Birthless: A Tale of Family Lost & Found

By Maureen K. Wlodarczyk

“Birthless: A Tale of Family Lost & Found” explores the lingering effect of family secrets on three women friends and how the power of their bond gives each the strength to face a reckoning with her own past. The story asks the questions: Is it ever “too late” to confront the life-altering decisions of the past? What if, at age 60, you found out that you were adopted and everything you believed about your "family" was a lie? With each other’s support, three friends find answers to those questions and many more on a journey in pursuit of closure that takes them across the globe as well as across decades of history.

Author and Genealogist Maureen Wlodarczyk takes us on a heartfelt journey from New York to Scotland and Ireland with three women whose friendship helps them face a reckoning with the long-concealed secrets of their youthful pasts. Memories of first love, young motherhood, and life-altering decisions are resurrected as each of them searches for reconciliation and peace after decades of self-imposed silence. What awaits them are unexpected discoveries that will redefine their understanding of love, loss, motherhood, and the meaning of family.

"I enjoy taking the reader with me as I tell a story, as if they were sitting alongside me talking over a cup of tea. In 'Birthless' I am sharing the story of three friends with the reader, giving the reader a sense of personal connection with the characters and their struggles,” said Wlodarczyk, a New Jersey native with maternal family roots in Ireland. "Each of these three women has the burden of a personal secret hidden for many years. Circumstances cause their paths to cross and unexpected friendships are forged. This book explores the history of those women and how their secrets emerge as a result of that unanticipated friendship. A burden is always lighter when someone carries it with us and it’s always easier to be courageous if we aren’t walking alone.”

Part of the story in Birthless takes place in Ireland in the 1950s when the Irish Republican Army was rebuilding ranks in a lead-up to its Border Campaign against British authorities in Northern Ireland. Belfast author and BBC correspondent Barry Flynn described Wlodarczyk’s depiction of those events as giving “a superb insight into an era long lost in Irish history.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maureen K. Wlodarczyk
• Release date: May 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311290182

Maureen K. Wlodarczyk

Maureen Wlodarczyk (www.past-forward.com) is an author, columnist, genealogist, speaker and admitted history and genealogy addict. She is a member of the Irish American Writers & Artists organization along with several genealogical societies. She was selected for a 2014 and 2015 Excellence-in-Writing awards by the International Society of Family History Writers & Editors (ISFHWE). Maureen currently writes a genealogy column "History & Mystery: Perfect Together" for the e-magazine Garden State Legacy (gardenstatelegacy.com). She is also a contributing writer for the genealogical e-magazine Irish Lives Remembered (www.irishlivesremembered.ie).Beyond researching and writing about her own family history, Maureen searches for true stories of people and events lost to time, rediscovering and sharing those tales through her books, magazine articles, and her presentations to genealogical and historical groups. These fascinating stories of 19th century Americans, including immigrants, entrepreneurs, social activists, and “regular” people persevering in the face of daily challenges, transport us in a time machine to days long past, intriguing and informing us while bringing context to our own lives. Her 6 books are:Birthless: A Tale of Family Lost & Found - a novel about the power of friendship. Is it ever "too late" to confront long-kept secrets and life-altering decisions? Author and Genealogist Maureen Wlodarczyk takes us on a heartfelt journey from New York to Scotland and Ireland with three women whose friendship helps them face a reckoning with the long-concealed secrets of their youthful pasts. Memories of first love, young motherhood and painful decisions are resurrected as each of them searches for reconciliation and peace after decades of self-imposed silence. What awaits them are unexpected discoveries that will redefine their understanding of love, loss, motherhood, friendship and the meaning of family.Scarlet Letter Lives - a work of historical fiction inspired by the true stories of the owners of three 1850s copies of Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter: a Mississippi boy of thirteen who, along with his two brothers, is destined for the battlefields of Virginia during the Civil War; a New England sea captain's daughter, newly-married and living in Alexandria, Virginia when that war breaks out; and a transplanted Virginia man living in New Orleans who must flee the Union occupation there. Their family stories converge over the ensuing decades as their copies of The Scarlet Letter and their lives intersect in one woman who will tell their tales and then reveal the secret that defined her own life.Jersey! Then . . . Again - a collection of 36 short stories about New Jersey historic people and events. Suffragettes, boxers, hurricanes, gangs, hot air balloonists, con artists, politicians, inventors, women in the war effort, military heroes and more -- it all happened in New Jersey!Past-Forward: A Three-Decade & Three-Thousand-Mile Journey Home - the story of her 30-year search for her grandmother's Irish ancestral roots and the surprising and poignant discoveries made along the way.Young & Wicked: The Death of a Wayward Girl - the true story of star-crossed first generation Irish-American lovers and petty criminals growing up in 19th century Jersey City. As the police close in, they flee to the Bowery in New York City in 1893 and soon after their life together meets a violent end.Canary in a Cage: The Smith-Bennett Murder Case - historical fiction based on a shocking true story: In 1878, a policeman is found bludgeoned and stabbed to death in his own bed, supposedly while his young wife lay beside him unaware. Did a twenty-something Jersey girl and farmer's daughter turn city-girl killer?

