Hudson's Big Brother

Hudson's name comes up every day in our house. A memory will come to mind or we will see his name somewhere. I kid you not. Every day that little boy's name appears on clothing labels, work trailers, street signs, ring designs, or something just out of the blue online or in a store. So, it is not uncommon for us to talk about him.

Tonight on the way to the store, Graham asked me if he was my favorite boy. This is something we do often. I told him that he was my favorite boy in the whole world (after daddy, of course). A few moments went by and he said, "Was Hudson also your favorite boy?"

I choked up immediately and through my tears, I replied, "You are my favorite big boy and Hudson is my favorite little boy."

Normally after an interaction like this Graham will go on to another topic pretty quickly but tonight was different.  He wanted to keep talking about Hudson.

I've noticed the last few weeks that Graham is growing more curious about his little brother in heaven. He's asked me things like, "Mommy, why don't you have more babies?" I then reminded him that I do but that he lives in heaven with Jesus.  Graham notices that all of his friends have younger siblings.  

Twice recently he has asked me that once we "get our baby" (meaning adopt), "Will we get to keep that baby or will the baby go to heaven too?"  He is understanding more and more what it means that we had Hudson here and now we do not.  

As we pulled into the parking lot tonight, I heard sniffling coming from the back seat.  These were like grown-up sniffles from real tears. Not normal four-year-old tears because he bumped his foot for the tenth time today.  Real emotion type tears.

I asked what was wrong and he said, "I miss Hudson."  Once again, the tears flowed for both of us.  He then asked me if Hudson would ever come back to be with us. It took me a few moments to compose myself but I was finally able to whisper, "No, buddy. He won't come back.  He's in heaven."

This is the first time since losing Hudson that Graham has really cried for his brother.  He has cried before when we talked about him but tonight it was different.  These were big boy cries of grief.  I'm seeing my little boy grow up as a big brother but without his little brother. He asked me in the grocery store tonight who could sit next to him in the cart and then he said his Pooh or Hudson could sit there.

As Graham soaks up the world and sees other families, he understands who the mommy is in the family, who the daddy is, the big and little brothers and sisters.  He is beginning to realize that we are missing his three-year-old little brother in a more tangible and emotional way.  Navigating his emotions of loss is painful for both of us.

Tonight we just sat in the grocery store parking lot and cried together.  I am sure this won't be the last time we cry together over the missing piece in our family.

As we got out of the car, we played a little game we often play together.  It is called, "What if Hudson were here?" I know that might sound strange but honestly, it has helped us heal and brought us silly laughter many times.  Sometimes we say things like, "I bet Hudson would be really good at Hide and Seek." 

Tonight as we played this little family game that was created out of our grief, I said, "If Hudson were here you two could have shared a room together and maybe even gotten bunk beds. But, then he'd probably laugh at you all the time and you wouldn't get any sleep." Graham, in true big brother fashion, said, "No, he would have to room with the baby we are going to get. I'm not sharing my room."

We wiped our tears and talked about how sick our buddy Hudson was and that he fought so hard. We talked about how there are no tears in heaven and that Hudson's heart is not messed up anymore. I told Graham that Hudson won't come back because he is with Jesus and he would never, ever want to leave Him. And, then we went and got some ice cream with our tear-stained faces.

Grahambo misses you, Huddy Buddy. More and more we miss you, not less and less. The hole gets bigger as you would be getting older. In my head, I can hear the silly laughs you and your big brother would be sharing.  I'll hear them for real when I join you in eternity. Until then, my boy, we best buddies and you are my favorite boy, just like your big brother and your daddy. Love, Mommy

Here are just a few pictures of times that we have recently seen see our boy's name.  We love seeing his name. If you come across it, share it with us!

One Year in Heaven

One Year in Heaven. I know that there is no time there. No clocks, seconds, minutes, hours. No need for the sun to shine because our God is bright enough in Himself to be the light of all of heaven. There is no waiting. There is no crying. No tears. No sickness. No more dying. No separation. No confusion. There is worship. There is God. Jesus. The Holy Spirit. My grandparents, my anchors. My son, my heart.

One year in heaven might feel like one second or one million years. There is worship showing up in all different forms. Perhaps laying at the thrown of God in awe. Perhaps singing and dancing or building something beautiful or painting a masterpiece. Worship. Worship. Worship. No tears.

One year in heaven without pain. No surgery. No medication. No blood tests or needles. No beeping machines. No flat lines. No sin. No brokenness. No hospitals. There is joy unspeakable. Perfect peace. What we know in part, you know fully there. Glorified like your savior, knowing the whole story of redemption. What a beautiful story, indeed.

