All my younger sisters in the same room

We sat chatting about Christmas presents, about parents and about DVDs. Andrea has just finished work and called over, the younger girls were drinking coke and giggling at stories of me as a small child. I'm sitting with my four younger sisters. I met two of them for the first time today.

I'll always remember finding out I had other siblings. Growing up in a two child family as the eldest, I sometimes wished for an older brother or even a twin. For a time I almost convinced myself that maybe, somehow I was a twin - that's what too much Highway to Heaven will do for you. To go from two to finding out I was part of a much bigger tribe was pretty awesome, literally.

Mary Ann and I were sitting in the hotel in Roscrea where we were to have our first formal conversation. I'd got my rehearsed "I'd just like to say thanks for putting me up for adoption, it can't have been an easy thing to do but I ended up in a very loving family and I'm very happy and I wanted you to know that." speech out of the way, and once said, I couldn't find much else. I was struck by the physical similarities in our faces - family traits had always been a fascination of mine, simply because it wasn't something I could share in growing up.

When I finally braved the question of other children, she told me of her family. Married after I was born, she'd reared a good strong country family with her husband, out in the wilds of Offaly. Shyly she produced a scrap book of photos and invited me to have a look. "Here's your brother, John" she said, pointing to one strapping young chap, "And here's your other brothers there." The photos were stuck on with sellotape, taken apparently from family albums. It's part and parcel of the Advice on What To Do when Meeting your Adopted Child procedures. Bring some photos. Make them aware of the current situation. Tell them about yourself. Props always help.

Turning the page she pointed to three young girls by a church wall. "They", she said "are your sisters." Whatever about being told I had brothers, finding out I now had sisters was almost a bigger surprise. Brothers, you see, I'd expected. Hoped for in fact. But sisters? I'd already got one of those, and she'd caused me enough trouble, so I didn't think I'd be "lucky" enough to get any more, I type very diplomatically. But I looked at those photos, thinking that in a different Ireland these could very well have been the brothers and sisters I'd grown up with.


(Even at 5, Andrea was difficult to be around :-P)

It's not that Andrea and me didn't get on, as such. We loved each other and grew up very close as young children, but once distinct teenage personalities came to the fore, that was it. At the time I met Mary Ann, Andrea and I got on great, living over 100km from each other and seeing each other once every few months. Magic.

But more sisters I had. I met Maureen in January of 2004 and was enthralled. We'd never met, never known of each other a few months before, but blood beats distance and I saw we shared a lot of similar personality traits, reactions and even mannerisms. She was my first personal experience of sibling semblance and it was an overwhelmingly positive one.

There was no awkwardness between us, other than the natural one of people becoming friends. When introduced to other people, I was her brother - there was never any explanatory talks of family history. Me, I'd have complicated thing unnecessarily, as I'm wont to do, but she immediately accepted and acknowledged me, regardless of which house I'd grown up in. When talking together, we'd talk of our mother but my mam and her mam, the distinction doubtlessly confusing to anyone not familiar with the situation. When asked it took me a while to realise I had more than one younger sister.

I met the others in ones and twos, sometimes in Offaly, more times in Dublin. The biggest test came when I was invited to a family wedding, where I'd meet them all en masse. Anxiety struck before then, let me tell you, but I was welcomed as a family member, introduced as a brother and treated like a friend throughout - a far better experience to some of the adopted family weddings I'd been invited to.

We're never going to be the Waltons, the Ingalls or Camdens, nor do we want to be. It's the differences between us that make it interesting - I grew up in a rural-urban setting, they in a rural one. They blossomed outdoors on their farm, I recuperated indoors lost in books. They are strong men in physical work; I type. The affinity we share is in kinship. There's no semblance of posturing, no sense of superiority through legitimacy. While we're related, we're not really family, in the traditional sense of the word. It's almost deeper than that, a fraternal bond based on genealogy more than genetics. We enjoy seeing each other when we can, but don't force it. We just let things happen as they happen.

Fast forward almost five years to today, when I meet my two youngest siblings. Our paths just haven't crossed until now - they're a lot different to the two small girls I saw in a photo five years ago. Eileen is in fourth year of school, loving practical subjects like Home Economics but hating maths - a lot like me. Brigid is in second year, giggling shyly as she tells me her favourite subjects are Tech drawing and lunch time. We're nervous around each other, of course, me probably more so than they. I've fallen very much out of practise of meeting new people, of giving a good impression and this one is important to me.

Though I meet them on neutral ground, in a local café for coffee beforehand, I do want them to see the house I grew up in, to meet my parents, to show just how ordinary I am, how similar our childhoods have been in many ways. My folks - ever welcoming and supportive - have met Maureen before, but I introduce them now to Michael and the girls. Andrea arrives to meet them all for the first time - she hasn't met any of that side of the family yet. We talk about everything from GAA to Home and Away, from Harry Potter to mobile ringtones. Once I relax, I'm grand. It takes a while though.



