“To dream anything that you want to dream. That’s the beauty of the human mind. To do anything that you want to do. That is the strength of the human will. To trust yourself to test your limits. That is the courage to succeed”

Many of you may not know this, but years before I started Maybe Baby Brothers I actually had another blog. My little slice of the internet was used to document my way through my infertility journey and was called Maybe Baby … (or maybe the loony bin). I started it as a survival mechanism, infertility is a lonely and hard road to travel, especially so soon after losing a parent. I was 25 when we started trying to conceive our first child and 29 by the time I gave birth to a healthy baby boy after 3 cycles of IVF.

During my journey through infertility I met many women travelling down the same road. We all had our own battles and fortunately most of us came out with a baby at the end, although sadly there are a few who did not. There were long awaited pregnancies, babies, failed IVF cycles, miscarriages, twins, break ups, babies born sleeping. It was a big box of highs and lows, joy and heartache. One of the woman who I met on an online forum is sharing her story for you today. Athena was a source of strength, hope and friendship for me during those years. She probably doesn’t realise just highly I regard our friendship, even though we have moved in separate circles since we had our children, we will always share this bond that only someone who has experienced the struggle to conceive can truly understand.

This is Part One in Athena’s Your Voice, Your Story contribution: Infertility & Hope.

……………………………………………

I’m lying on a squeaky bed. I can feel the metal bars across my back, the crisp smell of potent detergent in the sheets. I’m being rolled along a corridor and all I can see is the dirty sealing and the lights flashing as I go past. People in white, blue and pink uniforms dash from door to door. One of the lights somewhere needs its bulb changed as all I can hear is the buzzing and buzzing, fading, fading. Welcome to day surgery Athena. The first operation in my life, ever.

I was always a healthy kid, even as adventurous as I was; I never had any bumps or broken bones. But today at 32 years old, I was having a laparoscopy. In layman’s terms, 4 probes. One through the belly button, 2 above the groin and one conveniently in my hoohoo. One of them was thick enough to have the tiniest of cameras attached to it. My Fertility Specialist wanted to take a look inside my uterus and see whether there was anything to explain my infertility. Infertility – the word I had become quite accustomed to now for nearly 2 years. And today was not the happy ending story. There’s an additional 4 years to this adventurous journey of holding my child in my arms.

My husband and I met when I was 21. We dated for awhile, went on holidays, drank, partied, lived life. We moved in together when I turned 24. Having come from a strict Greek background, this was finally my time to shine. To really express myself, not be bogged down by rules and finally experience adulthood. We lived happily and started to become more involved with our careers and saving cash for our first home. We got married when I was 27. Throw in a few more holidays, helping our families and establishing comfortable jobs. I was 29 when we finally opened the door to our own home. The thought of children never really entered our minds. We were happy. Everyone around us was the same age and only now starting to have kids. We weren’t far behind. So we decided to have a go. How hard could it be? Everyone else was having kids.

Everyone but me.

I can’t tell you the amount of times I cried in those 6 years. Some of them were loud and destructive when no one was around to hear. Other times it was in the shower, holding my mouth shut so tight so that my husband wouldn’t hear my pain. There were times when I sat in the train, my head against the window and silent tears trickling down my cheek, a packed train full of people minding their own business completely oblivious to this woman sitting close by wanting to just die. So many reasons set me off, if it wasn’t my friend who hated kids but found a good bloke to keep and is texting me she’s pregnant with her second or a 1st birthday party with my husband and I being the only childless couple whilst an old Greek lady approaches me, rubs me in the tummy and in broken English asks “no beby?”. To top it off, being a youth worker working with adolescents didn’t help either. There was always that 15 year old nonchalantly telling me she was pregnant after a night out of booze and drugs. “My baby’s daddy is a loser and doesn’t want me to keep it, what should I do Athena?” While she’s inhaling a cigarette. “Um well you can help me by tightening up that noose around my neck” I respond.