One year in heaven. So far, one year ahead of me. I don’t know how many years you will be there, my son, before I arrive. I imagine you whole. This isn’t a fairytale to hold in my grief. It is true. As I write through the tears, my broken heart knows that your heart is whole. I don’t understand it or like it. I can’t even fully appreciate it but it is true.

One year in heaven is one year away from this mama who loves you so much. I can still recall how you would jump in my womb and get the hiccups and the fear of your early delivery, not knowing if you would breathe. The first time we met face to face and you WERE breathing! All of our little talks about life and the world beyond hospital walls are still with me. Your cheeks are the best in the whole world. Your sideburns are legendary. Your big brother talks about you each time we see hand sanitizer. “Bubbles! We get those when we see Huddy!”  Your daddy is brave and works so hard and I catch him with tears rolling down his face as he remembers you, sweet boy. He wanted to teach you to fly a helicopter and take you to the farm. A dream lost. We miss you in the big things like Christmas morning but also in the little moments like bath time. I see your spot in our family at our table, in our car, in the grocery cart next to Graham. I see tired mamas with two little ones and I just stare at them to figure out if their kids are my kids’ ages. To see what it would look like if you were here with us. Just a glimpse of what it would be for us with two. With Huddy. Big Brother Grahambo and I have a game. We play, “If Huddy were here, what would we be doing?” Often his answers are things like hiding in the closet, dancing, playing with trains. My answer is kissing those awesome cheeks.

One year in heaven feels like forever for me. Part of me went with you. That’s okay, I’m your mama. The rest of me will arrive when God chooses. Sweet boy, worship has been so hard for this mama and done out of obedience and not delight. But, I’ve learned that is what we still have in common. You worship Him there and I’ll worship Him here (though it isn't always pretty). See, that’s what we’d do if Huddy were here or we were all in heaven, we would worship Jesus.

Let us worship...out of obedience and awe....

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.

Blessed be the name of the Lord, in heaven and on earth.

Mama loves you, sweet boy.

You enjoy Jesus.

Sweet, sweet Jesus.

He surely is enough, even when your son has spent one year in heaven.

You Don't Know Her Name But She Mattered

It was a normal day. As normal as life in the intensive care unit can be.

I was holding my precious baby with half a heart and telling him stories about how I fell in love with his daddy walking the streets of Manhattan. We had been in the unit for months now. I lost track of time and I had to look outside to see if it were day or night. By this point I could speak the language of acronyms thrown around by doctors and confirm dosing on medications for my son like a seasoned pharmacist. I knew what every beep meant and which ones shouldn’t make me tremble and which called the cavalry.

I had so many days like this one watching his numbers rise and fall, conversations with the new fellow who knew less about my son medically than I did and hearing about life outside these walls from what the nurses did on their shifts away from the chaos. Those medical warriors could be saving a life and at the same time talking about their favorite restaurant. It was a normal day for them too.

Normal became unimaginable as I picked out phrases being
said across the room. The specialist and his fellow were with Baby Girl in bed one. We were bed four. We had come to know Baby Girl after months of rooming together. We didn’t know her specific heart challenges but we knew her cries and that she loved to sit in her swing.

Life in the hospital is really never normal but a routine is built. I learned that I would have to step out of the unit when certain alarms sounded, a child was being admitted or coming back from surgery. On this particular day, I was tucked away rocking our boy and no one asked me to step out. I could hear the doctor answer the parents’ questions, “We could operate but we know it won’t work. She will require the same surgery again and again for it simply not to work in the end. We shouldn't put her through that. Of course, you can seek a second opinion but they will say the same.” Baby Girl’s mom pleads, “But, I read something online. Can’t you try that?” The conversation continued for around twenty minutes and the questions became more desperate. A mama and a daddy’s heart pleading for solution.

The last thing I overheard was the doctor saying, “There is simply no more we can do but make sure she is as comfortable as possible.”

Her stunned daddy just stood there over Baby Girl’s bed. No outward emotion. Just stunned. Lost. Her mama kept tearfully asking unanswerable questions.

The best of the best had nothing to offer.

I don’t know what happened with Baby Girl after she left our unit. I think about her often. She was just under two years old. She was a foster child with a severe heart defect. She was loved by her birth parents and her foster parents. Her short life was more complicated than it should have been. She didn’t have hundreds following her story or t-shirts made in her honor. No 5k’s were run in her name. No newspaper articles printed celebrating her fight.

