Finding Tipperary Mary by Phyllis Whitsell

Author:Phyllis Whitsell [Whitsell, Phyllis]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Tipperary, Nursing, Birmingham, Dementia, Adoption, alcoholism, domestic abuse, secret, Ireland, Family
Publisher: Mirror Books
Published: 2016-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

7

Meeting My Mother

Christmas came and went, and the only thing that seemed important to me at that time was when I would next have a meeting with John. This eventually took place in February 1980. I told John that I had been warned by Miss McFadden to leave well alone, and to get on with the rest of my life. Luckily for me, John was not of the same opinion. In fact he was almost as curious as I was. He said, ‘We’ve come this far. We can’t just give up on it now.’

I gave him the two vital pieces of information I had: the name she was using – Bridget Ryan – and her last known address in Winson Green. John reassured me that he would contact me in the week with any information he had.

A few days later he telephoned and said he had only just had some news, but wanted to call me before the weekend. It was a Friday afternoon I will never forget. I could tell by his voice and the way he was hesitating that it was not going to be good news. I tried to prepare myself for what he was about to tell me, but I felt physically sick. I had picked up the phone in the bedroom, and now I sat down on the bed as I was shaking and dreaded to hear whatever was coming.

He had contacted the General Hospital in Birmingham, as he felt they may have known Bridget. Sure enough he was right. They knew her well.

‘Two years ago your mother was admitted into hospital in a bad state, with a fractured femur. She was a well-known alcoholic in the area and had been very ill indeed. She had been in and out of the A & E department on many occasions, but she hadn’t been seen since.’

Then came the bombshell.

‘Those who saw her in the hospital thought it unlikely that she could survive another two years in her condition,’ he said, and then paused, floundering a little. He knew that he was about to tell me the one thing I was dreading to hear.

‘I’m sorry, but I think you had better assume that she is dead. Maybe I could help you to find out where she is buried?’

I suppose it was all I could have hoped for under the circumstances. I felt numb, but I heard myself uttering a few pleasantries, mainly thanking him for his time in trying to help trace her. I think it was my attempt to be discreet, and to avoid exposing my true feelings. I did not want to take out my anger on the one person who had at least tried to help me trace my mother. I burst into tears as I put down the phone.

It was such an anti-climax. Why was I crying for someone I didn’t even know? But this was my mother, my own flesh and blood. I would never now have the chance to meet her. It just seemed so cruel.

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