Martin Bridgeman

Today, as is the case for most adoptees, can be complicated, difficult, complex, awful, heartening, saddening or maddening. Take your pick. Fathers, last time I checked, are human, so as bad or as good as any or all of us. I’m a proud father and I hope I’ve done my best for our children. That’s for them to judge I suppose. If you’re a father and you do your best in whatever circumstances you find yourself, that’s fair enough in my book. Unlike in my previous professional life, fatherhood does not always come with a manual so you muddle through with luck, cop on (that you have probably inherited from the women in your life), blind faith and the best advice you can get. It’s a full time gig.

I was extremely lucky to have had my Dad, Mick, in my life. My major sense of loss was that he passed away when I was 13. I was very lucky to have had his wife, my mother, in my corner, to help me through it, even though she was left desolate. I know she suffered her own grief but she helped me through mine. I know he was human and could have looked after himself better by some different life choices, but he left me with some wisdom; mainly, it manifested itself in treating people as you’d like to be treated yourself, that not everything you do for someone has to get repaid and there’s not enough decency in the world. I only hope I remember this as often as possible. 

I have no idea what my teens would have been like with him. He was of his time and would probably have disagreed with me and my choices, so no major difference from any other father I suppose. I do regret not having the pint with him, but there you go. I remember him with much love and with much respect. Each time I meet his family I find out new things about him, which is nice and adds to the fullest picture. I’m just sorry that he never met his grandchildren. It would have been great to tie that together. 

Now, I find myself, just over a year on from discovering my birth father, in a new and strange place. In the past year I’ve found images of him, taken more than one sharp intake of breath or two at his picture and marvelled how, at this stage of my life, I have a resemblance and connection to another human being. I don’t look like my mother and that’s the way of it. I’ve learned a little about her but largely she was a private woman and we never met so that’s pretty much the end of it unless someone brings me more information. One door closed and another opened, so to speak.

I now have beautiful pictures in my house of this man, given to me when I met my siblings for the first time; his gentle eyed pose, alongside his own father’s picture sit side by side, two men I am in a line with and have never met. Strange and beautiful all at once. 

I’ve now visited his home place, visited his grave and the house where he was born. I’ve met his nieces and nephews this time and heard a little more about him. I was welcomed once again with open arms, more deep bonds forged and I like to think that I’ve done all I can to be aware of the impact of this news (of me) has had on their picture of him. I feel welcome in a way that is extremely special. That’s riches in itself. 

I also met one of his sisters, felt the ‘gaze’ and went with it. It was two way. I have to meet her again and another sister soon but again, I hope I have been as sensitive as possible under my and their circumstances. They’ve both taken the news well and I look forward to hearing more about him and getting to know them in our new circumstance. Already I’ve been told I have some of his mannerisms, that I have a similar sound to my voice as other relatives and, as you’d expect, I’m intrigued and slightly anxious. This ‘picture’ is mine too so I need this. The picture of him is filling like an animation; a brush stroke of reminiscence here, another photo there, stories, another link in a chain I really never expected to have. I see my son and daughter in these images now and I am delighted that their picture can be fuller than before. It is a basic thing, this ‘looking like’ business.  They are their own people but my mother Maisie’s words are ringing in my head; that they, like everyone else need to know where they came from. 

One thing that has really taken my breath away is knowing that my father was a musician. It was even more so when I heard a recording of him playing harmonica and briefly speaking on one of the recordings that my grandfather was fond of making to send to my aunt back in the day. My brother sent it by email one evening and I can’t articulate how it made me feel at the time but I know the room got very dusty. I’ve always marvelled at our children’s musical talents and would do anything to hear them play together but I only have one recording of them playing music. Now I have one of their grandfather playing and another major, golden link in the chain has been forged. I would give anything for them to have them play for him, that special bond that music brings. For now we’ve shared that extraordinary recording and I am aware of more.

It’s been emotional, strange, exciting, sad, hopeful and expectant. It’s not over either. 

Of course I am filled with regret the more I hear about him but, as was the case with my birth mother, I’ve resolved not to feel anger. I don’t know the story of my arrival and probably never will in the way that many people know about theirs. I can’t change time or go back so I can only deal with what’s in front of me. As I will continue to say along this journey; it’s complicated. 

Looking forward…