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!

Grief Sets You Apart

I miss my son. My special, strong boy. The missing will never leave me. The place where he belongs in our family only gets larger as he would be getting older. I missed him terribly at Graham's birthday party. His little brother was so clearly absent that I could feel it with each breath that I took. 

I think that I will look for him each day of my life. Every family photo I will notice where he would be. Every meal, every holiday, every moment of my life, I look to the place made just for Hudson. On Graham's wedding day, we will have a missing groomsman. On my deathbed, I will be looking and seeing where he should be standing, next to his big brother, Graham. This hole will never leave me. I will always see and feel it.

Grief is longing and loving and aching. It washes over like a tidal wave that nearly drowns you. Grief changes everything. Everything. It has changed my capacity (everything requires more energy now), the way I see the world, the way I see God and prayer and church and worship. It has changed me. My heart has aged a lifetime.

I feel everything more deeply now. The good and the hard emotions. Joy is more palpable and genuine, and sorrow is felt down in my bones.  

We all carry grief in our hearts. A lost love. A lost dream. A lost marriage. A lost child. A lost parent. A lost sibling. A lost career.  A loss of health. A loss of identity.

Our grief sets us apart. It marks us. We are persevering in a fallen and broken world with battle scars. The danger I am facing is that grief wants to separate me.

Being set apart as a veteran of grief and loss is something that God can use. 

But, grief wants to whisper often and consistently, "No one understands, nor can they understand. You are alone in your sorrow. You are alone in your loss. You don't manage your grief like you should. You should hide. You should be ashamed. You should have more faith. God doesn't even understand you anymore. You are different now. They don't want to know this new you. This hurting you. Just pull away. Just hide. Just manage the tidal wave alone."

I am in the war now. Everything in me wants to retreat and be separated by my grief. Separated from people, family, my own heart, and certainly from this big God who loves me but confuses me.

My new prayer is that God would allow my grief to set me apart, battle scars and all. But, that I won't believe the lies and run away alone and be swallowed by the grief. Because, oh will it swallow you! 

I was reminded of this beautiful song last week and I just realized (after naming this post!) it has the phrase, "set me apart" right there in the lyrics. Lord, chase me down when grief drags me to loneliness, hopelessness, and deep sorrow. Don't let me isolate my heart from those who love me. Don't let my hardened, bruised heart push you away. Mold me, Lord. Make me like clay in your hands. I've been there before but now, I'm so wounded that my heart is hardened in the survival of grief. Soften me, Lord, and then use me again.

The Potter's Hand

Beautiful Lord, wonderful savior

I know for sure, all of my days are held in Your hands

Crafted into Your perfect plan

You gently call me, into Your presence

Guiding me by, Your Holy Spirit

Teach me, dear Lord,

To live all of my life through Your eyes

I'm captured by, Your Holy calling

Set me apart

I know You're drawing me to Yourself

Lead me, Lord, I pray

Take me, Mold me

Use me, Fill me

I give my life to the Potter's hands

Hold me, Guide me

Lead me, Walk beside me

I give my life to the Potter's hand

He Should Be Two Years Old

Hudson Taylor Alexander Sylvestre

July 17, 2015-March 20, 2016

He should be two. He should be running. He should be saying, “Mama” and squealing with all his might. He should be having tantrums in Target and stealing his big brother’s toys. He should be wearing hand me downs from big brother. He should have been at the water park with us last weekend. He should be in every family photo. He should be slightly shorter than big brother with slightly darker, crazier hair. He should be growing taller and losing some of his baby rolls. He should be grinning ear to ear and running down the stairs when daddy gets home. He should be in the bathtub splashing his big brother. He should be promoted to the two year old class at church this Sunday. He should be friends with all those cuties. He should be sharing a room with his big brother. He should be hiding while we are seeking. He should be singing, “Wheels on the Bus” and learning his alphabet. He should be saying silly words and pronouncing words in his own way. He should be refusing to eat his dinner and getting gum in his hair. He should be mixing the playdough colors together to make them turn that yucky brown. He should be under my feet as I try to cook. He should be leaving his shoes in the hall so to trip to me and daddy.  He should be the little brother to his big brother. He should be at weddings and on the farm with grandparents. He should be asking for more “Daniel Tiger” and ice cream. He should be buckled in his seat at dinner time. He should be learning about God and singing, “Jesus loves Hudson, This I know.” He should be the youngest cousin to the big ones in the pool.  He should make us a family of four when we go out to eat. He should now get his own seat on the plane. He should be in my arms and not just my heart. He should be two.

Thanks so much to these sweet new friends who did a party in the park for our precious Hudson! That just meant the world to me!!!

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.

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.

Second Born

Second Born

Many people reached out to us offering their love, support, prayers and their own grief, After losing our precious eight-month old son, Hudson to congenital heart disease in March. Many shared their stories or would say, “I can only imagine what this is like for your family.” My heart would whisper, “I hope you never know.”

But, as I walk this dark, deep valley I do want to share my heart and still be able to connect to others. Sharing my heart allows me to grieve with more authenticity and in a safe way through written words. I still hope you never know this sort of loss and if you have, God be near.

