Hudson’s Bench

Before last week, Hudson’s body and spirit already permanently occupied the National Arboretum—on her birthday, we sprinkled a small portion of her ashes under a large dogwood tree in the Dogwood Collection, and quite honestly, I don’t think you can visit the place without feeling her everywhere. I know I can’t.

But now, her bench has provided us with a beautiful and tangible memorial of her, one that we can all see and touch, one on which generations of people of all ages can climb, play, cry, laugh, hold hands, kiss, rest, think, and ponder about this special little girl who inspired such a gift. We will be forever grateful to our friends Kim and Shawn for organizing the fundraising effort for the placement of the bench, and to the dozens of loved ones who contributed to this very special tribute to our girl. Because they raised more than double the amount required, Hudson’s bench will be in this very special place for more than thirty years. Amazing.

Many friends and family, including many of Hudson’s little friends, gathered with us at the Arboretum on Friday, the anniversary of Hudson’s death, to remember her, dedicate her bench, and blow bubbles to send her spirit off on an eternal mission of bringing more love and light to the world. We shared some words and some bubbles, and sang “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” one of Hudson’s favorites (her favorite parts were “Up above the world so high,” where she would sing “uppabubba” and “Like a diamond in the sky,” where she would hold her two pointer fingers together in the air, more of a roof than a diamond, but she was always very pleased with herself).

Our dear friend, Kirsten, was kind enough to take photos for us. The photos so beautifully capture how perfect this remembrance was for our girl and I wanted to share them with you. Thank you again to everyone who was there with us both in person and in spirit. I am working on collecting all the bubble photos together and will post about them soon, too.

I hope that you will have a chance to visit Hudson’s bench someday and spend some time with her there. It will be the site of many a family pilgrimage and photo for us (including some very soon once Jackson arrives), and although I wish more than anything that it had no reason to exist, if I can’t have my girl, I’m grateful to have such a special place to be with her. It is most certainly One Good Thing.

Thank You

I had hoped to post this yesterday, but I spent the entire day recovering from the physical strain of the long and emotional day that was Friday. And I’ve spent today writing and rewriting this post in my head, again and again and again, and I just can’t ever make it sound right or adequate or nearly even close to what I want it to say. For all the thousands and thousands of words I have written here, and all the hundreds of thank you notes and emails I’ve written, I still find totally elusive the words I really need to express my gratitude for countless kindnesses bestowed upon Ed and me and our families over the past year. I have repeated the same words and phrases so many times that I fear they have become hackneyed and that they fail to express the profound depth of my appreciation for all the hundreds of ways you all have lifted us in love, encouragement, and support at the same time as you have grieved with us and borne witness to our grief over the devastating loss of our precious Hudson. From the very first time I posted that Hudson might be seriously ill, the love has just been overflowing and never-ending—emails, text messages, Facebook posts, blog comments, visits, meals, gifts, donations in Hudson’s name, One Good Thing bracelets, books for Hudson’s library collection, invitations to do things, reassurances during an anxiety-filled pregnancy, helping us try to find Ed’s lost journal, One Good Things on Hudson’s birthday, sharing with us how Hudson has affected your life, making Hudson’s bench a reality, reading the blog and sharing it with others, and simply saying Hudson’s name and remembering her.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again (and here’s where I desperately wish for a magic pen to find adequate words): we could not have survived this year without all of you and your many, many gifts of all kinds, both tangible and intangible.

And Friday was no exception. The saddest of anniversaries, it was an arduous day, both physically and emotionally. But quite honestly, it was nowhere near as bad as I expected it to be. Some of that is just the normal pattern of this grief—the dread and anticipation of the hardest days and moments almost uniformly turn out to be much worse than the days themselves. But far, far more than that, the day was made lighter, softer, and more peaceful because of all of you again—hundreds of messages, posts, and comments of love and encouragement during the entire week between Mother’s Day and Friday, and throughout the day on Friday, each word successfully carrying a sliver of the weight of this awful grief for that day.