At one stage mid conversation, I look at the four girls and realise I'm quite lucky to be the older brother of four rather lovely young women. Family, though it is what you make of it, is important and this Christmas has emphasised that for me in more ways than one. I didn't grow up with these girls, but they are my family, they are my sisters and now they're part of my life. It's not a case of adopted families, biological families, half brothers and sisters or any such terms. We're in each other's lives because we want to be.

We part ways later in the evening with hugs - they have a long drive ahead of them. I'm delighted it's gone so well. On my walk home I'm texted "It was lovely to meet you bro, you're very sound". Can't ask for better than that, eh?

That John is not my father

08.09.2008

Dear Darragh

I write to update you on my trace of your birth father. I wrote to Mr John ________ last week and received a telephone call from him today. John confirmed to me that he knew your mother and that she had a baby by him in 1978. He was not aware that you had been placed for adoption.

This week I was 'introduced'
To a man called John
He's my biological father
And I'm his only son

He knew that she was pregnant
But she gave birth alone
I was born to a single woman
His whereabouts unknown

That John is not my father
Despite the DNA
There's no basis for a relationship
There's not that much to say

I do not know his story
Of how I came to be
I do not know why he wasn't there
To be a dad to me

That John is not my father
In my personal estimation
To qualify you need to give
more than a sperm donation

His choice can't have been easy
It may have caused him grief
Or just as possibly walking away
Gave him enormous relief

That John is not my father
And though I wish him well
I wonder at his recklessness
Of putting my mother through hell

Had he ever thought of me
Wondered how my life had evolved
Wondered if he was part of the world
Around which my life revolved

Had he wondered if I wondered
How he came to his decision
Did he wonder if I'd accept it
Or treat it with derision

A man of 30 as he was
Maybe should have faced his obligation
For doing the deed of planting his seed
And creating the situation

That John is not my father
It's not just about genes
It's presence from birth to adulthood
And all the in-betweens

His health is fine, my main concern
And I'm sure he was shaken
To hear at all in such circumstance
About the path my life had taken

I wonder too if he was prepared
To take that call some day
Or to face the fact I may not care
And was happier that way

I don't want to disrupt his life
Or even remind him I exist
I'll just remain as I am now
An opportunity he missed.

That John is not my father
He chose not to stick about
And so I owe him thanks at least
for the way my life turned out

My adoptive parents are my folks
The ones who made me thrive
Genes are fine but love and time
are what I needed to survive

That John is not my father
I have one of my own,
My dad John is all I need(ed)
I'm proud to be his son

That John is not my father
This John is.



And I love that he's my dad.

The first time

I've woken up.

The room is dark, the pale light through the net curtains an indication of the early hour. I know I'm still tired but I know I won't go back to sleep. I'm nervous. This is it.

I choose my clothes for the day carefully. I don't want to appear too formal but not too scruffy either. I've brought enough clothes with me from Dublin to dress a hurling team. Sorting quietly through the bags so as not to wake Aoife asleep on the bed, I finally settle on black, one of those colours that always suited me.

I look at myself in the mirror. Actually I look at the photos around the mirror and how I've changed over the years. There's me at 3, at my communion, at school, on holidays, in church. All stages in my life I've got fond memories of.

Aoife rises and stands at my side, radiant despite just being up and dressed in one of my old school t-shirts. She's done this before, taken this journey, followed the process. She understands. She suggests a warm shower, not because I smell bad but because it will relax me and I need to relax. I'm nervous. This is it.

I groom as I've never groomed before despite having showered and shaved the night before. I study myself in the mirror. What does my appearance say about me? Who does it convey? Am I well represented by the effort I've put in. I note the lines, the scars, the creases in my face. I know I've been aged by illness, by stress, by life. Do I look strange? Bad? What shows?

My parents are up. The kettle is boiling as my dad calls up the stairs saying there's tae ready. I'm too nervous to eat, even to speak much. My mother is fussing with something. Aoife makes herself useful helping, pouring, slicing, collecting. Somehow it's all going on around me while I'm locked in thoughts of the past and the future. It's nearly time to go.

My mother comes over. A small woman, unsteady on her feet through a variety of health problems, I feel she still towers above me, all 5 ft 2 of her. She takes my hand and puts a small crucifix in it. "We've got you that" she says, "It will bring you luck." She grabs my neck to kiss my cheek. She knows my silence betrays the deeper emotion. I'm trying hard not to cry.

Dad gives me a hug. This simple country man from the wilds of south Kilkenny, a normally quiet, simple soul devoted to my mother and to making life as good as he can for his family clasps me close and says in a firm voice "When you were young we knew there was something about you. As you've grown I've seen it more. Blood isn't everything but you get your heart from her. And that's a mighty thing to have."