I’ve written the thoughts of my heart since I was a teenager keeping a journal about church camp, boys I had crushes on, begging for my husband, my walk with God and dreams for my future. But, since this unbearable season hit my life a year ago, I’ve not written a single page in my journal. Not one single page. I have written on this blog sporadically and kept up Hudson’s Heart facebook page but mostly out of desperation for prayer.

So here I find myself wanting to remember every aspect of my sweet Hudson and writing is the best way for me to do so.

Here’s where I am today….

Lately I have thought a lot about Hudson being our second born. He’s the little brother to Graham Drake. I often notice families with three children and the second child stands out to me. I see a family with a two-year-old and an almost one-year-old and I watch how the siblings react to one another. I’ve also realized so many of my friends are the second born in their families. In fact, I am the second child in my family.

I share these thoughts with you to try to explain a bit more what Corey and I are walking through as we face the future without our Hudson. Perhaps you are the second born in your family or you have two or more children or your close friend is the second born in their family. While horrific to dwell on this, thinking about not having that person in your family and the ripple effects of that person’s life may help you peer into our grief. Perhaps you already know this loss. I hope not.

I don’t know why I’ve focused on this whole “second born thing” the last few weeks but it has helped me realize why the pain is so intense. I’ve not just lost my eight-month precious son (that would be enough) but all of the community he would have had, his teachers, his neighborhood friends, his Sunday school classmates, his soccer or hockey team, his prom date, his college roommate, his future wife and my future grandchildren. That’s a lot to lose wrapped up in one sweet little life.

Of course the losses would be true no matter Hudson’s birth order but as I think about my family without me or Crystal’s family without her or Corey’s family without Tyanne or Carrie’s or Bethany’s family without them…it makes me not be as angry in my grief. I have let myself just be sad at what all we truly have lost. All those relationships I’ll never have. My Huddy and his whole little life ahead of him and the community he would have built. Lost.

The community he built in eight sort months was more than most in a lifetime.

Just think of what he would have done with 80 years!

We miss you our second born boy! We best buddies!

Love you, Huddy.

So, now what?

My amazing husband and I just celebrated three years of marriage on May 11th. Our Graham turned two in February and we lost our eight month old Hudson on March 20th to heart disease.

Corey took a job as a news helicopter pilot in Chicago. As of now we will be there with frequent trips home to North Carolina as we walk through deep grief. Those are the practical things of our life right now. Corey is mostly finished with intense training. I’ve mostly been in North Carolina planning Hudson’s special service and taking care of Graham. I am now finishing a much needed long weekend with friends in New York City (where I lived for many years). I got the special treat of going to a dear friend’s wedding. Congrats, Misty & Braden!

We still need to find housing in Chicago (just outside of Chicago, anyway). I’m headed there with our Grahambo this coming weekend.

But, that doesn’t really answer the “now what?” question for me. I am a task master. To do list maker.

Event planner. House organizer. I can do and fix and do some more.

But, again…that’s not what I am facing really.

It is the being.
How can I just be?

How can I just sit, be quiet, talk to God, listen, be still?
It hurts too much.

New York has been such a gift the last few days. Salve to a deep wound. I’ve walked many miles just crying and pretending I’m still an upper west (best) sider.

The Hudson

I miss my family. I’m ready to be back with them. Oh, do I miss my Huddy Buddy and wish this American Airlines flight could take a layover stop where you are so I could get many snuggles and kisses.

We best buddies.

So, now what?

One foot in front of the other with teary eyes and a broken heart.

PS Thanks to those special New Yorkers who made the trip possible.

Love y’all so much!

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

Tax Deductible Giving for Hudson

A dear friend got us in touch with Helping Hands Ministry and they have approved Hudson as one of their projects. They will accept tax deductible financial gifts on behalf of Hudson that will be used for his medical expenses now and in the future. A receipt is mailed to giver.

Below is the link and explanation for how to make a tax deductible donation through Helping Hands for Hudson:

• Website: www.hhmin.org.  
• Select Donate to a Helping Hands Approved Project
• Select Project Category: Medical
• Scroll to the Project Name-Sylvestre, Hudson

To learn more about Hudson's journey and need:
www.facebook.com/hudsonsheart

Hudson is 4 Months Old!!

Hudson is now four months old. That means he has been in the cardiac intensive care unit for 124 days since birth (plus another couple weeks in utero)! 

What a miracle this little man is! His physical therapist says he is doing great and meeting goals like getting more control of his head and grabbing for things he sees.

He currently weighs 10 and 1/2 pounds....yippee!

Hudson has had a lot of challenges and they aren't over but we are seeing him grow even in the midst of a cold and infections. 

More prayers for a stable blood pressure, great liver function & lower bilirubin, more growth, ability to tolerate more milk, lots of stability, no more infections, wisdom for his doctors and preparation for another open heart surgery in the months to come.

We love our Hudson!

Hudson shirt says it all! What a miracle!

A little tummy time!

One of this Hudson's caring nurses made this sweet sign for our sweet boy's special day!