Fifty-nine years ago, Ginny Adams was 20 years old, pregnant, about to become a mother for the first time, but something went dreadfully wrong.
She went into the hospital and then she went into a coma and when she woke up a month later there was no baby by her side.
Instead, there was her husband, her first husband, and he said their baby boy was stillborn and he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
And so they didn’t.
They had another baby, the next year, and they named her Gina. But Ginny Adams never got over the baby boy she never knew, the baby boy she never held, the baby boy she never got to name. She asked her husband where their son was buried and he said he didn’t want to talk about it.
And so they didn’t.
A few years later, she got a divorce and then she got lucky and met a good man named John Adams and they got married. They had a daughter and they named her Wendy.
Nine years ago, Wendy Adams started doing some family research. She just wanted to know about their ancestors and the family tree and things like that. She mentioned it to her mother and her mother took her aside and asked: “Do you think you could find out what happened to my son?’’
After all these years, she wanted something, anything, to prove he existed.
Wendy Adams is not a detective. She runs the deli in a supermarket in New Hampshire. But she learned how to do record checks and database searches.
Still, she couldn’t find any records of her brother. There was no birth certificate. There was no death certificate. There was nothing.
“I’m sorry, mum,’’ Wendy Adams said, “but there’s no record of this.’’
Every Jan. 18 was hard, because that was the day that Ginny Adams had figured out the baby boy died. And every Jan. 18th, Ginny Adams would say the same thing: “I never got to hold him.’’
Wendy Adams was sick with guilt. Her mother had never asked her for anything before.
Then Wendy Adams got really sick. So sick that she had to go into the hospital. The doctors couldn’t figure it out, but it sapped her energy. She asked her sister Gina to help her resume the search for their brother. They finally found someone in a records office who cleared up some of the misunderstanding: babies who are stillborn don’t have typical birth and death certificates.
Last September, a FedEx package arrived at Wendy Adams’s house. She opened the package and it contained the official documents, all the pertinent information about her mother’s illness and her brother’s delivery. She looked at the calendar. It was Sept. 29, exactly nine years after her mother asked her to find her brother.
Wendy Adams left her house in Hudson, N.H., and drove the eight minutes to her mother’s house. It felt like hours.
“Do you remember what you asked me to do for you?’’
“Yes,’’ Ginny Adams said. “I asked you to find my son.’’
Wendy handed her the papers and, after 59 years, Ginny Adams finally learned what happened to her in the hospital, what happened to her son, where he was buried.
She clutched the stillbirth certificate to her heart and she said to her daughter, “I finally get to hold my son.’’
The name on the certificate said “Baby Boy.’’ Ginny Adams said she wanted to name him. She named him Anthony Francis, after the saints, because she had prayed to St. Anthony, and because St. Francis was gentle and kind.
John Adams took his wife’s hand and said, “I’d be honored if you let me give Anthony my last name.’’
And so they went to court, petitioned a judge, and it became official. A boy who never got to live got an identity. A mother who never held her son got him back.
They celebrated his birthday last Jan. 18 with cake and candles. They sang “Happy Birthday’’ to Anthony.
And today, for the first time, the Mother’s Day card that Ginny Adams’s kids gave her has Anthony’s name included.
Ginny Adams put the document affirming the existence of Anthony Francis Adams in a frame and it rests on the nightstand next to her bed. It’s the first thing she sees, every morning, when she opens her eyes.
Kevin Cullen
Boston Globe, May 9, 2010
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