I catch Aoife's stare at me. She knows how close to cracking I must be. She's the first girl I've ever opened up to. The first girl I've loved. She claps her hand and says "Right so, we'll go." and soon we're in the small Opel Corsa ready to set off for Kilkenny.

I have to meet Elaine at 9. Elaine who I've only ever met twice before but today is as important as Aoife is. We've left in plenty of time but I'm still hoping dad will drive quicker. My mother makes conversation with Aoife while I once again rehearse the lines in my head.

I know what I want to say. I've practised it a million times. I've been rehearsing since I was 17, alone in my room, angry and frustrated after a row with my parents and realising "Hang on Darragh, you do know they're people too, right? And you know as tired as you may be with them that maybe you're not how they thought you'd be either?" That day changed my life.

We pull to the side of the road. The car has broken down. I kid you not. Of all the things to happen. I was going to be late for Elaine and of course I didn't have her mobile number. I laugh, simply because there's not much else I can do. I hope Elaine will wait. I've been waiting. Waiting a long time.

I was in the seminary when I first wrote to Waterford. It was a time of decision for me, a time of moving on, of me at 20 getting my life sorted. It was four years later before I received a call, just as I was boarding a flight from the offices of Quinn, Murphy and O' Brien. "Erm I'm going to Manchester" I said, "I've got a job there for a few weeks. I'll ring you when I'm back". I'd asked my mother to find out what it could be about but she only ever got an answering machine. I hadn't a clue why a solicitor's office would be ringing me. Who else could it be?

When I got back I called. "Ah Darragh" the friendly voice said "It's about your letter to Waterford. We were moving office and we found it behind a filing cabinet where it must have fell. Are you still interested in talking to us?" "Sorry, what letter?" "Oh, it's one dated October 1999". It's now August 2003.

I met Elaine at the Rivercourt in Kilkenny. It was a beautiful day, one in which the view of the castle was postcard perfect. We talked. Was I sure I wanted to know? Yes, I said. I'd thought about it. Had I talked to my parents? Yes, they've been supportive from the start. Are you angry? Angry? No. I don't think I have any negative emotions attached. I think I've dealt with that already. I know what I want to say, and that's simply...

The car starts. I breathe a huge sigh of relief as we trundle along windy roads to Kilkenny. "Ah probably just a dirty spark plug" says my dad as if looks at me in the rear view mirror. I smile, trying not to add to the stress. The closer we get the tenser I can see my parents becoming. It's a big day for them. They're nervous too.

It's five past nine when we pull into the car park. No Elaine. Uh oh I think, has she left? It's a Saturday, she's not supposed to be working. It's just before Christmas and she has small children and shopping to do. Maybe she's sick, maybe she won't do it, maybe she's - Aoife tells me to shut it, to relax. Maybe she's just late. And she is.

Her car pulls into the car park and she gets out and gives me a big hug. She has a brief chat with my parents, reassuring them, saying she'd be in touch and then with me in the passenger seat, Aoife in the back, we're off.

The questions start. What do you expect, Darragh? What are your thoughts? What do you hope will happen? All questions I've been thinking about, none I have answers to. So she tries simpler ones. Tell me about growing up. Tell me about your family. Tell me about finding out. Aoife rolls her eyes in the back, giggling as she knows the one thing I'll never be short of words about is myself.

It's destination Tullamore I'm told. That's where the meeting is. As we pull into the drive of the Tullamore Court hotel I can see it's a complete glass facade. I can see almost everyone in the lobby. People in business suits, in casual wear, tweed, plaid and wax jackets aplenty. I glance at my clothes. Would I fit in? Would I look alright? Do I look too conspicuous? Would I be mistaken for a waiter? Or a priest?

Elaine had stepped outside to make a call. I can't get through she says, I'll go in and see. She leaves Aoife and me in the car, but nosiness gets the best of us and we get out. Aoife grabs my hand and watches me scan the people inside. Is it her? Is it her? Who is Elaine talking to now? Is that her? I'm nervous. This is it.

Elaine comes out. "She's not there" she says. "Go in and have a cuppa while I find out where she is". I'll always remember how much my hand shook as I tried to lift a spoon of sugar to my cup. I was in a heap. Ah, sweet caffeine, how you'll help soothe the nerves.

Elaine returns. "She's not coming here. She couldn't get a lift. She's at home in Kinnity. It's a good 40 miles away".

I laugh out loud. I can't help it. It's been such a build up of letters, phone calls, meetings and then this morning. The crucifix I'm clutching is branding my palm. "It's out of my jurisdiction, Darragh, so I can't drive you... officially. I'm not covered. However if you want to go, we will..." There's no question at this stage. I almost sprint to the car.

Closer to Kinnitty, Elaine senses I've passed nervousness and am now out the other side. Terry Pratchett describes something similar in his Discworld books - being "knurd" - so sober you need a drink to make you normal. I feel exactly like that. I could do with a pint.