But, I’ll never forget her.

She mattered.

She fought.

She is loved.

For whoever touches you, touches the apple of His eye.
Zechariah 2:8b

Baby Girl, your hips don’t lie J. (A little inside joke between us girls.)

Grieving in the Season of Merriment

December marks the “most wonderful time of the year” and we are reminded of this through song, decorations, sermons, gifts and even smells. As a person walking through deep grief, it feels far from merry most days and certainly not jolly. During a season marked for togetherness, grief can isolate once again even in a room of loved ones.

So how do we get through a season of celebration when our hearts are in tiny broken pieces? How do we take holiday family photos or buy gifts knowing our son is not going to be with us Christmas morning?

There are no simple answers. 

I can tell myself that Christmas is about our savior and the miracle of His birth. I can look forward to time with people I love and cherish. I can take intentional time to “pre-grieve” ahead of Christmas in preparation for moments of celebration.

But, at the end of the day, my heart misses my son terribly even if it is advent. I simply don’t feel merry & bright just because those are the lyrics I hear as I sit in traffic.

Even though I miss our son desperately, I want to be fully present for Christmas for his big brother. Picturing him on Christmas morning, I want the atmosphere of our home to be that of joy and celebration. But, how is that possible when we are missing ¼ of our little family?

I thought I’d share something that has seemed to help me in my grief during this sacred season. I keep thinking about the fact that I will only have a certain number of Christmas days.

My paternal grandfather got 96 Christmas days. My maternal grandmother got 72. My cousin got 37.

My precious son was given ONE Christmas day.

If I think of Christmas in terms of a special gift that you only receive a few times in your whole life versus a day to simply survive, it is somehow a bit easier for me to approach this holy day with less dread and even a bit of anticipation and dare I say...worship.

So, I will hang our Hudson’s stocking as a way to include him on this first Christmas without our boy. In his honor, I will donate to families who are hurting right this minute with children in the cardiac intensive care unit at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. 

If I count my Christmas days, it causes me to pause and makes me want to be fully present to make significant memories with those I love. I only get a few of these. Even with lots of traditions, each and every Christmas day is unique and special.

So my plan is to walk into my 38^th Christmas day, bringing Hudson along in my heart for his first Christmas day in heaven. 

There is no tension of merriment and grief in heaven. It is just joy there. No more tears. No more tensions.

Thanks be to God.

O Come, Let us Adore Him!

If your heart is breaking today as we enter the Christmas season, perhaps it might help you as well to take a minute and ask, 

“How many Christmas days will I get?”

Hudson's Christmas Stocking

As a way of honoring our son, Hudson’s fight of congenital heart disease, we will be collecting gift cards of any amount to fill Hudson’s Christmas stocking.

We will be sending the gift cards to families who are battling heart disease with a card from Hudson’s Stocking including a note about Hudson’s strong fight.

Families in the hospital on Christmas day desire so desperately to make the day unique and a celebration even in the midst of deep pain and sadness. We hope this small surprise will bring a smile to their tear stained faces.

We hope to send at least 25 gift cards from Hudson!

To join efforts with us, you can mail a gift card of any amount to:

Hudson’s Christmas Stocking

PO Box 1192

Kannapolis, NC 28082

"I Can't Even Imagine"

I’ve heard this phrase more than any other in the last several months after our precious son, Hudson went to heaven. My reply is often, “And I hope you never do.” I truly mean that. I pray that you may never know this loss.

I do want...

To be heard.

To be understood.

To be normal.

To be held.

For someone else to cry with me.

I read a quote recently that could help explain agonizing grief of losing a child to my caring friends who say to me, “I can’t even imagine.” Basically the author said something like burying your child makes you hear sounds you’ve never heard, taste what you’ve never tasted, see colors you’ve never seen. That language of using the senses to describe devastating grief helps me put my own grief into explainable terms to those who love me.

I feel as though each of my senses are affected. Everything is affected. To put into words how my heart feels is an impossible task but some words I can use are shattered, destroyed, agony, tears, loneliness. I feel a million miles from everyone around me. I’m in a fog and only grasp about half of what is said to me. I think that is survival.

If I’m nothing else through this process, I want to be honest and real. I’m not a hero or a spiritual giant. I’m just a mama whose arms are empty at 3am when I should be holding my baby boy.

I love Jesus.

My heart is broken.

That’s the truth.

I’m seeing colors…ones I pray you never know exist.

Ten Things To Do for Families with Children in the Hospital

After spending nine months at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia with our precious Hudson, we wanted to share a few things that helped us along the way. Our friends and family did these things so well and we are forever grateful.