And then all those times, peeing on a stick with one line not two. Big. Fat. Negatives. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to bombard you with all this negativity about my experience. Only a woman who has experienced infertility and the challenges to have a living baby can truly understand the feelings and thoughts that I went through. My story does have a happy ending, and by reading this I pray that it gives others out there hope that miracles do happen. But first we must acknowledge the journey in order to welcome the accomplishment.

The road to becoming a mummy begins. I’m 30 having baby danced whenever, wherever. See what happens approach. Our schedules sometimes didn’t synchronize, so a year later it didn’t really bother me that I wasn’t yet pregnant. I embraced new sweet smelling babies with delight and awe. I then began the process of getting blood tests just to make sure that I was healthy and to correct any obstacles. My doctor discussed with me timed sex. Basically I had a perfect 28 day cycle and somewhere in the middle were my ‘fertile’ times to get jiggy with it. No pregnancy. I then had ultrasounds to check that I actually had a reproductive system that was functional. All clear, baby dancing resumed. No pregnancy. I then said fuck it, time to see a specialist. I’m not a procrastinator. And now there were just too many babies to meet, christenings to attend, 1st birthdays where my Oscar winning performing fake smile reared its head. So I had the laparoscopy. Bingo. Endometriosis. A disease that no hyped up ten thousand degree fertility specialist has given an answer as to why women get this. Surgery fixes it, but it can still come back. My uterus was now squeaky clean. Baby dance, timed sex, ovulation predictor tests, spit in this and see a fern test. You’re ovulating Athena. Vitamins, Elevit, gave up the smokes and coffee. No pregnancy. In between all of this, my husband got his swimmers checked much to his delight. All perfect.

No pregnancy.

The road to assisted conception begins. I’m 33. My body gets prepped up for an in uterine insemination. Basically a more relaxed version to IVF. Small amounts of hormones injected in my tummy daily till at least one follicle is primed ready to ovulate. Once it’s big and strong, another injection to ovulate it and then my husband’s swimmers are inseminated into my uterus. Just like they do to cows. Moo. Fingers crossed. No pregnancy. Another 2 attempts at this. Nothing. My specialist doesn’t believe in putting women through further IUI’s if unsuccessful after 3 goes. So now we’re recruited for the Big League. IVF. More higher and potent amounts of hormones. We want more follicles. However, not too much as what the body would normally discard as crap is now kept for harvesting. But the crap ones can affect the quality of the good ones. Every second day are blood tests and vaginal ultrasounds. Counting how many follicles are in there, size and ripening up for the harvest. Back to that corridor again, wheeled down to surgery for egg collection. 16 are written on my hand when I wake up from the morphine. Hmmmm morphine…… 7 fertilise and become embryos. We do twin transfers at Day 2 growth. “A” grade embryos. Excellent chance of pregnancy. I didn’t care if I had twins. Although I’m feeling bloated, sick and my tummy looks 6 months pregnant. I have a mild case of hyperstimulation. We still go ahead with the transfer.

No pregnancy.

5 of the embryos are frozen for when we do the frozen cycle transfer. Twin transfers again twice in consecutive months. No pregnancy. On my way to the clinic to get the final last frozen embryo transferred, the nurse calls me. “Sorry Athena, the embryo didn’t survive the thaw”. Gutted, here come the tears again. Disillusion kicks in. What now?

Second IVF cycle begins. The same results. 16 follicles. Though this time as I’m now nearly 35, the specialist decides on a Day 5 blastocyst transfer. 7 fertilise, only one makes it to transfer. No frosticles. Big. Fat. Negative. Those 3 words again. Devastated. I speak to my husband about divorce. He is such a good man, deserves better, a more fertile woman. Not this woman I have become. Consumed with having a child, entrenched in this Trying To Conceive world.

It’s time to take a break. Yeah right! My age didn’t help, but my body was tired. Physically and mentally. I needed to have a baby now. The finances are just too tight. My husband sold his motorcycle just to afford the 2nd IVF cycle. So it’s a break from the big league and time to explore other more affordable and natural options. As long as I was trying everything and anything, I felt better about achieving my goal. Chinese herbs came into my life. I heard it referred to some many times. Surely this was my miracle? Geez how many Chinese people are on this Earth? Billions? Well here we go. I walked out of that consult room elated. This herbalist was amazing, constructive and believable. Chinese herbs are not so great to drink. Take it out of your head those delicious sweet pork rolls, coconut cakes and the lush jasmine tea.

