(9 Weeks)
After that summer, we barely spoke of him. If I had anything to say about him, my parents typically changed the subject rather quickly. Although all the family photos that include him are still in my possession. I have proof that he existed. For close to three years, I had called him my brother.
Towards the end of the summer of 1970, as I was getting excited about starting kindergarten, my parents received a phone call from Catholic Charities in Newark. They were looking for foster parents for a 9-year-old boy, who, like me, had been born in Ireland and wound up in New Jersey because of an adoption. Unlike me, for some reason, his adoption didn’t work out.
My parents agreed to take him into our home for a long weekend to see if it was a good fit. I remember the car ride to the Catholic Charities office in Newark. I was so excited about the prospect of having a brother. I don’t believe my parents had been back there since my adoption had been finalized. Catholic Charities was the agency that sponsored my parents on the U.S. side for my adoption and did the necessary background checks and home study.
The weekend visit went really well. Brian was on his best behavior and he and I hit it off. I was so elated about having a big brother and couldn’t wait for him to come back for good. I do think it was my parents’ intention for this to be the road to adoption, imagining that this boy would round out their family nicely.
Brian was back a few weeks later and would be starting 3rd grade at M.B.S. as “Brian Sheehy” the same day I was starting kindergarten. I didn’t do the math at the time to understand that at 9, he should have been starting 4th grade. He was already starting school in a difficult place – a year older than most of his classmates.
The “Brian years” were not ones my parents looked upon fondly, and I guess I recognized that things in the house changed as well. Brian, it seemed, was always in trouble for something. A fowl mouth, not doing his homework, being someplace he wasn’t supposed to be, stealing money off my dad’s dresser, then feeling guilty that he put in all in the collection basket at mass. When I looked back on it later in life it all seemed like typical “boy-stuff”. My parents were in over their heads though. Our house went from a tranquil place to a home where there was a lot of anger and yelling.
I learned that Brian had – by age 9! – been in seven foster homes before he landed in ours. After my mom found him smoking in the attic and was convinced he was going to burn the house down, she threw in the towel. Brian would be headed off to foster home #9 after his 12th birthday that summer.
Continuing to look back on the experience from the perspective of a parent many years later, judging my parents isn’t something I am willing to do. We all try our best. Although there were a lot of actions on their part I still don’t understand. These events are only through the eyes of the child that I was, the child that knew and appreciated Brian as my brother.
The Christmas they put coal in his stocking, “Santa” had given us each a set of pencils with our names on them. Both the “Mary” and “Brian” pencils wound up in the stocking that said “Mary.” When he was having trouble getting his homework done, I – the little “sister” four years his junior – was instructed to go to his teacher at the end of the day to get the assignments and bring them home to my parents.
About once a week we took Brian for counseling at a place in the basement of the Bergen Mall. This was long before the days that people were even talking about getting assistance for mental health issues. My mom would usually be the one who waited – or maybe she went in with him, I don’t know. I just remember the quality time I got to spend with my dad wandering around the mall for an hour.
As the 1972-73 school year was winding down, my parents surprised me saying that I was going to be going to day camp at the local YMCA. They also told me that Brian was going to be going to an overnight camp in upstate New York for the entire summer. They told me he wouldn’t be coming back. I was also told not to tell him that. I was 8.
Of course I told him. But not until July when my dad and I went to visit him at camp for his birthday. And only because he asked. He said he didn’t care. But I could tell he cared. That would be the last time I would see him.
After first connecting with much of my biological family 30 years ago, I reached out to Catholic Charities to see if I could find him. Brian Finn, born in Ireland on July 9, 1961. That’s all I know. It feels weird to be in the possession of all these imagines of his childhood. If only I could at least give them to him. All Catholic Charities could share was that he had aged out at 18 (which would have been 1979), and they had nothing more.
I know from my work in child welfare – adoption, foster care, juvenile justice, and now Mercy Home for Boys & Girls – that kids with difficult upbringings do somehow survive. I hope he is still out there somewhere and looking forward to celebrating his 64th birthday in July.
Please help me support Mercy Home for Boys & Girls with my 60th Birthday Fundraiser. I will be running the United Airlines NYC Half on March 16th. This will be Half Marathon #54. My goal is to reach Half Marathon #60 before the end of the year. Please help me stay motivated, and make sure the children of Mercy Home are provided the care they need. To learn more about Mercy Home and my why, please visit my fundraising page. Thank you.