And then of course, there were the bubbles. Oh, the bubbles. I will write another post soon all about the bubbles, but for now, let me just say that every bubble I saw or heard about also helped carry a little bit of the weight of this grief, as I imagined each one carrying a tiny piece of Hudson’s spirit ever farther into the world where her light is so very needed.

For want of adequate words, I will just say it again. Thank you. From the very bottom of my heart. Thank you so much.

One Year: A Letter to My Girl

Oh, my sweet Hudson. I just can’t believe we are here. A year ago today, we were forced to say goodbye to you, the joy and light of our lives, many, many decades before we were ready to do so. And even those many decades from now, it should have been you saying goodbye to us after we had gotten very old, after we had watched you grow up and light the world on fire, after we’d all had many years to love one another to pieces. My heart remains so very broken, sweet girl, for you, for your daddy and me, for everyone who loved you, for everyone who never got to know you, and for the world that never got to experience how you would change it if you’d been given the chance to live a long and, I am certain, amazing life.

When you were so cruelly stolen from us, I didn’t know how we would survive the first day, let alone the first month, and I certainly couldn’t picture our lives without you one year later. In many ways, I still can’t. We are living, certainly, but it often feels like we are living only half a life. So much still feels so empty without you, my girl. I am sitting here looking at the last picture we have of you, almost a week before you died, when you were noshing on those yummy black beans at the San Antonio Bar and Grill. You were getting so grown up already, filling out the high chair, learning to eat with a big person’s spoon, looking earnestly into the camera, face and arms covered in black beans, as if to say, “What’s so funny, Mommy?” I look at this picture and still just can’t understand how you will never get to be any older than that, that you will never get to be in any more of our family photos, that I will never get to look into those gorgeous eyes again in order to tell you how very much I love you.

So much has happened since you’ve been gone, my sweet Hudson, and yet the fact that the world has continued to turn after your death still feels so wrong sometimes. We’ve now lived through so many “firsts” without you—your daddy’s first Father’s Day without his little girl, the first Halloween, your birthday, the first Christmas, the first beautiful spring without you in it. Last week, I survived my first Mother’s Day without you, my girl, and I can only say that it was awful. And now we are waiting for your precious little brother to arrive and we are so incredibly sad that the two of you will never know one another on this earth. We just miss you so very much. Sometimes it is hard even to speak it because it hurts us so. I don’t know how we made it this far, my girl, but here we are. There are many moments where I feel like a life lived without you is hardly worth living, so woven are you into my heart and into the very fiber of my being.

And yet it’s because you are so much a part of who I am that I know that I must go on living, and living well. For you. For me. For the world that deserves to know how special you are. When you died, I promised you and myself that in order to help keep your spirit alive in the world, I would live the lesson that you taught me—to cherish what is, rather than dwelling on what should be. To look for the One Good Thing even when things seem bad. As it turns out, that is so much easier said than done, particularly in these very dark days that we must live without you. So many days, it feels almost impossible—how can I say that anything good could have come from you being gone? At any given moment, I would gladly trade back every ounce of wisdom I have gained from having lost you. I would gladly return to being my naively ignorant self if it only meant that I could have you back.

But I know that no amount of wishing can ever bring you back. So I must continue to let you teach me and guide me every day, sweet girl. You are helping me understand that it is on the very darkest days when I need to look the hardest for the One Good Thing. What an amazing gift you continue to give me, to give all of us.

So on this saddest of anniversaries, I commit myself again to honoring your life and your memory by finding the One Good Thing. When I look back over the last year, it’s easy to find many, many things to be sad about—we have lost so much. The world has lost so much without you in it. But it is not difficult at all to find things to be grateful for, all the little gifts that you have left for us, that you continue to leave for us each day. Because of you, the babies at St. Ann’s are getting a new education room, full of all the books and learning toys that you loved so much. Because of you, families and friends of other sick babies at the hospital where you died can now give money designated specifically for the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit that took such good care of you. Because of you, our local library has more than 300 new and beautiful books for children of all ages to enjoy. Because of you, generations of people, young and old, will find a place to sit and rest, contemplate, or play on your special bench here in the Dogwood Collection at the National Arboretum.