These herbs are disgusting.

If I ever drank shit that came out of an aged and decrepit dead animal, sprinkled with the vomit of a sewer rat then this is how I would describe it. Nevertheless, the stuff worked and only after one cycle. Those 2 blue lines on the pregnancy test came up quick. I was late by a day and thought I would check before I went into see the herbalist again for more stock. I was pregnant. Like really pregnant. I envisioned the smiles and laughter of my husband and including my beautiful parents so eagerly waiting to become grandparents. My sister the sports fan already is picking out the baby Nike’s. For one whole week, the dreams danced around in my head. The nursery, the name, the little hands and feet, my beloved little child. Then the bleeding began, the cramps soon after. I miscarry. 7 weeks this little one held on. Loved and never forgotten. This little angel gave me the strength to believe that miracles do happen and overall I was fertile, I could fall pregnant. Further extensive tests later couldn’t conclude why I miscarried. Unexplained infertility and now unexplained miscarriage. I just had to keep going. Hope is all I had in the end.

And then came Callum. My sweet glorious little man. I was 36. I was just about to embark on another IVF cycle. But because it was Christmas time I waited till the clinic was opened again with its usual friendly staff. Knowing that we saved to go down this path again, feeling a bit more optimistic and concluding that no matter what, I will have as many cycles till my body says no more. I would scrape, scrounge and borrow. Nothing will stop me. Hope. So I relaxed. New Years Eve and my period is late. Surely I’m not pregnant? I didn’t even try. Peed on a stick. Negativity creeping in again, I’m probably menopausal. So young for that. But just my bad luck. The universe hates me, God hates me. I hate me. Waiting 5 minutes for those two lines to appear is everlasting. I could live another life in that time. Prays, my eyes shut as I make my way into the bathroom where that plastic stick is waiting for me. “I swear God, if I’m pregnant I will be a better Christian, Please God let this one be a keeper.”

Thank you Lord! Pregnant and silly. Raw emotions flooding my body. I want to scream, I want to cry. I’m scared. And scared I was for 9 whole months. But that’s another story. My Callum arrived on the 8th September 2009. One day before my wedding anniversary. The best gift I have ever received. Healthy and content at 4.1 kgs. Oh and did I mention that Callum in Gaelic means Dove – The Harbinger of Hope.

And so the journey ends. The little man in my arms. My son. His mum.

I will never forget that long, frustrating and arduous journey to have him. I learnt a lot during those years. Just hand me that Medical Degree. I’m still tired though – but that’s a good tired.

Dear Reader – The only advice I can give you if you are experiencing a similar journey is this: Never. Give. Up. Do anything, try anything. Explore all your options. There’s a saying that I stuck on my fridge, my office cork board, in my diary when I was trying to conceive “Regret what you haven’t done, not what you’ve done”.

“Regret what you haven’t done, not what you’ve done”
Click To Tweet

This always gave me hope.

The other important thing to have whilst you walk this path is to always have some kind of support around. Whether it’s friends or family or someone you can confide in and who understands. My journey lead me to an online forum. The support I received from these wonderful women also with their own issues and journeys was one of the best things in my life. Just getting a reply to my posts lifted my spirits up so high after a day of tears. People I never met, but who understood exactly how I was feeling. And last but definitely not least, don’t forget your man – he is going through the same thing as you. They hide their emotions so they don’t add to your pain.

They love you and they are with you all the way. 

……………………………………………

 Linking up with: #IBOT @ Essentially Jess 

To read more like this, follow me on Facebook by clicking here

The post Your Voice, Your Story: Infertility & Hope appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

Meet *Valerie.

I met Valerie in an online group for mums. We didn’t meet when we had our babies but shortly thereafter and over the years she has shared tidbits of what she went through in her first marriage and now she has agreed to share her story.

