Three years ago, I experienced a loss that tore the plaster off a wound I had been trying to heal for thirty years. Three years later, I was still struggling.

Five years ago, my mother experienced a similar re-traumatisation when she found her 81-year-old brother, after he attempted to take his life by cutting his throat and wrists. Five years later she too was still struggling.

This is what can happen when society treats broken bones but sweeps broken hearts under the carpet.

This is Mum’s story, my story and our story.

Mum’s story

My mother is nearly 80 now, but in her mid-20’s, she gave birth to two still born children, a son in 1963 and a daughter in 1967. I was the one in the middle, and my sister arrived in 1969.

Mum was born in Russell, a historic seaside town in the north, the sister of three brothers, 9 and 7 years older, and 8 years younger. Her father was a descendant of Australian Italian, Scottish, Irish and English immigrants. Born in Wellington in 1907, he had left home at 13 and headed north, eventually becoming a bus driver. Mum’s mother was the youngest daughter of 14 siblings whose father had died when their much-loved mother (of Maori descent and an interpreter for the Maori land courts amongst many other jobs she did to make ends meet) was pregnant with her youngest child. Mum remembers her parents as “quiet and shy”. There was little communication or physical affection in the home, but they were “always there”.

When Mum was 8, the family moved to Kamo, north of Whangarei. She too was quiet and shy and lived a self-contained existence, reading, swimming and hitting a tennis ball against the wall of the local bakery. Mum enjoyed her childhood summers in Russell, and fondly remembers the times when her aunts came up from Auckland, bringing their energy and support for each other into the quiet house.

When she was 17, she met my father; her first real boyfriend. Their courtship consisted of movies and dances, and they both enjoyed sport, but there was little conversation, or questions asked. They were married in the Catholic church in 1960, after Mum agreed to bring their children up as Catholics. She was 18, Dad was 24.

She bloomed during her first pregnancy and had no sickness at all. Four weeks before the due date, she went into labour. The baby hadn’t kicked for a few days, which wasn’t unusual, but they couldn’t find a heartbeat, so they transferred her to the general hospital for a caesarian. Unable to find a doctor, her son was born after a 24-hour labour. He wasn’t breathing. A young nurse ran from the room in tears. The baby was taken away. There was no opportunity to hold him or see him or say goodbye.

Returning to the maternity ward for a week to physically recover, Mum shared the room with another mother. When her baby was brought for feeding, she asked Mum if she would like to hold him. Although she really didn’t want to, Mum said yes out of politeness.

On returning home, nothing was talked about; by Dad, by her parents, by anyone. She received lots of cards, and one letter from an acquaintance who had been through the same thing. Mum still has that letter. There were no visitors, except for an old priest who was at pains to tell her that her baby hadn’t gone to heaven, he would be in limbo as he hadn’t been baptised. Even though Mum wasn’t a Catholic, she had a concept of heaven from Sunday school and that news was devastating to her. Later her brother passed on a message from a younger priest in Auckland. “Tell your sister that her baby is in heaven.”

Two years later I was born, 8lb9oz, after an 18 hour labour. Keen to land on my feet, I had turned at 7 months, and had to be turned back. Mum and I laugh at that. For some reason Mum had been expecting a boy. She had lost a boy, and she was used to boys, as she only had brothers and nephews. She said she was thrilled, but “There was something, I don’t know what it was” that meant we just didn’t bond.

Two years later, her daughter suffered the same fate as her son. Mum went back to the ward and “cried and cried and cried.” The ward Sister said “My dear, next time you go and see a specialist.” Another said “I wouldn’t take a dead dog to that doctor.” When she broached the idea of a specialist with her doctor, he dismissed it.

After her son’s death, Mum went back to work, but after her daughter’s, she was housebound because she had me, so the pain seemed to sit with her.

When my sister was conceived two years later, Mum plucked up the courage to visit the specialist without a doctor’s referral, unheard of at the time. He took great care of her, putting her in hospital for bed rest with 10 weeks to go, and her beautiful daughter was born by caesarian in May 1969. The nurses told Mum that the specialist was so excited. When my sister turned 21, Mum sent him a letter of thanks.

Twenty years ago, Mum heard of a memorial to still-born babies being erected in Palmerston North. She rang her local funeral home to find out where her babies were and was told they were buried “in front of the camelia trees” and that there was a mother and baby statue nearby. Mum found the statue covered with weeds. It was a harrowing experience. She wrote to the council and within a week it was cleaned up and she received a photo and apology. In 2004, a “Tree of Memories” was erected there, covered in leaves bearing the names and birthdates of about 65 stillborn babies. We went to the opening ceremony. Mum was the only person openly crying. An elderly woman sitting next to her quietly put her hand on Mum’s knee.

Life went on, with Mum remembering her children on the 10^th February and 3^rd November every year.

When Mum found my uncle, she remembers him turning towards her, blood dripping from his throat. She became calm and business like and called the ambulance, only falling apart later that day. Diagnosed with PTSD, but left largely untreated, the unprocessed grief and anger of the past finally came to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.

