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Anyone on CDC have a life story to tell?


Tom Sestito

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my life of privilege has been a slow-but-steady move from lower-middle-class to upper-middle-class. and the greatest disability i face is my laziness, which kind of constricts any ambition i have, and always has me reaching back to moments of luxury and already established comforts to distract me from "Real World" responsibilities

idk if that counts or not

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I've never been homeless but I did the starving artist (musician) thing in Europe for a year, and by the end I was so broke I often could only afford dinner from my day's take busking on the street. Definitely changed my perspective on money permanently. Nowadays if I have extra in the bank, I don't think about what I could buy myself with it, rather I hoard it for the next time my personal stock market crashes.

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I'm hearing impaired. Was born that way, and honestly, it's brought more good than bad. Just shows how what seems like a bad thing can actually turn out for the better.

I don't know any different, so it's not like I feel like I'm missing out on a whole lot. I have to wear hearing aids, but again, I hardly know any different, since I've worn them since I was 7. They're hardly a hassle.

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When I was twenty years old, I had a baby boy in a Mother and Baby home run by nuns. And he was so beautiful. I kept saying, isn't he beautiful? I was hoping to marry his father; he had come to see me when the baby was first born, and I thought -- I thought everything would be all right. But then, he was gone, and he wasn't answering my letters. Them nuns weren't sending my letters out at all. And I never got any letters from him. I would have married him. I loved him.

The nuns arranged for illegitimate babies to be placed in orphanages. They gave you no choice. But I had loved and cared and nurtured him for almost ten months when the nun came to me and said, "when you're finished in the nursery, come to my office. You're going home today." And I said, "can I go back and say goodbye to the baby?" "What does he know about anything? You're not going back, there's a car waiting." And I said, "But no time to say goodbye. No time to say goodbye." (nun's voice) " You're a disgrace, and you'll have your punishment."

My punishment was to be sent to one of Ireland's ten Magdalene Asylums, and I'll never forget that day so long as I live. Big, big gates opened, and all you could see were these bars on the windows and big high walls. Two or three nuns came out to meet me, and I was taken through this long dark corridor. My clothes were confiscated, and they gave me this drab uniform, you know, completely shapeless to make you look as ugly as possibly could. They called us penitents, and our penance was to work in the Magdalene Laundry for no pay. And we worked all of the time. We worked six days a week, fifty-two weeks in a year, from early in the morning till late at night. And the working was hard, because we had to bend over big sinks, you know, washing and scrubbing.

But you see, them nuns were like gods to you. You didn't dare question them. What they done was right, and you followed their instructions to the letter. They used to line us up every Saturday night. They'd have us strip naked for them, and they'd be laughing at us, and criticizing us. And if you were heavy, fat or whatever... they'd be shouting abuse to us a lot. We had to privacy with them at all, no privacy. We were enraged, but there was nothing we could do. There was just work, and praying, or silence and atoning for the sins. How wicked you were. I reckon they told us very often that Mary Magdalene had been forgiven, so we should... we would be forgiven in time.

I was absolutely desperate to find out where my baby had gone, absolutely desperate. And when I did find out that he had been adopted... all you could do was cry. There was nothing you could do but cry. I stopped working. I went and I sat on the stairs, and that's when a sister came up to me and I said to her, "You promised me I could go see my child. You promised me. I go to work and you promise me I can go see my child. That's all I'm asking. I am not daft or crazy or criminal." And she was coming closer to me and I said, "If you raise your hand to hit me, I swear I'll kill you! I mean what I'm saying!" And I felt this surge that I would kill her.

That's when they took me to the reverend mother. She shaved my head and gave a severe beating. And then she made me look into the mirror. Absolutely devastating. Your forehead all swelled up. Under my chin all bleeding from where she stuck the scissors wide open. And there's blood running in your eyes and she's making you open them eyes. (nun) "You're not so pretty now, are you?" And all this was because I wanted to see my child. That was all. I said to myself, I have to get out of here, I don't care how. I will not stay in this place forevermore. But the walls were so high, you'd be cut to ribbons. There was like barbed wire and iron spikes sticking out of the walls. It had to be planned. You couldn't just spurt out "I'm going," and go.