But even more important than all of these very tangible impacts your life and spirit continue to make on the world are all the intangible gifts you continue to give all of us. Because of you, so many people around the world, even people who never knew you, are wearing your One Good Thing Bracelet, and living and sharing your lesson with others. Because of you, mommies and daddies all over hug their babies tighter. Because of you, so many of us are trying harder each day to let go of the little hurts and focus on the big love. Because of you, sweet girl, your little brother, Jackson, will grow up with a keen sense of what is truly important in life—love, laughter, family, giving of oneself, and living each moment fully and completely. He will know these things because of you, his big sister, Hudson. And in the midst of such deep sorrow, my girl, that is truly One Good Thing.

So today, when people at the Arboretum and all over the world blow bubbles to remember you and honor your life, this is what I will be thinking of. With each shiny bubble that drifts into the wind, I will be thinking of your great big heart, your giant spirit, your endless capacity for love and for having fun, and your very important lesson—I will imagine these things winding their way through the world, hopefully reaching others just when they need them the most. And in the many sad days in the future without you, the many sad anniversaries, the many more “firsts” we face, I will picture those Hudson bubbles and I will try to smile. That is one of your many, many gifts to me, my sweet girl.

You are gone but you should not be. But, following your lead, I will cherish what is— that your dad’s and my lives, and so many others, are changed forever because you were in them. Your smile, joyful laugh, mischievous ways, sweet voice, and wise countenance are indelibly burned on my heart-- I would do anything to hear you say “Mama” just one more time. You are gone but you should not be. Thank you for helping me cherish what is. I love you.

Oh, my girl, how I love you and miss you. You are my heart, dear one.

Seasons of Love: A Celebration

Hudson Lily Hitchcock Chaney
December 1, 2008-May 13, 2010

This is the slideshow we prepared for Hudson’s memorial service.



A child who brought so much joy. A life so wonderfully lived.

We love you, sweet Hudson, and we miss you more than we could ever say.

Remembering Hudson Tomorrow

Just a reminder that if you are not in the DC area, or can’t join us at the Arboretum tomorrow for another reason, we would love for you to join us in remembering Hudson wherever you are at any time tomorrow by blowing bubbles in her memory. A friend created a special Facebook page for this purpose, so feel free to RSVP there and post pictures there, too. If you don’t want to use the Facebook page, you can still email me pictures if you’d like—I will post them both here and on the Facebook page. If you are so inclined, let us know where you are from and/or where you are blowing your bubbles (if these are different).

If you are planning to join us at the National Arboretum at 3:30 tomorrow to remember Hudson and dedicate her bench, here are a few more details in case you need them:

• We will be in the Dogwood Collection (see this map-the Collection is in the far northeast corner of the Arboretum) and someone will be at the entrance to the Dogwood Collection to point you to where we are (her bench is tucked just a little bit out of the way). Parking is available at the Dogwood Collection and the nearby Asian and Conifer Collections, and on some (but not all) of the main roads in the Arboretum (please be respectful of the “No Parking” signs).
• Dress is very casual (and temperatures will be in the low to mid-70s).
• We will provide bubbles for blowing.
• We are planning only brief words for this remembrance, as we’d prefer more time for blowing bubbles, visiting, and just celebrating Hudson’s spirit there in the beauty of the Arboretum.  
• Sadly, the weather forecast has turned a little bit iffy (previously they were calling for tomorrow to be beautiful, with rain coming in only in the late evening). It is supposed to be overcast all day, with possible showers moving in later in the afternoon. Unfortunately, there is no real shelter at the Arboretum. That said, we will only postpone if it is raining heavily. Hopefully, the rain will stay to our west and not make it all the way into town, but if there are only light showers, we’ll just head on out there with umbrellas.
• Finally, while there are certainly no signs that Jackson is coming anytime soon (and I have many reasons now for hoping that he waits until at least Saturday), obviously we’d have to cancel if that changes. If something happens that makes us believe we’ll actually be at the hospital tomorrow, I will definitely let you know, so you can check in here before you head out to the Arboretum.