Hopefully this list will help you if you find yourself with friends in this horrible situation.

1. Pray: the family is exhausted, desperate and at the end of their rope. They have little to no energy to pray for themselves so pray for them often and let them know that you are praying. Add the family to prayer emails at your church. If possible, keep up to date with the current situation with their child and pray specifically.

2. Send Money: hospital life drains a bank account fast. Parking alone can cost $150-$200 a month plus if the family had to relocate, out of town housing immediately hits their budget. Many families lose jobs if care is longer term.

3. Send Food: Seamless Web or Grubhub will let you order, pay and tip from anywhere in the country and deliver it directly to the family. If you don't use those websites, you can easily find a pizza or sub place near the hospital to deliver.

4. Send notes of encouragement and truth. While incredibly hard to believe truth while in the dark, it is helpful to receive scripture and notes of truth.

5. Don't stop reaching out. Whether a text message, a voicemail or a note in the mail, don't stop contacting the parents. They are consumed with fear and dealing with doctors and specialists all day long so they may not reply but don't back away.

6. Take care of their home while they are away. Mowing the grass, checking the mail (and forwarding it), cleaning it before they return.

7. Go! I know this may be impossible depending on the family situation in the hospital and your situation. But, if you are close to the family and there is a way, go by and see them. If they are local, go even for a few minutes. It can feel like a war zone and like the rest of the world keeps spinning and doesn't know you are at war. People stepping inside the war zone makes you feel remembered and supported.

8. Send money (or gift cards). Saying it twice on purpose. While a homemade meal is wonderful, worrying about rent, house payments, medical bills and so on is salt in a very painful wound. If the family doesn't have a fund, create one and get friends to give. The only way our family survived was standing on the shoulders of people who love us.

9. Send something funny. I know this may seem a little strange and it might not work for some people, but getting a good belly laugh out of me in the last year of my life has been almost impossible. A few friends were good at this and believe it or not, that voicemail left in a crazy voice made me laugh out loud as I had tears in my eyes walking to the hospital AGAIN.

10. Share their emotions. If you are grieving with the family, let them know. If you are thinking of them, let them know. If you cry about their child's situation, let them know. It is so hard to step inside the pain of the situation but somehow it helps. It doesn't make sense really but it does help to know that others are feeling at least a portion of what you are feeling as the parent.

Bonus ideas: help with siblings, care packages, cleaning service, help with pets, send a book, buy a subscription to netflix or hulu, do laundry, do something special for holidays/birthdays


Posted in honor and memory of the strongest little man I've every met, our Hudson.

Dear Hudson: a letter to my baby boy in heaven

From Daddy & Mama

Written for our Hudson for his special service

May 20, 2016

Our Precious Hudson, our Huddy Buddy,

We often told you that you were the strongest person we had ever met. We sang Happy Birthday regularly. We would hold you for hours and sing to you and you would hold onto our finger for dear life. We talked about the seasons, what kindergarten is like, what middle and high school is like, prom, college, your amazing grandparents, fun uncles, aunts & cousins, The Alexander Farm and The Sylvestre farm and about tractors and helicopters. How we met and fell in love walking along the HUDSON River. About your big brother, Grahambo who learned the word, “brother” before he could say Hudson because that is how he knew you, his little brother. We told you about everything but most importantly about Jesus and heaven and how it was a real place where we will all be together.

We are so happy that you know the whole story now. You know what eternity is, what God looks like and you’ve touched the nail prints in Jesus’ hands. You’ve seen the golden streets and spent time with the Apostle Paul. There are no scars on your little body. You know the WHOLE story. THE WHOLE REDEMPTIVE STORY. You know your piece of the story and how much of an impact you’ve had on thousands of people, mostly on your mama and daddy’s hearts.

Forevermore, we will be Hudson’s mama and daddy. Though your home is in heaven, you will forever be our special boy who we would stare into your eyes and wished to bring to our house and show you the precious things of life, the mundane things and the most important things. We will miss your chubby cheeks, your squishy arms, your silly side burns and your little grunts telling us about your day.

We wanted to teach your ABC’s and how to count to five. We wanted to see you run and play and call your name across the house when it’s time for bed. We wanted to cuddle you and Graham on the bed just before it was time for “night, night”. We wanted to dance at your wedding and be your children’s grandparents but God’s plan was different.