But there was one way the girls would escape, and that was when the old lady was bringing in the cattle. And that's what I did. I snuck out one side, she on the other, and I slid onto the street and started running toward my friend's house and as soon as I got there, the bells started ringing. I said, "let me in, let me in, the police will be here any minute." And she's asking, "what is it? Were you in prison?" I said, "no no, I was in the mad house up the road. I had a baby and my parents they sent me there." All I could think about was my child. But I couldn't stay around because I knew that if they caught up with me, I'd go back. I had spent three years in the Magdalene asylum before I escaped. I wasn't going back.

The nuns had taught us that it was a sin to be thinking about your body, it wasn't right. And it had an effect, a terrible effect. I made my way to Northern Ireland and met my husband when I was 25. He was a very nice man, very patient, very patient for a long time. But I felt ashamed whenever he touched me, I felt it was wrong. The nuns had taught us that it was wrong to let a man touch you. They didn't prepare us for the outside world, and that was wrong of them. But I wanted to have children, and I did, beautiful children.

But I was always haunted by my first baby boy. I wondered how he'd grown. What he looked like. Was he well taken care of? The nuns, they worked to break the bond between mother and child, but it stayed with me. It stayed my secret... until now.

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I don't think it's necessary to make a post about my life to random people I've never met. If you want people to pity you - go to facebook, that IS what it's for, right? Righhhhhht??? :bigblush:

Not that I'm saying I don't feel bad for people that have had tough situations, but it's what you make of it (like AJ) that determines where you go/how people react to you in my opinion.

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When I was twenty years old, I had a baby boy in a Mother and Baby home run by nuns. And he was so beautiful. I kept saying, isn't he beautiful? I was hoping to marry his father; he had come to see me when the baby was first born, and I thought -- I thought everything would be all right. But then, he was gone, and he wasn't answering my letters. Them nuns weren't sending my letters out at all. And I never got any letters from him. I would have married him. I loved him.

The nuns arranged for illegitimate babies to be placed in orphanages. They gave you no choice. But I had loved and cared and nurtured him for almost ten months when the nun came to me and said, "when you're finished in the nursery, come to my office. You're going home today." And I said, "can I go back and say goodbye to the baby?" "What does he know about anything? You're not going back, there's a car waiting." And I said, "But no time to say goodbye. No time to say goodbye." (nun's voice) " You're a disgrace, and you'll have your punishment."

My punishment was to be sent to one of Ireland's ten Magdalene Asylums, and I'll never forget that day so long as I live. Big, big gates opened, and all you could see were these bars on the windows and big high walls. Two or three nuns came out to meet me, and I was taken through this long dark corridor. My clothes were confiscated, and they gave me this drab uniform, you know, completely shapeless to make you look as ugly as possibly could. They called us penitents, and our penance was to work in the Magdalene Laundry for no pay. And we worked all of the time. We worked six days a week, fifty-two weeks in a year, from early in the morning till late at night. And the working was hard, because we had to bend over big sinks, you know, washing and scrubbing.

But you see, them nuns were like gods to you. You didn't dare question them. What they done was right, and you followed their instructions to the letter. They used to line us up every Saturday night. They'd have us strip naked for them, and they'd be laughing at us, and criticizing us. And if you were heavy, fat or whatever... they'd be shouting abuse to us a lot. We had to privacy with them at all, no privacy. We were enraged, but there was nothing we could do. There was just work, and praying, or silence and atoning for the sins. How wicked you were. I reckon they told us very often that Mary Magdalene had been forgiven, so we should... we would be forgiven in time.

I was absolutely desperate to find out where my baby had gone, absolutely desperate. And when I did find out that he had been adopted... all you could do was cry. There was nothing you could do but cry. I stopped working. I went and I sat on the stairs, and that's when a sister came up to me and I said to her, "You promised me I could go see my child. You promised me. I go to work and you promise me I can go see my child. That's all I'm asking. I am not daft or crazy or criminal." And she was coming closer to me and I said, "If you raise your hand to hit me, I swear I'll kill you! I mean what I'm saying!" And I felt this surge that I would kill her.