“I sat with my anger long enough, until she told me her real name was grief”
~ Unknown

After I listened to Mum’s story, I asked her if deep down she still blamed herself for anything. She thought for a moment and said “I blame myself for not giving you the love that I should have, and I don’t know why I didn’t. I know I didn’t show it very often, but I did love you. I’m very proud of you. I was so alone back then. We never discussed those babies. Men just went off to work and that was that.”

My Story

I remember sneaking out of bed early in the morning and listening outside the kitchen door as Mum fed my baby sister. I was four. Until my sister arrived, I had hungered for company, stuck out in suburbia, asking other kids if they wanted to be my friend and talking non-stop to my teddy bear. Apparently it drove Mum nuts.

There was a disconnect between Mum and I, and I couldn’t wait for Dad to came home for lunch and return from work each day. It felt like it didn’t take much to set Mum off and like others of my generation, I was the recipient of “the belt” on more than one occasion. But life was generally good. I enjoyed school, staying with my grandparents, going to Russell for holidays and spending most weekends at rugby, cricket, tennis or squash clubs, or at the beach in summer. Before I went to school, I remember Mum holding up cards with words on them for me to read. Maybe that, along with the robust three R’s of a convent school education contributed to my love of the English language.

When I was 11, Mum and Dad separated. I was the third wheel as Mum and my sister had a tight bond. One day, unable to handle my behaviour, Mum took me round to Dad’s and asked him to have me. I sat in the corner watching, as he said no, it was better for my sister and I to be together. It was many years later before I learnt this was one of the most difficult things he ever had to do.

We moved to Auckland with Mum when I was 13. I spent every holiday travelling the 100 miles north to stay with Dad and crying half way back on the bus each time. My relationship with Mum was fraught, and I was often accused of being “selfish” and compared to my sister.

My teenage years were uneventful. I did well academically and enjoyed my sport and drama. I made friends who are still friends today. When I was 19, yet another argument with Mum sent me flatting and I moved out, transporting everything except a bed and drawers, on my Honda 90 scooter.

At 21, I left on my OE, living in London for 15 years. Although my career flourished, I often struggled with my mental health and tried counselling, rebirthing, hypnotherapy and other mediums as ways of coping. These sessions helped me understand my story, but did nothing to shift it. In my mid-20’s I had a four-year relationship with a lovely Yorkshireman, but my behaviour was dysfunctional. I had no idea how to communicate or work through issues, and often behaved like a victim. I knew I had more work to do, and that he deserved far better than what I was dishing up, so made the painful decision to end it.

When I returned to NZ in my mid-30’s, I studied facilitation, learning how to work with co-operative groups. That was the turning point for me, as I started to learn what my patterns were and how to change my behaviour. I had a couple of common beliefs going on. “I need to be perfect to be loved”, and “I’m not good enough.” I often felt responsible for whatever was happening in the group, and I was extremely sensitive, taking things personally. With good mentoring, these things started to shift and I became more comfortable in my own skin. But I still had a tendency to accept second best, and not have clear boundaries when it came to self-care in relationships. I also did a lot of work researching and writing my family history, getting a feel for what had gone before.

In my early 50’s I finally met someone who I fell deeply in love with. We had a beautiful nine months together but like me in my 20’s, he had unresolved issues and walked away. The loss went to the very core of me, and I took a couple of years to start emerging from it. At one point I verbalized to a counsellor that I didn’t know why I was here. She said “You are doing important work, you are healing.” I realized this was not only about the loss of the relationship; it was about the unresolved relationship with my mother. I thought I had found unconditional love, but the band aid was ripped off and the wound was still there.

“If someone’s reaction seems out of proportion to the situation,
it usually means that something else was triggered”
~ Dr. Lauren Fogel

Nine months after my father died and three years after the end of my relationship, I was finally ready to hear my mother’s story. And she was courageous enough to share it with me. I took two friends to sit with us, symbols of a little boy and a little girl, the first gifts she had ever received for her lost children.

Our Story

I listened to Mum’s story for two hours. It struck me that she had never shared her story in its entirety before. This is the biggest gift we can give someone. To be truly present to their story.

But how do we do that when we too have been impacted? How do we sit with another’s grief when we are still stuck in our own? That is the challenge of healing intergenerational trauma, and breaking cycles. It is now known that trauma is passed in our DNA, so this story is not just about Mum and I. It is about everyone who went before. My grandmother who never had a father. Her family who lived through two world wars. Their ancestors, who fled famine and religious persecution and came to NZ with hopes of a better life. And this is also about Mum and Dad’s unborn children, whose lives ended too soon.

This is not a story written because we are feeling sorry for ourselves. We all have challenges. We all have a story. This is about why we, as a society, need to keep evolving. Things were different in the 1960’s; gender roles, women’s voices and sexuality, the power of religious leaders, the medical profession and others in authority, and most importantly, the way we dealt with grief.

When grief is not expressed, it becomes cumulative, impacting everyone around us, preventing connection, peace and aroha. That is why we are telling this story.

“Bless the daughters who sat carrying the trauma of mothers. Who sat asking for more love and not getting any, carried themselves to light. Bless the daughters who raised themselves.”
~ Questions for Ada by Ijeoma Umebinyuo
Addendum from me – “and the sons”