God chose to call you home and to reveal to you, before us, His whole redemptive story. We don’t know exactly how heaven works. We know we will worship our amazing God but we do hope that God will allow you to welcome us there. To welcome us home, to be truly home and to finally see the whole story alongside you. What a glorious day it will be, to be with you again, our boy. Our precious Hudson. Our Huddy Buddy.

We miss you and wish we could have you back but sweet boy, enjoy our sweet Jesus. We are so glad you are whole.

We best buddies. Daddy, Mama, Graham & Hudson.

We best buddies…forevermore.

Thank you & "How am I doing?"

I don't know that I will ever be able to write each person back who has reached out in the last 8 or 9 months. I owe so many people thank you notes that I should invest in that super cute store, Paper Source. But, that does not diminish each and every note, card, blanket made, care package, gift card, donation, prayer we received. Every single one has been cherished along the way.

My heart is grateful and we would be utterly destitute without you and the generosity of others making sacrifices on our behalf on a daily basis.

So..for what it is worth....

Thank you from the bottom of our hearts. 

You have been a tangible Jesus to our family and you've kept us from being hauled off to the poor house and the loony bin.

The other question I get from people who love me is...

"How are you doing?"

I often don't answer. It is not to be rude. It is because as I read the question worded in so many different ways, I take a moment to reflect.

For months, in just one minute I will be angry, overcome with grief, anxious, full of tears, feel like I may throw up but then belly laugh at my silly husband letting our two year old climb the wall. I'm sleepless yet feel like I've run ten marathons. Every task (including writing this) takes herculean strength to complete. Why does it take me all day to write an email??? I feel like I'm swimming through mud and walking around with cement in my shoes.

How am I supposed to feel? I don't know. I'm mad as hell. I'm devastated. I'll never be the same.

I was reading the book A Grace Disguised this morning. The author lost his mother, wife and daughter in a car accident and he was left to raise their other 3 children. He talks about trauma like this as being an amputation. He says that some loss is like a broken bone that will mend but those who have lost a limb have to learn a new normal altogether. I have a lot to learn.

I've been on the front lines of war and now I'm suddenly jerked back into normal society with PTSD. I'm reading and learning from others who have gone before me on this sorrowful path. I learning that I have no control in my life except my response to what happens.

I refuse to let myself grow bitter because I know we serve a BIG God who does things like allow your baby to die without explanation but He is not cruel. He is good. He is eternal. His ways are not my ways. I'm still mad as hell but He is big enough to handle all of that and loves me just the same.

How am I doing? I'm full of tears and missing my chubby, squishy baby boy and trying to keep myself sane.

Hudson's Story

Sitting around a conference room table is not an unfamiliar place for me. I’ve done it for years for my job but this was a different experience that made me sick to my stomach. Once again my husband and I were talking to the brightest minds in our country about our son’s health and the news was very grim. They couldn’t even give us statistics for survival as they had not seen his specific case before.

Meet our son…

Our incredibly precious and strong baby boy, Hudson Sylvestre was born six weeks premature on July 17, 2015 with a condition called hypoplastic left heart syndrome, meaning he only has half a heart. With just two days’ notice, our family had to leave our home, jobs, church and family in North Carolina to relocate to Philadelphia to save our son’s life. In addition to his congenital heart defect, Hudson has also experienced several other life threatening conditions that required intervention even while in the womb.

In the delivery room the doctors offered for the hospital chaplain to come and quickly baptize our son and a photographer to get pictures in case we weren’t able to see him alive. To everyone’s surprise Hudson is breathing on his own after going into cardiac arrest and then being on life support.

Hudson has undergone open heart surgery and liver surgery as well as suffering through a life threatening infection in his stomach two different times. Our Hudson is an incredible fighter and is now three months old and in the cardiac intensive care unit at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP). He will remain under CHOP’s care until he is big enough for his second open heart surgery which means we will be away from home for at least several more months. We are so deeply thankful for the expert care he is receiving.

There are not sufficient words to express our gratitude to God, to the many family members, friends, churches and even strangers who have cared for us during such a painful time. Strangers have welcomed us into their homes, loaned us cars, donated food and funds. We love our sweet Hudson so much and we would have already been devastated without the support of others.

We ask you to join us in prayer for Hudson’s life and health. Thankfully he is stable now and is such a cutie. Check out his cheeks!

Hope lives here!

Romans 5:3-5

We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance,  and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.

With grateful hearts,

Corey, Amy & Big brother Graham

PS I’ve often said that if tears healed babies, our son would be whole.

To join Hudson’s journey, visit his page:

https://www.facebook.com/hudsonsheart/

https://www.gofundme.com/havehalfaheart