I am astounded at the courage she has shown to go through that and come out the other side the woman she is today. She is sharing her story in the hopes that it will be able to reach someone who is in the same situation and help them to find the courage to get out. She is certainly not what you would think of as a typical victim which just goes to show that there is no typical in family violence. It could be happening to anyone. Chances are it’s happening to someone you know right now and you wouldn’t have the faintest idea. Statistics show that 1 in 3 women experience physical and/or sexual violence from a partner in their lifetime. That is a very scary statistic.

We have included websites and helplines for Australian and NZ residents at the bottom of this post.

*Name was changed to protect privacy.

……………………………………………

There was something about him.

Something that enticed me to leave my life and my friends; and move 800km away to be nearer to him.

He was adamant we didn’t live together before we were married. He said he wanted to do everything right so I got an apartment. Mouldy and damp, but in a great location, right on the corner of the 2 best streets in Melbourne. Life was good. I was working in gyms, teaching classes and meeting great people.

One night I got a call to fill in a class at 6am. The class was at a gym 2 minutes walk from his apartment, as opposed to mine some 2 tram rides away. I asked if I could stay. He said that would be fine.

That night he lost his temper. I can’t even remember why but I remember he threw a bag of wet gym clothes at me. It was heavy. It hit the wall. Not much, I know but enough to scare me. He was sorry of course … it was his guilt at letting me stay before we were married. There was only one thing to do. We had to get married.

OMG right?? I was excited. I called my friends back home. Their reaction was predictable: “You hardly know him!” “Are you serious?” His response was equally as predictable: “I don’t want you talking to them anymore”.

We moved back to his home state. I was accepted to finish my law degree and my parents had since moved there but I didn’t have the support of my friends and was too ashamed to tell my family that their strong willed smart kid was being bullied and hurt by someone she was supposed to marry.

There were other warning signs of course. It started off as control. Snide comments about my clothes not being appropriate. I wasn’t “allowed” to do a lot. I made friends at the gym where I worked and one of the girls invited me out to a club around the corner from my apartment. I wasn’t “allowed” to go. He framed it as ‘what would people think of him if his girlfriend was seen at a club with “those girls” ‘. I didn’t go. I was asked to fill in shifts at a pub because I had done it before. I wasn’t allowed to work in such an establishment. If I disagreed or stuck up for myself at all; he would yell, scream and throw things. I had very few friends. They were ‘our’ friends. It was easier to just do what I was told.

Leading up to the wedding, I knew it wasn’t right. He gave me instructions as to what I was to choose for my dress. No pink. Simple. He didn’t want me to look like a fat marshmallow. He told me if I was 1 minute late, he would walk (I’m notoriously late. Even now). If he smelt a whiff of alcohol on my breath, he would walk (so much for my champagne breakfast).

That sort of control isn’t normal.

I knew that; but I felt trapped. Like I had come too far and couldn’t back out. I know now that was because he destroyed my self esteem. He actually said that I would never find a man that treated me better because it was me, not him. Never him. (I have since found out he did this to both his ex girlfriends before me and also publicly humiliated a girl after me when they broke up; so I’m guessing nothing has changed).

It escalated when I started to question this control. I’m smart and independent. I worked to support myself while I went through Uni. I completed Law and practised as a lawyer. Not a wallflower by any stretch.

He didn’t like that. He threw things at me, at walls, and then started hurting me. It was slow, but it was like slow motion. I didn’t feel like there was any way out.

We were married on 27 November 2004. Even on the actual day there were reasons why I should have run. But I didn’t.

He first made the transition from throwing things at me to hitting me when I was 7 months pregnant. I tried to leave. I got in my car. He kept ringing me continuously until I eventually picked up. He asked where I was going. I said my mum’s (some 2.5 hours away). He said he would call my parents and tell them what I was ‘really like’ unless I came back. I didn’t know what this meant. I was scared. I went back.

On 15 January 2006 our daughter was born. He wasn’t there when my waters broke. In fact it took him close to 6 hours to get to hospital but that in itself is another story.