That's when they took me to the reverend mother. She shaved my head and gave a severe beating. And then she made me look into the mirror. Absolutely devastating. Your forehead all swelled up. Under my chin all bleeding from where she stuck the scissors wide open. And there's blood running in your eyes and she's making you open them eyes. (nun) "You're not so pretty now, are you?" And all this was because I wanted to see my child. That was all. I said to myself, I have to get out of here, I don't care how. I will not stay in this place forevermore. But the walls were so high, you'd be cut to ribbons. There was like barbed wire and iron spikes sticking out of the walls. It had to be planned. You couldn't just spurt out "I'm going," and go.

But there was one way the girls would escape, and that was when the old lady was bringing in the cattle. And that's what I did. I snuck out one side, she on the other, and I slid onto the street and started running toward my friend's house and as soon as I got there, the bells started ringing. I said, "let me in, let me in, the police will be here any minute." And she's asking, "what is it? Were you in prison?" I said, "no no, I was in the mad house up the road. I had a baby and my parents they sent me there." All I could think about was my child. But I couldn't stay around because I knew that if they caught up with me, I'd go back. I had spent three years in the Magdalene asylum before I escaped. I wasn't going back.

The nuns had taught us that it was a sin to be thinking about your body, it wasn't right. And it had an effect, a terrible effect. I made my way to Northern Ireland and met my husband when I was 25. He was a very nice man, very patient, very patient for a long time. But I felt ashamed whenever he touched me, I felt it was wrong. The nuns had taught us that it was wrong to let a man touch you. They didn't prepare us for the outside world, and that was wrong of them. But I wanted to have children, and I did, beautiful children.

But I was always haunted by my first baby boy. I wondered how he'd grown. What he looked like. Was he well taken care of? The nuns, they worked to break the bond between mother and child, but it stayed with me. It stayed my secret... until now.

hmmmm, aren't you a guy?

Btw, your profile story...it's not author unknown, it's actually an episode of the old school twilight zone series, I think it's called " not even the devil can fool a good dog"

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When I was twenty years old, I had a baby boy in a Mother and Baby home run by nuns. And he was so beautiful. I kept saying, isn't he beautiful? I was hoping to marry his father; he had come to see me when the baby was first born, and I thought -- I thought everything would be all right. But then, he was gone, and he wasn't answering my letters. Them nuns weren't sending my letters out at all. And I never got any letters from him. I would have married him. I loved him.

The nuns arranged for illegitimate babies to be placed in orphanages. They gave you no choice. But I had loved and cared and nurtured him for almost ten months when the nun came to me and said, "when you're finished in the nursery, come to my office. You're going home today." And I said, "can I go back and say goodbye to the baby?" "What does he know about anything? You're not going back, there's a car waiting." And I said, "But no time to say goodbye. No time to say goodbye." (nun's voice) " You're a disgrace, and you'll have your punishment."

My punishment was to be sent to one of Ireland's ten Magdalene Asylums, and I'll never forget that day so long as I live. Big, big gates opened, and all you could see were these bars on the windows and big high walls. Two or three nuns came out to meet me, and I was taken through this long dark corridor. My clothes were confiscated, and they gave me this drab uniform, you know, completely shapeless to make you look as ugly as possibly could. They called us penitents, and our penance was to work in the Magdalene Laundry for no pay. And we worked all of the time. We worked six days a week, fifty-two weeks in a year, from early in the morning till late at night. And the working was hard, because we had to bend over big sinks, you know, washing and scrubbing.

But you see, them nuns were like gods to you. You didn't dare question them. What they done was right, and you followed their instructions to the letter. They used to line us up every Saturday night. They'd have us strip naked for them, and they'd be laughing at us, and criticizing us. And if you were heavy, fat or whatever... they'd be shouting abuse to us a lot. We had to privacy with them at all, no privacy. We were enraged, but there was nothing we could do. There was just work, and praying, or silence and atoning for the sins. How wicked you were. I reckon they told us very often that Mary Magdalene had been forgiven, so we should... we would be forgiven in time.

