter was me.
In his book «Babies Remember Birth», Dr. Chamberlain claims adopted babies are aware of someone missing after birth. I am obviously not conscious of this loss, but it validates my feeling of finality when relationships irreversibly break down, almost bordering on a process of mourning. It appears to be a recurring pattern, destined to accompany me throughout my life. There is actually a theory in the book «The Primal Wound» by Nancy Newton Verrier, which describes pre-natal and post-natal psychology, attachment, bonding and subsequent loss, and clarifies the separation and trauma inflicted on the baby. It also mentions irreparable consequences, specifically in the case of babies, left for days in isolation in a separate room, straight after birth, as I was.
The only detail regarding my birth which is irrefutable, is that I was born in my birthday suit; an outfit which has served me well and increased in the fullness of time into adequate dimensions to accommodate me. This same suit has had it’s ups and down over the years, but has mostly withstood the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. More than this element of my birth is pure hypothesis, coupled with a couple of grains of information, extracted with effort from my birth mother many decades later. I apparently came about during a casual pollination ritual between her and a home-coming soldier from World War II. He plausibly had plenty of pent-up reserves, accumulated during his mission to the battle front. As determined as I am wont to be, I must have nimbly wriggled up her fallopian tubes and left the rest to mother nature to complete the process; a fact which must have remained undetermined for several weeks.
When I caught up with the good lady some five and a half decades later and she was none too tickled. She had disposed of me so successfully from mind, body and soul, that she could not even recall, what time of day I was born. Neither had she any recollection of the sperm-donor. Rather than a sense of approval at the end product, she seemed anxious to distance herself from her first-born and any involvement of hers appeared to be fuelled by sheer curiosity. She did hasten to assure me that her husband of 45 years knew all about me before he married her, so her reluctance to accept me was not born out of any sense of shame. However, she specified that her two ‘legitimate’ sons were to remain oblivious of my person.
Why did I spend so much time and effort to find her? Was it the dismal upbringing with my adoptive mother that triggered me? I was clinging to the ubiquitous faith in finding a mother who loved me unconditionally, and deeply regretted having given me up. The scene had played itself out in my mind so frequently over the years. I imagined a rather matronly-looking lady with a kindly face and a contented disposition. I could envisage an emotional and intimate reunion with heart-wrenching clarity. What I actually encountered was dry little lady with no trace of emotion or empathy. No one could have been more opposite to the fictional lady in my mind. In the few hours I spent with her, it was evident that the meeting didn’t mean a thing to her and that it would be an isolated reunion. In truth, she made me feel as unwelcome as a stink in a lift. As I leant towards her to say goodbye, she backed away, and scuttled off. So much for that experience.
What a far cry from the birth of my son, who I nurtured with all the love and tenderness any baby could receive. To this day we have a unique and beautiful relationship, which I will treasure all the rest of my days.
Photo: Pexels / Pixabay