After my daughter was born, the violence stopped but the emotional bullying did not. But it was OK. He was tired. It would get better.

We built a house. When we moved in, I was sure this was it. That this was the start of our life together. We went from staying with his parents to being on our own.

Our new life.

Guess what? It wasn’t better. It got worse. The violence started again. I was working as a lawyer in family violence and living it. I would find myself cradling my toddler under a bridge at 3am because we had been kicked out of the house again. But who could I tell? He was a charmer… a good catch… and I was a lawyer… this wasn’t the profile…

With each incident it got worse. And worse. Punching the steering wheel while I was driving, pulling the handbrake when I was going 100km/hr; nearly breaking my finger. By this time our daughter was 20 months. She witnessed it. She was living it. At less than 2 years old.

I had to leave. But how?

I was living on an island state hundreds of kilometres from my friends. My parents were living in the UK. Predictably, he controlled my money. I had no access to the joint account but I received $50 a week to fuel my coffee habit.

So I started saving that $50 a week. I scrimped on groceries and saved those few dollars too. I stopped buying clothes for our daughter, syphoning the few dollars here and there into a new bank account I opened in my name. I told 1 person. My best friend in the town where I was living. Together we hatched a plan that we would save what we could and run (she was in a similar situation to me).

But there was one problem. I couldn’t leave the state without a court order allowing me to do so.

I knew this, and also knew that as a lawyer I would be made an example of and forced to return if I ran. So, I did what I never thought I would be brave enough to do. I confided in my boss (who had seen my bruises) and another friend who had her own family law practice. We drafted orders to allow me to leave and presented them to him with an explanation that if he didn’t let me leave, we would press charges. He let us go. Just like that. I had $550 to my name when I got on that boat on 23 February 2008 to start my new life. Luckily for me I was coming home to friends. To people who helped me get back on my feet. I survived. My baby survived.

People have asked me where I think I would be if I stayed. Honestly, I would be dead. He would have killed me. I truly believe that.

No matter how bad things are; you can always escape. I’m not saying it will be easy. It will be the hardest thing you ever do. But it will be worth it.

Are you looking for a way out? If you are in Australia you can find information at White Ribbon Association (Ph. 1800-737-732). In New Zealand you can contact Shine (Ph. 0508-744-633) or Women’s Refuge for further information and advice.

……………………………………………

Linking up with: #IBOT @ Essentially Jess 

To read more like this, follow me on Facebook by clicking here

The post Your Voice, Your Story – How I Escaped a Violent Marriage appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

Life is like a patchwork quilt.

It’s a tapestry of emotions and life events quilted together to tell a story.

We have bright patches of colour in happier times and more subdued colours in sadder times. Some people’s tapestries are brighter than others and some are duller but every persons quilt is unique and everyone’s lives are made up of a million different events sewn together to tell their individual story. 

This evening I sit on a bar stool armed with a glass of sparkling wine. A bolognese is simmering on the stove top, the kids are occupied by an Easter movie (even though Easter is long gone) and I’m quietly reflecting as I listen to some music playing.

The music is a Grey’s Anatomy playlist and given that Shonda Rhimes is the Queen of making your soul sing or break with her carefully crafted storylines, the accompanying music is food for the soul.

Are you a Grey’s fan? Perhaps you watched Private Practice instead which always had me in a tangle of emotions and crying my eyes out with their fertility and baby related story lines (these were especially close to my heart given I was going through infertility at the time it started).

Then of course there are Scandal and How To Get Away With Murder. So outrageous are the stories accompanying them that I can’t turn away. I’m a TV addict at the best of times and Shonda is one of the best storytellers. What I love about her shows is how I get drawn into the story of each individual character.

We all have a story.

They may not be on TV shared with millions accompanied by a carefully chosen soundtrack but we all have a story. No one is immune.

My story began as an accident. Or a blessing, I guess it all depends on which way you look at it! It’s morphed into what feels like two split lives. Incidentally my life with my now husband started a couple of weeks before my mum died. It’s almost like I transitioned from one life into another because the two lives didn’t really cross except for one brief meeting at a hospice.