I was absolutely desperate to find out where my baby had gone, absolutely desperate. And when I did find out that he had been adopted... all you could do was cry. There was nothing you could do but cry. I stopped working. I went and I sat on the stairs, and that's when a sister came up to me and I said to her, "You promised me I could go see my child. You promised me. I go to work and you promise me I can go see my child. That's all I'm asking. I am not daft or crazy or criminal." And she was coming closer to me and I said, "If you raise your hand to hit me, I swear I'll kill you! I mean what I'm saying!" And I felt this surge that I would kill her.

That's when they took me to the reverend mother. She shaved my head and gave a severe beating. And then she made me look into the mirror. Absolutely devastating. Your forehead all swelled up. Under my chin all bleeding from where she stuck the scissors wide open. And there's blood running in your eyes and she's making you open them eyes. (nun) "You're not so pretty now, are you?" And all this was because I wanted to see my child. That was all. I said to myself, I have to get out of here, I don't care how. I will not stay in this place forevermore. But the walls were so high, you'd be cut to ribbons. There was like barbed wire and iron spikes sticking out of the walls. It had to be planned. You couldn't just spurt out "I'm going," and go.

But there was one way the girls would escape, and that was when the old lady was bringing in the cattle. And that's what I did. I snuck out one side, she on the other, and I slid onto the street and started running toward my friend's house and as soon as I got there, the bells started ringing. I said, "let me in, let me in, the police will be here any minute." And she's asking, "what is it? Were you in prison?" I said, "no no, I was in the mad house up the road. I had a baby and my parents they sent me there." All I could think about was my child. But I couldn't stay around because I knew that if they caught up with me, I'd go back. I had spent three years in the Magdalene asylum before I escaped. I wasn't going back.

The nuns had taught us that it was a sin to be thinking about your body, it wasn't right. And it had an effect, a terrible effect. I made my way to Northern Ireland and met my husband when I was 25. He was a very nice man, very patient, very patient for a long time. But I felt ashamed whenever he touched me, I felt it was wrong. The nuns had taught us that it was wrong to let a man touch you. They didn't prepare us for the outside world, and that was wrong of them. But I wanted to have children, and I did, beautiful children.

But I was always haunted by my first baby boy. I wondered how he'd grown. What he looked like. Was he well taken care of? The nuns, they worked to break the bond between mother and child, but it stayed with me. It stayed my secret... until now.

10/10 would read again

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Now, this is a story all about how

My life got flipped-turned upside down

And I'd like to take a minute

Just sit right there

I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air

In west Philadelphia born and raised

On the playground was where I spent most of my days

Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool

And all shootin some b-ball outside of the school

When a couple of guys who were up to no good

Started making trouble in my neighborhood

I got in one little fight and my mom got scared

She said 'You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air'

I begged and pleaded with her day after day

But she packed my suit case and sent me on my way

She gave me a kiss and then she gave me my ticket.

I put my Walkman on and said, 'I might as well kick it'.

First class, yo this is bad

Drinking orange juice out of a champagne glass.

Is this what the people of Bel-Air living like?

Hmmmmm this might be alright.

But wait I hear they're prissy, bourgeois, all that

Is this the type of place that they just send this cool cat?

I don't think so

I'll see when I get there

I hope they're prepared for the prince of Bel-Air

Well, the plane landed and when I came out

There was a dude who looked like a cop standing there with my name out

I ain't trying to get arrested yet

I just got here

I sprang with the quickness like lightning, disappeared

I whistled for a cab and when it came near

The license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror

If anything I could say that this cab was rare

But I thought 'Nah, forget it' - 'Yo, homes to Bel Air'

I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8

And I yelled to the cabbie 'Yo homes smell ya later'

I looked at my kingdom

I was finally there

To sit on my throne as the Prince of Bel Air

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My life has been very good I've been lucky health wise and Job wise

Injury wise not really anything dramatic. I have partial deafness in my left ear and a slight limp those are the only permanent medical problems I have.

In terms of a life story some highlights ( Nothing overly special just felt like contributing in some way)

- Both Parents were Canadian's living in the states

-My father left Canada to join the USMC and serve in Vietnam

-I was raised "Canadian" in Seattle and I spent my summers in Prince George B.C.