Book preview

Introduction

Years ago, as I was having lunch with a group of women I worked with, the subject of old age came up. I no longer have any recollection of how that topic became lunch conversation. Perhaps someone at the table was dealing with an eldercare situation or the recent death of an older family member. Since some of the women were divorced and others had never married, I suspect that influenced the direction of the discussion. What I do remember, clear as day, is what one of them suggested:

You know what we should do? she said. We should all live together when we’re old. We could get a big house and take care of each other.

Although there was some tongue-in-cheekiness in the conversation, the overall consensus was that the idea of female communal living in our golden years had possibilities. The very fact that I remember the discussion proves it had some resonance.

Psychologists and researchers have studied the differences between male friendships and female friendships, generally concluding that friendships between men were ‘side-to-side,’ meaning that the men conducted their friendships by sharing activities like going to a sporting event. They were together to do something and their conversations were about what they were doing together or some related tangent.

The observations of women friends showed something quite different (but not surprising to women). Women’s friendships were characterized as ‘face-to-face’ interactions, their bonding resulting from sharing information about themselves, their feelings, and other personal aspects of their lives. Said another way, women’s friendships involve an intimacy that arises from sharing on a very personal level.

More than once, eating in a restaurant and hearing laughter, I have turned to see a group of women sharing a meal. It’s a particular kind of laughter that signals long acquaintances, shared experiences, and lots of inside jokes. I myself rarely laugh harder than when I am with a group of female friends and we are retelling an old story for what seems like the hundredth time. It never gets old and neither does the gift of friendship. In fact, true friendship ages like fine wine, more flavorful and fortifying with time.

Birthless is the story of three ‘mature’ women, two in their 60s and one in her (very) late 70s, each of their lives altered by a long-concealed secret. Their acquaintance is transformed and forged into a friendship when each decides to share her secret. The bond of friendship sustains them as they face their pasts, searching for answers and hoping for closure. It is a story that is most definitely about ‘face-to-face’ relationships, sharing heart and soul, and facing up to one’s ghosts with the support of friends.

Part One:

Nicola

1. Bits & Pieces

I threw open the car door and, in my panic, almost fell on my ass on the icy street. Hands on the car hood for balance, I made my way around to the curb. I had seen her hit the sidewalk as I drove up. She went down in a forward motion, looking very much like a baseball player diving into the bag at first base.

Cat, I’m here. Are you all right? I asked breathlessly.

She tried to lift her head but quickly lowered it again and answered in one word: Shit!

I called 911 on my cell phone and knelt down next to her looking for signs of bleeding. Her hands and knees were scraped and raw reminding me of the skinned knees and elbows that were a regular thing when we were growing up decades ago. If only now, so much older and more ‘brittle,’ we could still shake off a spill with some mercurochrome, a Band-Aid, and a scab that would fall off in short order (if we didn’t pull it off ourselves first).

She turned her head slightly in my direction when I told her an ambulance was coming and a thick gush of bright red blood came from her nose. For a few seconds I thought I might scream or even pass out but instead, somehow, I was suddenly strangely calm. I put my face close to hers, held her hand and whispered that she would be alright and help was coming.

The EMTs, truly God’s angels of mercy, arrived in just a few minutes despite the treacherous roads and no doubt multiplying calls for help from all over the area. They put a collar on Cat, stabilized her and slipped a hard board under her before lifting her up and into the ambulance. I followed them to the hospital in my car and sat in the ER grinding my teeth and doing that bouncing leg thing I do unconsciously whenever I have to sit still and I’m agitated, excited, or just have ‘ants in my pants’ for no reason.

Apparently I had a good size smear of Cat’s blood streaked across my cheek, that being pointed out to me by a nurse who thought I was injured and in need of treatment as well. I made a quick trip to the ladies room and washed my face. Looking in the mirror I winced. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting and with my disheveled hair and now makeup-free face, I suddenly looked so old. Jesus, could this night get any worse?

