Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Until Tomorrow

I am exhausted and emotionally drained tonight and don't have the mental energy or room for a full post, but I just wanted to thank everyone for your very heartfelt and loving responses to yesterday's post.  The responses I got yesterday surprised me in their intensity and brought me great comfort.  It's funny to me when people remark at how private these moments seem-- I guess I feel like I threw the privacy out the window the day I first started writing about my grief.  It all just runs together now for me--none of it seems more or less personal.  It's all terribly personal.  Some memories and reflections, like yesterday's, are decidedly more painful than others, but sharing them always, always helps.  And to anyone who ever feels like an intruder, please don't.  I've invited you in for a reason and am glad to have you here, whether I know you or not. 

Thank you all again.  Hopefully I will be in a writing state of mind tomorrow.  Missing my girl so very much tonight. 

8 comments:

  1. Much love to you and Ed, Mandy... and much adoration and amazement to the courage you display in every word! -Kristine

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  2. Mandy, you threw privacy out when you were giving birth to sweet Hudson! We always said in Labor and Delivery, you can check your modesty and privacy at the door. What a wonderful Mom you were and still are. Hudson was so lucky to have you, and still have you. Thinking of you and Hudson everyday. Love and hugs, Kelly

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  3. Hi there...I'm one of those "intruding strangers", and have been hesitant to comment until I read this tonight. And you know what? Whether we've met in person or not is a moot point... We're both moms, so we've at least got THAT in common, right? Your love for your precious Hudson is a beautiful thing, and I truly admire your example as a mother. Keep on keepin' on, Mandy...you have so much love & support, even coming from strangers! I hope you are having a few good moments whenever you happen upon this. My heart truly goes out to you.

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  4. Sleep tight, Mandy. You have a lot of people in your corner. I hold Hudson (and her mama and daddy) in my heart.
    Peaceful dreams,
    Claire

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  5. Thinking of you lots Mandy...xoxo

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  6. I wish for you one good thing. Do something nice for yourself. Give yourself a break and enjoy Fall as much as you can. I know Fall has been a favorite of yours - give it a chance to work its magic again. Don't give up. You are a wonderful person and are truly amazing for sharing so much of yourself. It has inspired me to conquer my fear of expressing myself (you know the southern instinct is to bury our feelings deep) and connect more with the people around me.

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  7. I was talking with one of my dearest friends about you last night. Although you don't know either of us we both read your blog and have been so moved by your writing that we feel like we know you personally. She I were both surprised to admit we think about you and your sweet Hudson at random times during the day when we are with our own children. You are an amazing woman and mother and your ability to express your grief so eloquently has been extraordinary. Thank you.

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  8. You don't know me, but I have been reading your blog, and thinking a lot about what I would want to write to you. I often feel like I am intruding, and I guess one way around that is to introduce myself in some way.

    First, I wish to offer you and Ed my condolences. The loss you are suffering is tragic, and the pain unimaginable. Maybe blogging and sharing it with so many people -- ones you don't even know -- can somehow spread its weight across us all. That is my hope, and it is one of the reasons I do not turn away from your posts, which often bring me to tears.

    I think of you, Ed and Hudson often. Although I am not a particularly religious person, I can tell you that I have prayed for you. I pray that God is taking care of Hudson (and I don't even know if I believe in heaven exactly). I pray that God will take care of you and Ed, and bless you with more children. In earlier posts you have talked about having more children, and the sadness over those children never meeting there older sister. To me it seems that having more children would honor Hudson, because she is the one who made you a mother, and no matter how many more children you have, that will never change. Hudson is the one who showed you what it feels like to love in this most primal and unselfish way. Having more children and giving them the kind of life you gave Hudson shows her that you would do it all over again, risking another unspeakable heartbreak.

    Your writing expresses how much joy you felt being Hudson's mom, and I can relate to that very personally, because I am experiencing that this year, as a new mother of a baby girl. Now in my mid-thirties, it took me a long time to feel ready to have a child, to have enough of a handle on my own hang-ups to be able to give a child the life she or he would deserve, and to feel worthy of that responsibility. One of the things I struggled with when I was pregnant was the lack of control. I knew that I could do all the right things, but that didn't guarantee me a healthy baby (or a healthy me). Things can go wrong. They just can. It was out of my hands, and I quickly learned to surrender to it, lest it drive me crazy. What I realized after my daughter was born is this most powerful love I have for her and this intense joy I experience because of her is a double edged sword because it makes me vulnerable to terrible loss and despair should anything happen to her. When I read your posts, I know that you are living through this. Please don't think I put distance between you and me because we are living on opposite sides of the sword. Rather, I see the line between us is minuscule because I see that all it takes is one moment for everything to change. And more importantly, that as hard as I work to keep her safe and healthy (breastfeeding, homemade baby food, no BPA, carseat, babygates, hand sanitizer, and on and on) just as you did for Hudson, I only have so much control.

    Sometimes I think about what would happen to my daughter if I died during her childhood, or when she is a young adult. I wouldn't want that to ruin her life, and I wouldn't want her to think that in order to honor me, she would have to be forever wounded. I would want to tell her that the greatest gift she could give my memory would be to live the life I gave her to its fullest. To make the most of her time here on this earth, and of the gifts she was blessed with. I wouldn't want her to waste a single moment on sadness or regret, and I would want her to know that I was always always with her -- that she was never alone. Maybe these hopes I have for my daughter are universal, and your mother (imperfect as your relationship was) would want the same things for you.

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