For Hudson

"Hudson passed away. That's all I know right now." -Email from my friend Jennifer, moments ago.

Hudson was (is, will always be) the daughter of an acquaintance of mine, Mandy. We met at a moms' breastfeeding group. Our daughters were the same age, separated by perhaps a couple of weeks, at most. Mandy is from North Carolina, a lawyer, like me. She's friendly and easy, always coming up with ready conversation in her lazy Carolina twang.

Hudson was a doll. Sweet, easygoing, round-faced. Mandy invited a bunch of us for a sunny spring walk around this time last year at the Arboretum. I remember standing among the old Capitol columns while she took Hudson out of the stroller, took off her big sun hat. Hudson smiled. Mandy said she always made sure to put plenty of sunscreen on Hudson, so she could take her out of the shelter of hat and stroller, to feel the sun. "She likes the wind in her face." And so she did, smiling, turning her lovely, perfect face towards the sun, the breeze fluttering her light brown gossamer baby hair.

That may be the last time I saw them. Maternity leaves ended, we all went back to work, sporadically e-mailed. Hudson turned out to be in the same daycare as my friend Jennifer's daughter Emily, so we heard vicariously how she and Mandy were doing.

The first e-mail I got from Jennifer this morning said, "Hudson is very sick and in the hospital with meningitis. They are not sure if she is going to make it. Please pray for her and her family."

Helpless to do anything real for them, I madly Googled "meningitis." There's viral and bacterial. Viral is not nearly as bad; survivorship is very high; cases resolve on their own. Bacterial is a whole other mess. A dozen or more different bacteria can cause it. We routinely vaccinate against some in the US (HiB, pneumococcus). But its symptoms are few (stiff neck, headache; you might see irritability in small children); leaving it untreated for even a few days is dire.

I don't know what Hudson had. I don't know what hospital she was at. I don't know if she was vaccinated. It doesn't matter. What I know is I feel paralyzed, petrified, horrified, sick. It could have so easily been us.

How could you, would you ever know that your toddler had this horriffic illness? They can't tell you at this age what hurts or feels bad; they power through and ignore illness, little burning fireballs of endless energy. It's only when they toss and turn and wake at night that you might have a clue that they're in pain. How would you ever know? How would you get them treated in time?

Oh Mandy. I want it not to be true. I can't believe it. It's my worst fear, something happening to the shining, radiant little piece of my heart that I bore in my body, that I released into the world. You spend so much time worrying during pregnancy, because it seems as if a million things can happen to extinguish that tiny, beating heart. You think it's all ok when they are finally born, stridently alive and warm and crying, here, here, here. You get through the first few months, SIDS warnings flashing in your head, checking the baby's breathing obsessively. You get through the first year, with all its firsts of milestones: rolling, crawling, walking, colds, bumps, bruises. That baby turns into a little person before your eyes, energetic and robust, and all you really worry about is them falling down the stairs or dashing into traffic or not drinking enough milk. None of us are ready for meningitis.

I don't know how you bear it. I don't know how you go on. I don't know how you walk back into your house, replete with baby toys and clutter. Just the mere momentary thought of losing the Olive sends me looking into a dark and howling tunnel of madness and grief. I'd fall in, and I don't know how I'd climb back out.

I wish I could comfort, and I will try, but I have my daughter to hug and hold tonight. Mandy's arms are suddenly empty. It isn't right. It isn't fair. But it is. And I will hug and hold and cherish my daughter, my little heart, all the more because of it.

Hudson, you were loved. I know that. It is small comfort to those left behind, but there was love.

My words are inadequate. I am so sorry Mandy. So sorry, and so sad.