Mercifully, I had no time to ponder on that or the lines on my face. I was told Cat was in good hands, remained conscious, and that it would be some time before I could see her. What they needed was for me to go to the admitting office to provide Cat’s personal information. It was only when they asked about her medical insurance that I realized I had been carrying both her handbag and mine slung across my shoulder. As I sat next to the admitting clerk, a young woman with a petite gold ring through her nostril and a silver-studded leather bracelet that looked like a dog collar, I rooted through Cat’s large leather satchel pulling out a dizzying assortment of contents. Keys, hand sanitizer, salt spray (for her much complained about ‘sinus trouble’), Chapstick, make-up bag, vent brush, glasses, wallet and separate credit card case, phone, and my personal favorite, a pair of clean beige underpants in a Ziploc bag. I found her medical card in the credit card case and handed it over to the clerk. I did my best to answer what seemed an endless barrage of questions about everything from medicine allergies to menopause.

Once finished playing twenty questions, I headed back to the ER to ask about Cat’s status. What greeted me in the waiting room was an entirely different scene from the one I had left about forty-five minutes earlier. While there had been relative calm and order then, the place was jumping when I got back. Stretchers were parked all over the waiting area, EMTs were jockeying for position, and every seat was taken. By the look of the place, the icy roads and sidewalks had taken their toll.

After a minute or two of scanning the chaos, I saw the familiar face of the nurse who had directed me to go to the admitting office as she trotted through the waiting area calling out someone’s name. I wove my way through the clusters of people and caught up with her as she was directing some other patient’s family to go to admitting. I gently touched her arm and asked about Cat. Still being evaluated, it’s going to be awhile was her response.

I stood, propped up against a wall in the corner of the ER until a chair opened up and I all but dropped into it. Emergency rooms exist in a time warp where the minute hands on wall clocks seem to move imperceptibly like the ‘watched pot’ that will not boil. My eyes surrendered at about one in the morning, the wall clock winning our staring contest, and my head lolled back against the wall. The persistent din of voices, the sound of squeaking gurney wheels and the whirr of opening and closing automatic doors were unequal to the fatigue that had come over me. When I awoke to a nurse calling my name, it was after two and, not surprisingly, my eyes shot open before my mind engaged and momentary disorientation set in. A look around the room followed by a shot of pain in my stiff neck brought me back to reality. The crowd had thinned but the place was still a buzzing hive of activity.

I scanned the area looking for the nurse I had talked with earlier and spotted her across the room. I approached her and before I could speak she told me the ‘wet’ x-rays had just been read and showed a badly broken right patella, sprained left wrist . . . and a fractured nose. I cringed at the thought of a broken kneecap as my mind called up vignettes from mob movies with images of ‘rats’ tied in chairs as baseball bats delivered the penalty for their betrayals. I was quickly called back from my reverie when I heard the nurse say that Cat would need surgery as soon as possible to repair the shattered pieces of her kneecap. I asked what was entailed in that surgery and the words wire and screws were enough to make my empty stomach roll over.

Nurse Boland (I made it a point to check out her name badge) went on to say Cat was sedated for pain and her right leg had been set in a stiff cast from groin to ankle in order to ensure immobilization of her broken kneecap. She suggested I go home for a few hours and come back at ten o’clock to see Cat before her surgery which was tentatively scheduled for noon. Apparently, the attending doctors in the ER had already contacted Cat’s GP and coordinated the selection of an orthopedic surgeon for the kneecap repair procedure.

I gave Nurse Boland Cat’s phone thinking she would be looking for it when she woke up. As I turned to leave, Nurse Boland asked me if I was ‘family’ or ‘next of kin’ or if there was someone else who should be notified of Cat’s condition and pending surgery. I parted my lips and, in consideration of the demands on her time, groped for an economy of words that would answer her question sufficiently if incompletely. I managed to respond with less than thirty words in true Twitter-worthy style:

Caitríona has no living relatives that I know of nor do I. I am her closest friend and we are each other’s emergency contact.

As I drove home, I wondered why I had included the fact that I have no living relatives in answering Nurse Boland’s question about Cat’s next of kin. Fortunately, I was so exhausted that I didn’t have the strength for any annoying self-analysis on that point.

2. Humpty Dumpty

It seemed like only minutes after my head hit the pillow when the alarm went off. My eyes flew open as my brain tried to engage and my fingers groped for the alarm button. Silence restored, I tried to focus. The events of the prior evening came flooding back leaving no question that Cat’s accident and the aftermath at the hospital were no dream. I rubbed my bleary eyes, sat up, and dangled my legs off the side of the bed. Since passing out some months earlier after abruptly popping out of bed, I had (at the recommendation of my 90-year-old neighbor) instituted a brief ‘equilibrium pause’ prior to exiting bed. My instincts told me this was not a day to blow that off.

