At 19, I was constantly told that I would be putting my baby up for adoption

On Sunday August 16, 1970, as my 19th birthday approached, I packed up some belongings and went to the Our Lady of Mercy Home, Waitara, in Sydney’s north. Most people referred to it as the Waitara Mothers and Babies Home. It was an imposing-looking building, seeming more like a school or a convent, double-storeyed, dull brick, with colonial-style verandas. Twenty girls like me lived inside its walls, away from the outside world, all either waiting to give birth or waiting to go home after giving birth.

A senior nun met me at the door and showed me where I would be sleeping. She explained the daily routine at the home. There was to be virtually no contact with the outside world, not even with my parents, and especially not with Wally, the father of the baby. No visitors. No phone calls. Only letters.

Inside the home, there was virtually no contact with the outside world. No visitors. No phone calls. Only letters. Credit: GETTY

I soon picked up on the atmosphere. I was in a fallen state, pregnant and unmarried. Once inside those cloistered walls, the nuns never let us forget for one minute the reason why we were there. If we had punished ourselves by becoming pregnant, keeping it a secret from our families, ruining our career prospects and reputations and being anxious about the future, we were in for more punishment inside those walls.

Only two Indigenous girls were at the home during my stay, myself and a girl from the Palm Island Aboriginal community in north Queensland. The nuns said that because I wasn’t that dark-skinned, there would be a good possibility that my baby would also be born light-skinned and would therefore find a home with a suitable married couple. The girl from Palm Island was very dark, so her baby had less of a chance of being adopted, as any “good” parents would not want a very black baby. I didn’t understand why her baby was not considered good enough.

The girl from Palm Island knew something was up. Her intuition told her that something was about to happen, and so one morning, after she had given birth and was returned to the home, she got up and walked out with her baby. I don’t know how she did it without being noticed by the nuns. Years later, when I visited her up north, she told me how she had escaped and caught a plane to Townsville. Lucky for her, she had the fearlessness to walk out of Waitara that day. She got to keep her child.

“I just wished the nuns would all stop coming into my room and would leave me in peace. I needed some space inside my head to think quietly about the future.”

LYNDA HOLDEN

Three weeks before the birth of my baby, my stomach had well and truly ballooned out, and I looked like all the other girls awaiting their babies’ births. Now I was truly scared. I looked pregnant. Christmas and the holiday season were fast approaching. I was still constantly told that I would be putting my baby up for adoption. The pressure increased as my due date fast approached. It was a constant, daily battering: the tiredness of pregnancy and the physicality of simply getting around and trying to feel comfortable was challenging enough without psychological hammering on top.

As the baby’s arrival drew closer, I slept less and was exhausted. I just wished the nuns would all stop coming into my room and would leave me in peace. I needed some space inside my head to think quietly about the future.

Like any expectant mother, I was wondering whether I was going to have a boy or a girl, what the baby would look like and what sort of clothes I would have to buy, while also imagining the look on my parents’ faces when I walked through the door with their grandchild. I was also wondering how on earth this baby would come out of my body.

On Wednesday, December 9, 1970, my waters broke. It was nighttime. I had no idea what was happening as no one had told me what to prepare for. Despite it being a Mothers and Babies Home, there was never any discussion about what birth would be like or how I would be feeling, no counselling, nothing. I wanted my mother by my side. I woke the girl in the next room and told her what was happening. She woke others.

The other girls knew I would not be going to hospital unless I was close to giving birth. One of the girls told me to tell the nuns I was in terrible pain; otherwise, the nuns would not call for an ambulance. When the senior nun came into my room, I told her I was in agony, and I doubled over convincingly, moaning and groaning. The nun called an ambulance, and I was taken to the Mater Hospital at Crows Nest. As I climbed the steps up to the hospital entrance, I suddenly felt extremely nauseous and vomited everywhere.

The nun I was with gave me a hard look. “I’m going to have to clean that up!” she snapped.

I apologised for vomiting. One of the nurses took me away for an examination and informed me that I was in the second stage of labour. I didn’t even know what that meant, and I was not experiencing all that much pain.

The nurses told me there might be up to another two hours before I gave birth. They made me lie down on a trolley while hospital life went on around me. I could hear doctors and nurses going about their business, talking and giving orders and sometimes laughing. Buzzers went off, phones rang, and heavily pregnant patients shuffled down the hall or were wheeled in chairs. I was utterly exhausted and went to sleep on the trolley.

I’m not sure how long I slept, but I woke up when I felt a weird sensation. It was like part of my body had come away from me. Frightened, I didn’t look under the sheet but pressed the buzzer for the staff and told them what I was experiencing. They told me to stop complaining and repeated that there was some time to go yet before the birth.

“Like many first-time mothers, I couldn’t believe that a beautiful tiny boy had come out of my body. I was truly amazed.”

LYNDA HOLDEN

I knew something had happened. Insisting they stay and have a look, they found I had given birth to a baby boy. They took off the sheet, cleaned everything up, and I was given a bed in a ward. Like many first-time mothers, I couldn’t believe that a beautiful tiny boy had come out of my body. I was truly amazed. My baby was born on Thursday December 10, 1970.

My baby boy’s appearance was described in the hospital notes: “Fair complexion, Blue-grey eyes, Light-brown hair sparse, Chubby face, Dimple (L) Cheek, Small pressure mark (L) eyelid, Lovely big chubby baby.” He was so beautiful, I couldn’t stop looking at him. I decided to call him Eugene Daniel Yarnold. Not long after I had delivered, the staff came to take my baby away to the nursery.

“I want to keep him here with me,” I told them. The midwife looked at me and said, “You can’t.”

“I want to hold him,” I said. “Don’t put him in the nursery just yet. Please.”

I didn’t understand why he had to be whisked away so soon. The nurse seemed reluctant to let me hold him, but eventually, she agreed.

“All right,” she said. “But you’re not allowed to breastfeed him.”

I would have agreed to anything just to keep him with me. While holding my son in those first few hours, I felt like I’d just performed a miracle. I couldn’t stop looking at him; he was so perfect, and I was overcome with love for him. It was the most amazing thing I had done in my life. Everything else faded into insignificance.

The girls who had already signed up for adoption had a sheet put between their heads and the rest of their bodies so they wouldn’t be able to see their babies being born. Their babies were whisked away as soon as they arrived. I got to see my baby and hold him.

Just hours after giving birth, it started. A social worker came into my room and shoved papers in my face, telling me my baby would be better off being adopted. I didn’t sign anything or engage with her on the topic. She left without my signature, but she would come back again many times. “It doesn’t matter,” she said every time I refused to sign. “We’ll get him next time. It really doesn’t matter if it’s now or later ’cause we’ll get him eventually.”

“You can’t have him,” I told her.

“He’d have a good life with a two-parent white family. He’s very light-skinned. Think about it.”

The pressure never let up. The social worker was particularly determined.

“There’s a couple waiting for your baby. They’re very good parents. He’ll have an excellent chance with them.”

I told her no.

“What sort of life can you give him? He won’t stand a chance with you. Come on, give this baby a future with a lovely married couple.”

I told her I wanted my baby with me. She left me alone, but not for long.

Edited extract from This Is Where You Have To Go (Pantera Press) by Lynda Holden, with Jo Tuscano, out now.

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