An introduction and goodbye all in one.

My life consists of a ‘before’ and an ‘after’. It’s hard to say which life was happier. Life with my mothers presence was one of security.

A blanket of love. Naivety. Comfort. Friendship.

Life after is one that has always consisted of a life with a piece missing.

Marriage. Infertility. Motherhood.

Both have had their moments of brightness and their moments of grey entwined. My after life has had a shadow cast over much of the brightness but as time goes on those colours are getting brighter and some of the shadow that muted it is lifting. Time is rubbing out that shadow.

‘Before’ was a life that felt … different. I had my moments but overall I felt like I could conquer the world with a confidence to match. ‘After’ has been a reality check. Once you experience that kind of heartbreak your life can never go back to what it was before.

The significant ‘patches’ on my quilt so far would be my childhood, my mum dying, my marriage, my infertility battle, my joy at finally conceiving and subsequent pregnancy, my sons births, motherhood.

I have written individual stories on some of these things and I am looking for people who would like to share their story. One of their ‘patches’.

Your voice, your story.

I am starting a series of personal stories written by you, the reader. We all go through something and somewhere someone will no doubt be able to relate to yours the way people have to mine.

If you have a story to share, please contact me by filling in the online contact form here. You tell the story and I’ll edit and publish it (they can be credited or anonymous, it’s up to you). I look forward to hearing from you!

How bright is your quilt? How many significant ‘patches’ do you have? What would your story be about?

Linking up with: #IBOT @ Essentially Jess 

To read more like this, follow me on Facebook by clicking here!

The post Your Voice, Your Story – Do You Want To Tell It? appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

This week I have been too preoccupied to read or do anything but search high and low for diaries I am no longer sure exist but have vague memories of reading which I first talked about in my post To The Father Who Doesn’t Know I Exist …  (If you haven’t read it, perhaps do so first before continuing to read this update).

Has this ever happened to anyone else? You have some whisper of a memory at the edge of your subconscious and you begin to think you imagined it or dreamt it because you can’t seem to reach the whole memory to put it back together. In my instance I have a memory of reading a diary that contained the name Jimmy and details of my mums life in London after finding out she was pregnant, except I can’t pull that memory and make the pieces fit. I can’t picture the diary and nor can I find it despite searching high and low. This weekend I fear I may turn my house upside down in an effort to locate it. Because my house is so small, I’m worried I inadvertently threw it away or the memory is a complete fabrication in my mind. How does that happen? Perhaps the memory of what I read was a whisper in my ear while sleeping from a woman long since dead. I must admit the strangeness of this situation is starting to mess with my brain!

After I posted the post last Tuesday it was shared by over 300 people and viewed by more than 34,000.

Ironically it was shared by a blogger friend who I only met the week before. It was then viewed and shared by an old flatmate of hers from her London days. From there it ended up in a ex employees group of a tour company where it was seen by someone who knew him and passed that on to a family member who by Friday then contacted me. 3 days is all it took. Social media is amazing in this day and age! The world shrinks a little more with every passing year.

We are currently trying to piece things together. 34 years ago is a very long time, memories are scratched away with time and I have no corroboration to put together a timeline but we are trying to put the story together through photographs and dredging up long forgotten memories from the past.

Perhaps I will get answers or perhaps I never will but I already feel a surreal sort of peace that I know now that he exists, even if the reality is far more complicated than I anticipated. I still have had no direct contact with him and may not, however I do feel a sense of closure in how this has all panned out despite this.

Time will tell.

A HUGE thank you to all who embraced my search and shared for me! I could never have found him without you. THANK YOU.

The post To The Father Who Doesn’t Know I Exist (An Update!) appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

To be completely honest I never gave too much thought to the fact I didn’t know who my biological father was.

The thought would certainly fleet through now and again in the recess of my mind but most of the time it didn’t occupy much space and I could go years without even thinking about it at all.

