a day ago
The Phone Box Babies - a search for truth, identity and belonging
In 1960s Ireland, three newborn babies were abandoned in different parts of the country and left without any clue to their identity. Fifty years later, those three children discover they are connected and embark on an emotional journey to uncover their identities. A remarkable new RTÉ documentary, The Phone Box Babies, tells their story.
One of the 'foundlings', Helen Ward, writes about her search for identity and their experiences while making the documentary.
I was nine years old when someone subtly mentioned that I was the adopted one in the family. In that moment, I felt singled out, as if the truth in those words was meant to find me.
It was February 5th, 1969, when I was brought to my new home in Co. Meath, a day that marked the beginning of my new life. My parents, devout Catholics in their mid-forties, were united and loving, creating a supportive and stable home as I was growing up.
Reflecting on the words "the adopted one" brought a sense of being different and not belonging. Despite endless conversations with my mum about my adoption, she had little to contribute beyond a listening ear and an understanding of my thirst for answers. My dad, on the other hand, was the one who looked after the affairs of the house. Old-fashioned, one might say, he had the final word on family matters and held the key document on my adoption. At 18, I remember broaching the subject with him, which, to my aversion, was swiftly dismissed with four words: "Let sleeping dogs lie."
A fire within me continues to ignite my pursuit of understanding the wider picture.
Rejected in my endeavour, I chose to go it alone. I reached out to Barnardos Ireland, which opened my eyes to the possible trials and tribulations that lay ahead. Stories of rejection, difficult searches, paperwork, legalities and formalities. All of which drove me back to my comfort zone; home.
Significant events throughout my life surfaced feelings of emptiness and sadness, particularly during pregnancy. A time that should have been filled with excitement for the birth of my babies was instead met with silent images in my head of my biological mother and what her journey might have entailed while pregnant with me.
At 35, I arranged to meet with a social worker about my adoption. My expectations were high, fuelled with hope of finding answers. My birth certificate uncovered truths that I hadn't been prepared for: "Living newborn child found exposed on Ladywell Terrace, Dundalk. Father Unknown. Mother Unknown." Each word felt cold and hollow.
Abandoned from birth, I had been found by a lorry driver on the floor of a phone box, wrapped in a green tartan bag, well-dressed, and with a warm bottle, approximately two days old on Tuesday, the 12th of March at 9:30pm in 1968. Swiftly taken to Louth County Hospital, I was given the name Aileen Brenda Marsh and later transferred to St. Joseph's Baby Home (St. Clare's Convent, Stamullen, Co. Meath), where my journey truly began.
For most people, identity is a given, but for many like me, it has been a complete mystery.
On my 44th birthday in 2012, I went on national radio, Liveline with Joe Duffy. Within seconds, I was on air, connecting with the people who found me after I was left in the phone box. Sergeant Michael Conneally left listeners enthralled with his heartfelt words, and Donal Boyle, the lorry driver, spoke of his experience that night. After all the excitementsurrounding these events, a waiting period passed, and any hope was lost for the one person who held all the answers to come forward.
As the years went by, the chances of finding information grew increasingly remote. DNA testing became my last resort, a gift I received on my 50th birthday. I describe it today as the "gift that keeps on giving." In July 2019, I received an unexpected call from a social worker in the UK enquiring about my background in relation to the DNA test. As the conversation unfolded, I tried hard to absorb the words without imploding with hysteria and disbelief: "We have found your brother, a full sibling."
I finally got to meet David in person on ITV's Long Lost Family show, Born Without Trace. A moment to remember, an experience beyond words, a true miracle. Both David and I are foundlings, and for the first time in my life, my identity and sense of belonging became common ground with the one person I now call my brother.
Over the following weeks and months, information came to light about our biological parents and 14 half-siblings. It brought closure to part of my journey while opening a new and exciting world of unexpected twists.
Years ago, I stumbled upon a story in Drogheda that seemed so similar to mine. Who would have thought it would turn out to be another full sibling, my brother John. Credit goes to my beautiful niece, John's daughter Donna, who saw the Long Lost Family show and acted on her intuition.
One became three, and the unique connection between us as siblings and family continues to grow.
A fire within me continues to ignite my pursuit of understanding the wider picture. This journey brings its difficulties. Establishing family relationships has been a gradual process of patience and mutual trust. It has opened my eyes to the remnants of traditions, pride, and unspoken history that are still very much alive.
An amazing opportunity presented itself when I was contacted by RTÉ. I saw it as a valuable opportunity to explore my journey further as I felt I had a lot more questions after taking part in Long Lost Family. Did anyone remember our biological parents? And could they give us an insight into their lives, their love story, their individual personalities and characteristics.
These stories would have remained untold had we not taken part in the documentary.
I wholeheartedly embraced the experience, which has been healing, enlightening, and truly rewarding.