- I Graduated in 1997 and joined the Army right after I graduated

- I've been to Kosovo , Korea , Iraq , Afganistan and the U.A.E

- I was discharged from the Army in 2009 and promptly enlisted in the Navy

- I've been married going on 6 years and we have our first child on the way

That's the life of PPCLI thus far in short form

Oh and Merry Christmas everybody

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When I was twenty years old, I had a baby boy in a Mother and Baby home run by nuns. And he was so beautiful. I kept saying, isn't he beautiful? I was hoping to marry his father; he had come to see me when the baby was first born, and I thought -- I thought everything would be all right. But then, he was gone, and he wasn't answering my letters. Them nuns weren't sending my letters out at all. And I never got any letters from him. I would have married him. I loved him.

The nuns arranged for illegitimate babies to be placed in orphanages. They gave you no choice. But I had loved and cared and nurtured him for almost ten months when the nun came to me and said, "when you're finished in the nursery, come to my office. You're going home today." And I said, "can I go back and say goodbye to the baby?" "What does he know about anything? You're not going back, there's a car waiting." And I said, "But no time to say goodbye. No time to say goodbye." (nun's voice) " You're a disgrace, and you'll have your punishment."

My punishment was to be sent to one of Ireland's ten Magdalene Asylums, and I'll never forget that day so long as I live. Big, big gates opened, and all you could see were these bars on the windows and big high walls. Two or three nuns came out to meet me, and I was taken through this long dark corridor. My clothes were confiscated, and they gave me this drab uniform, you know, completely shapeless to make you look as ugly as possibly could. They called us penitents, and our penance was to work in the Magdalene Laundry for no pay. And we worked all of the time. We worked six days a week, fifty-two weeks in a year, from early in the morning till late at night. And the working was hard, because we had to bend over big sinks, you know, washing and scrubbing.

But you see, them nuns were like gods to you. You didn't dare question them. What they done was right, and you followed their instructions to the letter. They used to line us up every Saturday night. They'd have us strip naked for them, and they'd be laughing at us, and criticizing us. And if you were heavy, fat or whatever... they'd be shouting abuse to us a lot. We had to privacy with them at all, no privacy. We were enraged, but there was nothing we could do. There was just work, and praying, or silence and atoning for the sins. How wicked you were. I reckon they told us very often that Mary Magdalene had been forgiven, so we should... we would be forgiven in time.

I was absolutely desperate to find out where my baby had gone, absolutely desperate. And when I did find out that he had been adopted... all you could do was cry. There was nothing you could do but cry. I stopped working. I went and I sat on the stairs, and that's when a sister came up to me and I said to her, "You promised me I could go see my child. You promised me. I go to work and you promise me I can go see my child. That's all I'm asking. I am not daft or crazy or criminal." And she was coming closer to me and I said, "If you raise your hand to hit me, I swear I'll kill you! I mean what I'm saying!" And I felt this surge that I would kill her.

That's when they took me to the reverend mother. She shaved my head and gave a severe beating. And then she made me look into the mirror. Absolutely devastating. Your forehead all swelled up. Under my chin all bleeding from where she stuck the scissors wide open. And there's blood running in your eyes and she's making you open them eyes. (nun) "You're not so pretty now, are you?" And all this was because I wanted to see my child. That was all. I said to myself, I have to get out of here, I don't care how. I will not stay in this place forevermore. But the walls were so high, you'd be cut to ribbons. There was like barbed wire and iron spikes sticking out of the walls. It had to be planned. You couldn't just spurt out "I'm going," and go.

But there was one way the girls would escape, and that was when the old lady was bringing in the cattle. And that's what I did. I snuck out one side, she on the other, and I slid onto the street and started running toward my friend's house and as soon as I got there, the bells started ringing. I said, "let me in, let me in, the police will be here any minute." And she's asking, "what is it? Were you in prison?" I said, "no no, I was in the mad house up the road. I had a baby and my parents they sent me there." All I could think about was my child. But I couldn't stay around because I knew that if they caught up with me, I'd go back. I had spent three years in the Magdalene asylum before I escaped. I wasn't going back.

