Martin Bridgeman

So today, this Father’s Day, has been another time to stop and think, this year even more so. I did have a notion to write something as its become a ‘thing’ in recent years and even had some vague notions of what I might explain this year. Mostly it was hugely positive, good and great memories of a decent, loving man who raised me as his own and was taken from me at the start of my teenage years. I had even set about looking for pictures but time, and my appalling filing, means I’ve nothing to hand. A pity but perhaps words carry more.

Someone posted a picture of a watch earlier today and it reminded me of my (rare) bursts of real and actual anger which resulted in my damaging a watch that my father wore. Apart from the futility of the anger I still regret this, many years later. It’s funny in a way that I remember a moment of anger; in the past fortnight I have been close to it, but for a whole other reason. My young man’s outburst was from thwarted love. What I’ve been feeling recently is a form of thwarted love; but this time for a man I never knew nor frankly cared about. Its complicated…

This man may very well be my father. 

I had a father and had no other in my mind until I set out on my adoption search. He was perhaps the wisest man I have ever met and I know deep within my being that he loved me. I’ve spoken about him before and I hope I’ve done him justice. Mick was one of the good guys and was taken too soon from us. He was my father in all respects other than biology and I hope he’s proud of me. 

For many years I’ve searched for my birth mother. I’ve written about the visceral connection that we undoubtedly shared, the closest bond between humans. I’ve agonised over, despaired about, hoped for, resigned myself to, rekindled and accepted the twists and turns along the journey, initiated by the woman who raised me, loved me, worried about and cared for me and did everything a mother could have for her son without giving birth to him. She made me promise her in her final months that I would make every effort to make contact with my birth mother. I did with limited success, happily discovering a sister and her family and meeting my birth mother’s family.  Highs and lows and perhaps there’s a book in it. 

This search and my enthusiasm has ebbed and flowed, some hesitance caused by, I imagine, fear of rejection. Adoptees go through journey of search and reconciliation with varying results. In my case it has meant meeting some of my mother’s immediate family but, although they have been full of welcome and were a joy to meet, have little to tell me of the circumstances of my birth. 

One recent piece of information, however, added to some basic information I had been given. As we’ve seen, women in my mother’s situation sometimes gave false or no information on the father of their child. We’ve also seen recently that some involved in the adoption had a twisted grasp of the truth and falsified birth records. Secrets and lies indeed. 

Some information about me has been proven to be correct. I’ve found my original birth certificate because my name was not changed at birth – to the best of my information. I had also been given two pieces of information about my father: his first name and his profession. I had and have no reason to dispute these identifying details but, strangely, never pursued this path. I suppose it was little to go on and as I went along the road towards meeting my mother, the reality of the many secrets and lies became a frequent occurrence. I know women had their reasons, some deeply hurtful and damaging to them and was their defence mechanism; these secrets and lies were a buffer from sometimes harsh realities. I tried to understand and have come to terms with things. The Ireland of the 1950s and 1960s with a crisis pregnancy was a horrible place to be. Things have unfolded since then to explain the frequent horrors that ‘unmarrried mothers’ endured. Comment, judgment and scorn, vilified by society and handled by the religious orders that defied if not contradicted their religion…

This I handled with support from a brilliant case worker, fellow adoptees and some women I met along the way with their own stories to tell. A supportive wife and family helped me keep the faith in my search.

Through all this time, interestingly, my father’s existence and story were somewhat distant and I have to admit I was somewhat indifferent to that aspect of my existence. Like I say, it’s complicated and still is. 

Following a conversation with an aunt recently I got something of a corroboration about my father. Another piece of identifying information, another piece of the proverbial jigsaw. In my initial meeting with my birth mother’s family a name emerged but there was nothing to corroborate. I hesitated again, needing something more and once again this man’s existence seemed less important. It’s a different bond, a different story. 

This time I put these pieces together and did a simple google search. It confirmed something of what I had heard and certainly the information seemed to fit what I had been told: but with a twist. So far, so far away. On this occasion, I skimmed through the first few hits on the page and they confirmed a similar story. This man had a certain standing in his community, he had indeed been a teacher and it also confirmed that he had passed away in the 1980s. What happened next surprised me because in all my searching I had never looked at images. I clicked on images and that’s when my world turned upside down again. Two pictures, one black and white and one in colour. The first made me wonder; the second hit me like a punch in the guts. If I had my wedding photograph to hand I would have been looking at the same man. Slightly older but a strong resemblance, no question. I headed to bed that but there was no sleep. 

Needing to get some form of confirmation I showed the picture to a very small group of people. Each of them came back immediately with almost the same response. These were my wife, family and close friends who knew what I looked like with darker hair. They had no doubt, and if I’m honest I didn’t either from the first moment I clicked on the picture.

So here I am, this fathers’ day with a whole new story to follow. I’ve started the search and have the familiar twist in the guts I had all those years ago when I looked for my birth mother. I know I have to do this. 

Wish me luck…