Finally, we are just overwhelmed with the number and variety of people who want to remember and honor our girl tomorrow. We remain so grateful to all of you for the love, support, and encouragement you have continued to give us over this past year. Our Hudson is such a lucky girl to have so many people who love her and want to celebrate her life. Thank you.

Needing the Grief

Okay. As in how I’ve been feeling the last day or so. And I’m both grateful for it and perplexed by it. Sunday and Monday were incredibly hard, but yesterday was pretty manageable. As I headed into this week, I guess I anticipated that my brain would be hijacked right back into every single harrowing moment of those last four days we spent with Hudson, the worst of which I have already written about here on several different occasions. I thought this week would mean reliving all those nightmarish experiences over again. I thought I would spend each day thinking, “At this time last year, Hudson got diagnosed and admitted to the PICU” and “At this time last year, we got the devastating news from the second CT scan.” But somehow, I’ve managed to avoid all that. I’m not purposely doing so. I wasn’t even particularly busy yesterday, which I had been on Monday. I had plenty of downtime during which I could have easily been caught up in the awful sadness that this week represents for us, but somehow I didn’t.

I don’t know if this is just my trusty protective coating of numbness kicking in as we get closer to Friday or what. I certainly do have a bit of a sense of floating outside myself right now given how surreal my entire life seems right now—sitting around worrying myself sick waiting for Jackson to be born, still completely unable to imagine what life is going to be like with him here and Hudson not, floored that we are about to have a newborn in the house again but all by himself—all this while simultaneously trying to plan for how to commemorate the one-year anniversary of Hudson’s death. When we made the decision to keep trying to get pregnant through August, I knew this would be a possibility. When it actually came about that we had a baby due within days of the anniversary, I took a deep breath and just tried to believe that it was supposed to happen that way (although after what happened to Hudson, it is certainly harder than ever to believe that anything is ever really supposed to happen). But now that it is here, it feels completely dreamlike—again, like this must be anyone else’s life but my own.

And then just as I finished writing the above, I went looking for something on the blog, something I’d written back in December. And as I was looking, I came across this instead. I couldn’t help but watch. My god, that child’s shining face. That I will never see again. As soon as the first chord sounded and the first photo appeared, I was sobbing. After I’d just written that I’d been feeling OK. But the truth is, I need to sob. This week, I need the grief just as much as I need respite from it. As I’ve said so many times, the grief and the pain are such a large part of what keeps me connected and close to my beautiful child—as hard as it is, it has become familiar, even comfortable. To be distant from it during this week… well, it just doesn’t make sense to me. I just need it. In a way that I can’t explain.

My dearest, sweetest, most beautiful little girl—I love and miss you so very much, my girl. I am crying for you now.

Mother’s Day

I waited most of this day to write, hoping to be inspired to say something profound about Mother’s Day, something about being a motherless daughter and a childless mother on a day that is all about celebrating mothers, something helpful to all my other mama-friends who have lost their children, something uplifting and celebratory. 

But I have nothing profound or uplifting to say. I have little to say at all. Today marks the one-year anniversary of the day Hudson started slipping away from us.

And all I can think about is this:

All I can think about is how I spent most of last Mother’s Day (and the wretched day after) with my girl resting in just this position, sleeping quietly on my chest, hopefully recovering from whatever bug was plaguing her, and how I held her again in this position four days later, just after she died. 

All I can think about is how grateful I am to that amazing little girl who made me a mother, how privileged I am to be her mother, and how lucky I was to be able to mother her so much during the last days she spent at home.

All I can think about are the fateful decisions we made that day and during the next 18 hours, decisions that, if they’d been different, might have meant she’d be with us here today. I spent the last few days hoping that my sweet Jackson might decide to be born today, perhaps granting me some kind of decisive absolution from my two children, an ultimate gesture from the two of them telling me that it is all okay, that I did everything that I could, and that even though it wasn’t enough to save Hudson’s life, I am still a good mommy and will be one again. I know that may seem ridiculous, but that is just where I am today.

It’s Mother’s Day. I miss my little girl. And that’s about all I can say.