The nuns had taught us that it was a sin to be thinking about your body, it wasn't right. And it had an effect, a terrible effect. I made my way to Northern Ireland and met my husband when I was 25. He was a very nice man, very patient, very patient for a long time. But I felt ashamed whenever he touched me, I felt it was wrong. The nuns had taught us that it was wrong to let a man touch you. They didn't prepare us for the outside world, and that was wrong of them. But I wanted to have children, and I did, beautiful children.

But I was always haunted by my first baby boy. I wondered how he'd grown. What he looked like. Was he well taken care of? The nuns, they worked to break the bond between mother and child, but it stayed with me. It stayed my secret... until now.

This story is very simmiliar to my biological mothers story

'Your son is gone. He's with his adoptive parents'

December 24, 2010

Marissa Calligeros

"The room was blacked out. There were no windows and just one door.

"They tied my hands and feet to the bed. I was in agony. I was screaming out in pain.

At five o'clock I asked the nurse for the final time when my son would arrive. She turned to me and said: 'Your son is gone. He's already gone with his adoptive parents'.

"Then there was silence.

"No one would have known a baby had been born. But I did."

Advertisement

There, in an isolated delivery room of the Royal Brisbane Hospital, Trish Large's quest to find the son taken from her at birth began.

Trish would be among 250,000 unwed mothers of the "white stolen generation" in Australia.

The young women were drugged, tethered to beds, and never allowed to see their babies.

It was a practice which has been described as 'institutionalised baby farming', whereby babies born to unwed women were forcibly taken from them and illegally adopted to infertile couples.

This was the accepted practice at the RBH for up to five decades from the 1930s.

As she prepares to celebrate Christmas with her family tomorrow, Trish remembers a time when her family was incomplete.

“The nurse told me I was unfit to be a mother ... that I didn't deserve to see my son,” she said.

“My son was whisked away out of the delivery room and I was taken to an unmarried mothers' ward in the hospital.

“I demanded every day to see my son ... for every day that I was in that ward.”

However Trish, at 20 years old with no family for support, was no match for the system.

“The next day my milk came flooding in. So they forced me to wear an extremely tight elastic bandage that covered my entire chest right down to my hips," she said.

“It was so tight I could barely breathe.

“They also gave me the drug stilboestrol to dry my milk, but it also made me very calm and very quiet, just as they wanted me.”

Trish has since learned the drug is used to treat incontinent female dogs.

“The next morning a social worker came in and demanded that I sign an adoption form. When I refused she told me I would be charged with 'seduction' and deported back to England and never allowed in the country again with no chance to see my son,” she said.

The same happened the following morning, and the following.

Finally, the seemingly exacerbated social worker told Trish she could sign a hospital release form and take her son home.

“I was so excited. I thought I had won. I thought I had beat them at their own game,” she said.

“The social worker came with some forms on a clip board and I signed them. Then I sat on my bed and waited and waited for them to bring me my son.

“I sat there until they put another woman in my bed.

“At five o'clock I asked the nurse for the final time when my son would arrive.

“She turned to me and said: 'Your son is gone. He's already gone with his adoptive parents'.”

The following morning Trish – now a desperate mother – went to the Department of Child Services seeking help. Her plight fell on deaf ears.

“So I marched right to the police station on Roma Street and told them my baby had been stolen from me," she said.

“The policeman at the desk said he would need some proof that I had in fact had a baby.

“So I went back to the Royal Brisbane Hospital. I said to the woman at reception, 'I had a baby here, I would like my records'. I gave her me name.

“She said, 'Are you sure you had a baby in this hospital?'

“She said there was absolutely no record of me ever having been admitted to the hospital. And there was no record of my baby being born.”

Two years earlier Margaret Hamilton, now 64, delivered her son in the same ward.

“But I have absolutely no memory of giving birth. I have no idea how my son came into this world,” she said.

“Perhaps it was such a traumatic experience I blocked it out ... perhaps I was drugged.

“I was 19 years old. I was engaged and pregnant, but my fiancé called it off. I was to be a single mother, so I went where all single mothers went ... to a home.”

There, Margaret lived with 50 other young women, all pregnant and unmarried.

“No one asked me what I wanted to do,” she said.

On May 11, 1966 Margaret was admitted to hospital.