The fact that you live overseas and you don’t know I exist has always made the challenge of trying to find you just too hard. My mum told me a name once. Literally. I asked and she cried and I never asked again because I was too scared to upset her. I’m not sure why she cried. If she was overwhelmed by the question or whether it was a painful memory. It was always shrouded in such secrecy that I never knew quite what to think.

Did you know she never told anyone who you were? Not her mum, sisters or best friend.

She came home to New Zealand at the tender age of 20, pregnant and alone. I can certainly understand how that would have been embarrassing for someone who was as proud as my mother was, who left with such big dreams of the life she was going to lead and then had that vision turned completely upside down.

The one piece of information I garnered from her was a name: James Maxwell. And that he was English. And the bus driver on the tour she was on.

Is that you?

She says she never told you as by the time she found out she was too far along and it was too hard to try and track you down.

I wondered in later years if that was true or she was trying to protect me from the knowledge that you weren’t interested in being a father. A young Kiwi woman on a working holiday back in 1981, I imagine young unwed mothers were not quite as accepted as they are today. Perhaps it was all just too hard. Or perhaps she really didn’t tell you, the way she never told anyone else.

I tend to believe the latter.

I spent today scouring old albums in search of a clue. They were old scrapbooks that she had painstakingly put together with cut out letters from magazines to spell the names of the places she had visited on her travels. She was young and ambitious and just bursting to break free of New Zealand and experience the world, chasing her dreams and passions of life in the big city of London.

I couldn’t tell from the albums anything but the fact that in the time period I was conceived she was likely on a Contiki tour through Scandinavia. Was this the tour you were a bus driver for? This was in May/June of 1981.

The albums are now falling apart, the scrapbook itself held steady but the photos and postcards are all falling out as the double-sided tape no longer has a hold to keep them in place. Some of the photos have things written on the back but nothing that was of any use to me. I find myself frustrated that she didn’t just tell me the truth before she died. She kept it a secret all her life and took that secret to her grave. Why?

33 years later I have finally decided it is time to try and find you. To piece together the story. Who are you? What nationality are you? What is my heritage? Do I have any half siblings out there? Did you know about me? Are you really my father or is it someone else entirely? Perhaps this name is even made up!

Today sitting in my dining room with the broken down albums and a letter all I had to go by, I questioned my memory and what I know. It’s so little to go on. Do I even remember the name correctly or has it warped with time? I’m pretty sure it’s correct but other tidbits of information I have learnt over the years could not be corroborated in the written word. I thought I learnt them in a diary but perhaps it’s some figment of my imagination or a long forgotten memory of a conversation that has grown withered with time until I can’t quite figure out where it came from.

I will begin my search today.

I don’t have high hopes but I feel like I am being urged to try, some kind of instinctual feeling I can’t explain.

So far I have spoken to a number of people and the story just becomes more sordid and complicated!

From what I have learnt I am inclined to believe that she wasn’t entirely sure which of her suitors at the time was the father. I believe she told one man, Per was his name, that I was his before retracting and saying she wasn’t sure and releasing him from any responsibility. Was THAT you? It would certainly explain the blue eyes my boys have, perhaps some throwback to the Swedish ancestry I don’t even know I have.

Or were you the Englishman she told me, James … or neither. Perhaps there was someone else she met on some sultry evening in the haze of romance and the sights of Scandinavia. She was certainly beautiful enough to catch many a mans eye.

How do you search for someone when you don’t know who to search for or even where to start?

I guess the best place to begin would be to trust. Trust that even though I was just a young girl at the time, that she was truthful in the name that she told me. That having seen me grow and develop into the child I turned out to be, she had seen something in me that gave her the confidence to name you as the father.

James Maxwell.

I will start there.

……………………………………………

At the end of this story I asked for some help on social media to track him down and my post on Facebook was shared over 300 times and seen by 34,000 people all over the world! Thank you so much for all your help! Click here to read an update on what happened …

……………………………………………

To read more like this, follow me on Facebook by clicking here!

The post To The Father Who Doesn’t Know I Exist … appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.