Kinnitty at 1 pm is almost a ghost town. Situated on crossroads in deep Offaly, I spot the obligatory small town standards of post office, church, shop, garda station and pub. And that seems to be it. Aoife gets out of the car. "Good luck" she says, "you'll be grand. It'll all be fine". I'm so nervous now I almost don't believe her. I don't know what to believe any more. I'm just waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

We drive up a narrow winding mountain road. Elaine's questions have dried up, limited now to seeing if I'm okay. We pass tiny cottages, farmers yards, laneways left and right. Ah, so this is where she's from. My mind is screaming "What have you got yourself into this time?"

"We should have been there now" she says, "I'm going to call her". She dials on speakerphone. I want to get out of the car but too late "Hello, hello" the voice comes, in a deep counthry accent strangely suited to the surroundings. Ah, so that's what she sounds like.

"Hello Mary Ann, it's Elaine again." "Oh hello Elaine. Where are you?" "Well we're on the road, we've just passed a big lumber yard on the left..."

"Oh you've gone the wrong way! You'd now have to turn yourself around and come back the road. Take a left at a big blue barn, continue up over a bridge and I'm just at a graveyard." I'm bemused to say the least. I had no expectations but wasn't expecting that.

We turn the car and hurtle along, sharing a laugh at all that had happened. She rings again. We describe where we are now. "Oh you were right the first time. Turn around and come back".

Ah now, c'mon. Seriously? I begin checking the car for hidden cameras, convinced this is a sequel to The Truman Show, awaiting Mike Murphy to appear telling me he's from RTÉ. I pinch myself to make sure I'm awake. Nothing would have surprised me.

We drive on and I'm lost in thoughts again when suddenly Elaine pulls over. What's up now? I think. She gets out of the car.

The back door opens.

It closes.

Suddenly sitting in the back seat is my mother. My biological mother. And this is how we've met for the 'first' time.

"Hello", I say

"Hello", she says.

She smiles at me. My mother smiles at me.

Congratulations to blogger-author Fiona McPhillips

It's great to see bloggers getting their books published. Knowing how much work goes into a post, never mind a book, I can only admire and respect the hard work, the dedication and the time and energy that's spent.

Following posts by Damien Mulley and by Twenty Major about the launch of Fiona McPhillip's book and seeing as I was on Grafton Street anyways, I dropped into Dubray Books on the way home.



I'll openly admit that I'm not 'exactly' the target market for the book, entitled 'TTC: Trying to Conceive - The Irish Couple’s Guide', given that I'm missing at least one of the vital components - a partner. However, the book, from the read I've given it on the bus home is a fascinating insight into a world I knew nothing about.



Fiona's own story is impressive. From her blog over at makingbabies.ie:

Since giving birth to her son in 2003, she has had three rounds of Clomid, three IUIs, two IVFs and has suffered six miscarriages. She is currently pregnant for the eighth time and is counting the days until she gets to meet her daughter.

The back reads "As Ireland's baby boom reaches child-bearing age, one couple in six is seeking help to have a baby. It is estimated that this figure will rise to one in four over the next twenty years".

Jeepers.

With chapters including "Factors affecting sperm quality", "Looking for information online", "Common medical conditions - for men", "Unexplained infertility - for both partners", "Advice for family and friends", "Looking after each other" and then a compassionate, practical section on Dealing with Miscarriage, this isn't by any means a book just for women, I can see how an awful lot of people will benefit from this.



And this was borne through at the launch last night. I didn't want to take too many photos but one could only stand in awe as parent after parent, forum users, blog readers and admirers came to thank Fiona, to give a big hug, to introduce their children and to buy the book. This was real community and this was great evidence of a blog and blogger making a difference in people's lives.

Being adopted by parents who couldn't have children and being all too aware of the emotional and psychological burdens that can happen on both sides from this gives me a personal perspective on the whole thing.

While I passionately support the change in Irish adoption laws to cut the waiting time and allow more people to adopt, I can only wish any couple going through any pregnancy process - or indeed any addition to the family process - the best of luck.

The time, energy and emotions spent to have a child through fertilisation seem as much work - and expense - as the gruelling adoption process and ultimately, given that the child is wanted and will be loved, as commendable and praise worthy.



I have the distinct honour of getting Fiona's first signed book of the evening. Fiona, thank you for your welcome of me, just a random blogger who wanted to support you and say well done. (Sorry I hijacked you!) I was so impressed at the genuine warmth and affection all the fans and supporters there had for you and while I may not be an active contributor, I'm certainly going to check out your blog a lot more.

The website and blog is a fantastic resource as Mulley has pointed out with a forum, recommended sites and help for couples, their friends and family. You can read more about the chapters of the book here.

Best of luck Fiona! You deserve it :)