Rejection #2 (1990)

Playing the detective satisfies on so many levels. It’s a puzzle to solve, it’s a secret to uncover, it’s an adventure to have, it’s a mother to find. I‘m not going to bother looking for my dad. I’ve decided he is a peripheral figure, a sperm donor if you like. It’s my biological mother I’m hunting and nothing is going to stop me!

Except of course, me, I need to play it cool, not appear to needy. “I’m doing this for her”. I say it so many times I have convinced myself. So I start, then stop, then re-start, then pause; pendulating between search and avoid, like a child moving their hand towards a fire.

I start with certificates. A trip to the register of births, deaths and marriages means a day out in London. I’m excited, nervous and eager. It’s like I might actually meet her today. Of course I know that’s nonsense. And anyway, I’m doing this for her…

The search for my roots is painstaking. Shelves full of books, I have names and dates so the first step is easy – bingo a record to look for. Fill in the pink slip. May as well get Dad as well as Mum, may as well get grandma and granddad - I wonder if they want to be called that? Several pink slips and now to search for certificates. Micro-fiche records are not easy to trawl through but at least I look like a proper detective. Found them, found them, how thrilling. I go to the desk with my completed pink and green slips. I order the certificates, they’ll be sent to me, hopefully soon. I return home, empty-handed, head buzzing, stomach churning, heart switched off (too many emotions, not safe, don’t bother).

Weeks pass, certificates finally arrive, it’s not enough. I’ve visited the places they lived at the time, read and re-read my notes. I need to find where she is now. But how? It’s my secret so it’s just me and the library. How am I going to find her?

Weeks pass, a brainwave. When I was born birth mum was training to be a nurse. I wonder if she qualified? I wonder if I can find her that way? Assuming she kept going with her studies after she’d disposed of me she would have become a State Registered Nurse. Hold on…register?...state? Surely not? Another trip to London. Unannounced I turn up at Portland Place where the register is looked after. The receptionist thinks I’m mad, I can tell. No I can’t see the register, no they can’t say whether my mum is on it, and certainly no they can’t give me an address if she is, and they’re not saying she is. I need to write to them explaining what I want and why. Frustrated I leave.

Weeks pass, I recover from the knock-back and summon up my mojo. I know it’s a long shot but it’s all I have. I write saying I’d like to know if mother is a registered nurse and if they have a current address for her that I could have. “I’m doing this for her” I dutifully explain.

Weeks pass, no reply until Bingo again! They write and confirm, yes she became a state registered nurse, yes she still is, yes they have an address, and no I can’t have it. I have to read it again to be sure. How can anyone be so cruel? I’m in shock. My detective work has yielded an unlikely win and yet nothing, no way of moving forward. It’s too painful to register and so I don’t. I move to action. There’s a phone number. I contact them to shout, plead, beg. But there is no need. The lady I spoke to has an answer. It’s not the answer I hoped for but it’s a way forward. If I write my mum a letter, put it in an envelope with her name on and space for an address, send it to them with a covering letter, they will forward it to her. Apparently it’s a service they offer – blimey I thought my mum was the only one but it turns out lots of nurses get pregnant and give away their children. Who knew? Not sure whether to feel sad at that or happy that I’m not alone. So I don’t bother feeling anything.

Weeks pass. Well it’s not easy composing a letter to your mum after 25 years. What to say? I need her to confirm it definitely is her. Check. Need to tell her I’m ok. Check. Need to be sure she realises I am doing this for her. Check. I play safe. Not too much detail, no sign of weakness. Finally I send it all off and try to forget all about it. Which I don’t.

Weeks pass. Nothing.

Months pass. Finally six months later an envelope with writing on it I know to be hers even though I only saw it briefly three years ago (see previous article). Postmark Derby – that’s a surprise. I read the letter twice. She’s sorry it took so long to write…she’s confirming she is my birth mother… she’s explaining why she gave me away…she hopes I forgive her…she doesn’t want any more contact. “Take care of yourself, God bless you”

I’m empty. “It took me a long time to come to terms with my actions”. It’s clear to me I’m an unwanted intrusion into her healed existence. My letter was not welcomed and was rebuffed firmly with kind words. An iron fist in a velvet glove that has punched me so hard I can’t breathe for a while.

It’s over. There is nothing to be done so I file it away.