Susan M. Souza

It’s February 2003. Soon, I’ll be celebrating the four-year anniversary of my reunion with my thirty-four-year-old daughter, Joanne. Much healing has taken place over the course of the last few years, thanks to the help of my therapist, Katie. I was referred to her by a dear friend shortly before my daughter Kristine’s wedding, the summer of 2000. She sensed my need for professional support as she witnessed my “melt-down” caused by current and upcoming events in my life. She was amazed to learn I had survived all these years, since my relinquishment, without any type of support. Then, she was even further amazed to hear I had never sought counseling after the death of my sixteen-year-old daughter, Jackie, in 1990. It was simply unimaginable to her. Yes, I had gone the Compassionate Friends route and the family bereavement sessions at the Floating Hospital in Boston, but never did I seek individual help.

In an effort to help my healing process, I recognize the need to return to St. Mary’s Home for Unwed Mother’s, and decide to just do it! Just get in the car and go. But something is holding me back. Something is telling me to first place a call. For what reason, I don’t quite know. I just feel it’s the right thing to do. I dial the number. Of course, no human is available to answer my call and I’m offered a menu of choices. I randomly select an extension.

“Good afternoon, how may I help you?” says the voice on the other end of the phone. Clearing my throat, I attempt to say something intelligible. “Could I please have directions from Rt.93N?” I croak.

The friendly voice begins to direct me, but I’m not listening. After hearing a jumble of words, the words, “What is your interest in visiting St. Mary’s?” come through loud and clear.

I’m unnerved, and leery to admit that I simply need to see the old place, walk the corridors and into my room. What if it’s not allowed and I’m barred from visiting, goes through my mind. Fortunately, my secret past of lies is over, and I tell her the truth. Surprisingly enough, she is thrilled to hear that I once lived at St. Mary’s and invites me to visit when she is there to give me a guided tour. I can’t believe my luck and share with her how I had feared telling her the truth, honestly thinking if I just showed up, looking pathetic and sad, they wouldn’t have the heart to throw me out. We share a chuckle and set a date for the following Saturday.

Today, I will visit St. Mary’s. The place I called home during the last eleven weeks of my pregnancy. I’m fortunate enough to be going with three other reunited birth moms, two of whom are also alumni of St. Mary’s. The fourth girl “served her time” at the Florence Crittenton Home, in Boston. It would be far too intimidating to go alone, so we’re going together to offer the support I’m certain we’ll each need to pass through this phase of our healing journeys.

I didn’t sleep well last night thinking about walking those halls again. As much as I have always wanted to return, I’m scared. Of what exactly, I don’t know. Can one ever really go back? Maybe I’m afraid that all I remember to be true won’t be. That my memories are fantasy, not fact, and I’ve become comfortable with the things I remember.

On the ride to meet Chris, who lived at St. Mary’s in 1969, my mind wanders back to 1968. Back to being pregnant and afraid. Back to being a new mother, holding her beautiful baby girl and wondering what was to become of us. Before long, the tears are rolling down my face. Not the sobbing, out-of-control kind of tears and crying, just the sad tears from an old wound. By the time I pick up Chris, my tears have stopped but my face is all blotchy, so there is no choice but to share with her what I’m feeling. She laughs and admits that she, too, cried on her way to meet me. We talk a little about what we expect to experience at St. Mary’s and then go on to other things. As promised, we are greeted upon arrival. The young woman is very obliging, and had already dug out some old photos of St. Mary’s being DEMOLISHED in 1994. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. St. Mary’s is gone! The only home I had ever openly shared with Joanne. The only place I could ever admit I was her mother. In its place is a playground for the children who live in the new St. Mary’s "Shelter for Women & Children," housed at the now closed St. Margaret’s hospital next door. I’m sick, stunned, and disappointed. I wanted so much to walk the halls, see my room and face my fears of long ago, and can’t understand why she hadn’t told me this on the phone. Perhaps she didn’t realize we didn’t know it was gone. She quickly offers to take us up to the delivery rooms and maternity ward.

The room where I had stayed as an inpatient is now a private sitting room. Although the nursery windows remain the same, the nursery has been converted into office space. Standing at these windows, I close my eyes and touch the glass. Memories flood back. I feel weak in the knees as I envision my precious baby girl lying there, all bundled up, in her little basinet in the back row. Yes, the back row, where all the St. Mary’s babies were kept…kept like second-class citizens. I recall so vividly seeing my fake name “Stella” printed on the birth information card at her head, in the crib, and how angry, hurt, and insignificant that had made me feel. To think, for three months, I had tirelessly fought in vein to keep my name, because it was so important to have my real name, Susan, on that card. In essence, looking back now, I had already lost my daughter. I spent most every minute she wasn’t with me in front of those windows. The first couple of days, I had to tap on the window to have the nurse roll her crib to the front. After that, whenever she saw me, she gladly brought my little Madlyn Jeanne up to the front so I could watch her sleep. I spent so much time at these windows that, on more than one occasion, I accompanied the nurse as she rolled the bassinet back to my room, when it was time to feed her. As we go upstairs to the labor and delivery rooms, the knot in my stomach is getting tighter and tighter, so afraid of what feelings and unexplored memories might come next. But, once there, I can’t distinguish one room from the other, and remember how drugged I had been for most of my time spent in labor. A fact that still bothers me today.

While riding down in the elevator at the end of our tour, one of the teenage mothers that now live at St. Mary’s has her newborn son in a carry-all. We are introduced to her and she is told the reason for our visit. When she learns we had left our babies at St. Mary’s years ago, we can tell, by the look on her face, that she is shocked. Her only reply is, “You’d have to kill me first before anyone took my baby away from me.”

All I could do was smile warmly at her words and say, “Good for you.” I could feel the power, strength, and determination in her words and I thanked God that the narrow minded thinking of the 60’s, that nearly destroyed my life, is gone. I leave, grateful for having had the opportunity to visit, but feeling unexpectedly empty. The peace I had hoped to gain wasn’t to be found. It had been torn down and trucked away, along with any and all validation of my memories of St. Mary’s.

July 20, 2004. What prompted me to write this article? Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my visit that cold, winter day in 2003, and here’s what I’ve come up with…Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t go back sooner. Good that I never knew it had been demolished. It might have changed my memories of St. Mary’s and influenced my writing in, “The Same Smile.” As a result, my interpretation of my time spent there will forever remain a treasure, a cherished treasure in my mind.

Susan Mello Souza Author of The Same Smile The Triumph of A Mother’s Love After Losing Two Daughters www.TheSameSmile.com