“I was left on a bed in a corridor. I heard another woman scream and I thought, 'Oh I don't want to be like that',” she said.

Then nothing.

“My friends tell me I must have had such a traumatic experience there I have blocked it out. But I can't imagine I would do that,” Margaret said.

“It's not unlikely I was drugged, but I have no medical records.”

Like Trish, Margaret was forced to sign adoption papers, but not before she caught a glimpse of her son in the hospital nursery.

“Yes, I saw him through the window ... but I was never allowed to hold him, or touch him,” she said.

“The adoption was illegal. I was only 19. It was not legal for a woman to consent to adoption until they were 21.

“My son was stolen from me.”

Once Margaret signed the adoption papers she was told she needed to leave the hospital.

“I was expected to return home, return to my job and never speak of it again,” Margaret said.

“I couldn't do that.”

In the weeks following the birth Margaret became increasingly depressed.

“I didn't care whether I lived or died,” she said.

“I would walk across the road without looking, hoping a car would hit me.”

Eventually Margaret could not bear her life in Brisbane.

“The streets were too familiar. Not only had I been abandoned by the man I loved, I had lost my child.”

Margaret moved to Melbourne where she regained some semblance of a normal life.

It was not until she returned to Brisbane, married and with two children, in 1990 that she once again yearned for her lost son.

“I wasn't coping. I had to find him,” she said.

Margaret, like Trish, found an ally in ALAS Queensland – Adoption Loss Adult Support – for mothers searching for their lost children.

One year later Margaret saw her son again for the first time.

“He was not the baby I saw in the hospital. He was a man. He was 25 years old,” she said.

The pair met at a country fair in regional New South Wales.

“There were people everywhere and I was so scared I would miss him," she said.

“Then I saw a man walking across a field. I recognised him by his walk. He has the walk of my family.”

There for the very first time Margaret held her son.

Margaret and Trish are among the fortunate few who have been reunited with their children, but their grief for the babies they lost has never faded.

“The grief never goes away. Adoption is a life sentence,” Margaret said.

She finds comfort remembering walking the streets of Brisbane's CBD when she was pregnant.

“I loved being pregnant, because then my baby was mine and no one could take it from me," Margaret said.

“I love my son, but I still grieve for my baby.”

For this, a formal apology from the federal government is crucial.

Margaret made a personal request to Prime Minister Julia Gillard at a community cabinet meeting at Clontarf, north of Brisbane, last month.

"My name is Margaret Hamilton," she began.

"I'm from ALAS - Adoption Loss Adult Support. There are over 250,000 white mothers who lost their babies to forcible removal at birth by the same past illegal adoption practices as Aboriginal mothers.

"How do you feel personally? Should they receive an apology?"

Ms Gillard replied: "I see in the media - and have heard sometimes face to face - some of the stories of women who face very devastating circumstances of having children taken, or being put under intolerable pressure to relinquish their children, in a different age and a different time.

"So, as a human being, of course you extend your sympathy to anybody who lived through that and through years of not knowing what happened to their child. So I think it's something we can all say, we're sorry that ever happened in Australian history."

Although this was cause of much excitement for Margaret and Trish, this personal “sorry” from the Prime Minister was not enough.

“We want our children to know that we did not give them away. We want them to know that they were loved and wanted,” Trish said.

“We do not want compensation, we just want healing.”

The "white stolen generations" are so-called to distinguish them from the indigenous stolen generations, but their suffering is shared.

Margaret last year received a handwritten letter from an indigenous elder.

"I applaud the Prime Minister's apology to our mob. But what about the white stolen generations that have suffered the same fate," the elder wrote.

"I know many white people who went through the same pain. So why can't the government do its healing again and apologise to the white stolen generation to bring closure to all this suffering.

"As we walk the same land. Breathe the same air. Drink the same water."

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Btw, your profile story...it's not author unknown, it's actually an episode of the old school twilight zone series, I think it's called " not even the devil can fool a good dog"

I'm a big Twilight Zone fan but I've had that story pasted one place or another since before I had seen that episode.

I had to watch the episode again today thanks to your reminder. Some great lines in it.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hunt_(The_Twilight_Zone)

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