A quick shower, a much-needed cup of tea, seven vitamins, and a 90-calorie cup of chocolate pudding and I was out the door. The temperature had risen and the icy glaze that wreaked havoc the night before had been reduced to scattered shallow pools of harmless liquid.

In twenty minutes I was in the revolving door entering the hospital. Cat had been moved upstairs from the ER and was in a semi-private room on the orthopedic ward. I peeked through the curtain separating her from her roommate and saw her, wide awake and absorbed in reading something on her phone. She had the beginning of a lovely pair of black eyes to go with her bruised nose.

Something interesting? I asked.

They told me that since my nose isn’t crooked and the fracture is relatively minor, there’s no need to tape or splint it. I was getting a second opinion from my friends at WebMD and the Mayo Clinic on-line. Looks like it’s true.

I tried not to smirk . . . with no success. So, two hours away from reconstructive surgery on your smashed knee, the essential mechanism for walking and every other aspect of human mobility, you’re busy making sure your nose is straight? I asked.

Damn straight . . . pun intended, she shot back. You know what they say: when things hurtle out of control, people will focus their energy on controlling what they can.

"Cat, your nose looks fine but, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re sprouting a pair of black eyes and, by tomorrow, I’ll be serenading you with my own rendition of Rocky Raccoon."

Now it was her turn to smirk. That song isn’t about a raccoon, my friend. You can google that while I’m under the knife.

The banter-fest ended when a nurse came in. She handed Cat a form that turned out to be an ‘advance directive’ (better known as a ‘living will’). It could be filled out on the spot should Cat want to do so before her surgery. I didn’t know if the nurse had brought it because it had already been discussed and Cat wanted it or if it was a standard procedure to offer the form. My question was answered when Cat picked up a pen and began filling out the form.

I figured I better do this, she said, assuming you’re willing to be the person I appoint to make health decisions for me if I’m out of it.

I’ll do it for you, I said, if you do it for me. I’ll get another form from that nurse and we’ll do both of them right now.

Cat couldn’t resist one more snappy retort. I guess that means two things: you expect me to wake up after the knee surgery . . . and you’re not afraid of having a ‘gimp’ for your healthcare proxy.

Over my shoulder, as I exited the room, I fired the final salvo accompanied by a snarky smile and wink. Well Rocky, what other choices do I have?

The forms were quickly filled out and witnessed by one of the nurses and we were summarily promoted from being each other’s emergency contacts to the significantly more dicey and daunting role of life or death monitor. I was asked to step out of the room so the anesthesiologist could talk with Cat in preparation for her surgery. Pre-op procedures followed and Cat was soon being wheeled out. I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and told her I would be waiting for her and would see her when she woke up.

As I gathered up Cat’s few personal items and put them in a plastic bag, a voice from the bed next to Cat’s called out to me. I pulled the curtain back in response and saw a young woman of about thirty with short black hair with pink streaks. She smiled and lifted a vividly-tattooed arm in greeting. I returned the smile, trying not to stare at the tattoos although I was itching to check them out as a means of sizing her up.

Did your friend smash her kneecap? she asked. I shattered mine pretty good . . . motorbike wipeout. No, that’s not true. I slipped and fell in the produce aisle of the damn supermarket. I wish I did do it on a motorbike. Sounds so much better than slipping on a soggy lettuce leaf.

I grinned and confirmed that Cat had indeed smashed her kneecap, leaving it in several puzzle pieces and in need of reconstruction asap.

I have a history of dislocating my kneecap . . . started with a fall out of a tree when I was seven, she said. When I took a flier on that wet lettuce leaf, I thought it was just another excruciatingly painful dislocation and, having shoved it back in on my own in the past, I grabbed my knee, gritted my teeth . . . and stopped dead. When I gripped the knee it felt like a handful of broken egg shell and I knew it was no simple dislocation. That’s when I screamed for someone to call 911.

Sounds awful, I said as I beat a hasty retreat from the room feeling like that 90-calorie cup of pudding was not long for my stomach as images of shards of egg shell flashed through my mind. Instead of Rocky Raccoon, maybe Humpty Dumpty would be a more fitting alias for Cat.

3. The Old Folks Home

Cat, in a ‘piss and vinegar’ mood I immediately recognized, all but hurtled into her hospital room following her last post-surgery physical therapy session, the objective having been to train her to maneuver on her dandy new crutches. She pitched forward through the doorway, did a graceless version of a pirouette, and landed safely on the bed.

Now that you have your learner’s permit for those nifty new sticks of yours, I guess we will commence with the frustrating process of getting you discharged, eh?