Hannah's Gift

by Maria Housden

  Yes, I knew the way the first day of ballet was supposed to look, and this definitely wasn’t it. Madelaine’s leotard was light pink, but it was covered with chocolate and last night’s spaghetti dinner; she had worn it nonstop for two days, too excited even to take it off before bed. Her pink tights and slippers would match the other little girls’, but her hair was already escaping from a garish pom-pom, fluorescent green, pink, and blue. Instead of a black patent leather bag, she carried her shoes and Margaret’s in a yellow vinyl tote filled with the books and Barbie dolls she had packed “just in case.”

  As for Margaret, she had pooh-poohed my suggestion of a pink leotard and chosen to wear a dance costume from her dress-up box instead. Its electric-blue sequins and shimmering, multicolored tutu clashed only slightly with the red tights underneath. She wore sparkly silver bedroom slippers that looked like ballet slippers but weren’t, and a rhinestone tiara fit for Cinderella.

  Catching our reflection in the hall mirror, I hesitated. No matter what the other mothers would be wearing today, I knew that my long skirt, black leather boots, and red wool wrap would look as out of place as Margaret’s sequins. Where had that other woman—the one I was in my first-day-of-ballet-class dream—gone?

  Suddenly a voice in me made itself heard: “Maybe you should change your clothes into something more appropriate. Or at least insist that Margaret and Madelaine change theirs.” I almost laughed out loud. This, I knew, was the voice of that other woman, the one who had always been concerned about what other people might think. She was afraid, but I wasn’t.

  As I stood in front of the mirror, gazing at the picture we made, I felt the sides of the box I had been living in for years drop off and fall away. I knew then that part of me would always be afraid of getting hurt, making mistakes, or not being loved. I didn’t have to wait for my fear to go away. Like my suffering, it was simply part of who I am.

  I turned to Margaret and Madelaine. “You two look gorgeous,” I said.

  “You do, too, Mommy,” they said, giggling.

  “Then what are we waiting for?” I said. “Let’s go!”

  Hannah had taught me that there is a death more painful than the one that took her body from this world: a soul suffocated by fear leaves too many joys unlived. As I watched Margaret and Madelaine march into dance class, smiling, their heads held high, I knew the magic of Hannah’s red shoes had finally come full circle. She had not only given this gift to me; she had given it to her sisters, as well.

  Remembering

  I WAS ASLEEP, SUSPENDED IN A SILENCE WHERE NOTHING was present or happening. Something broke through the surface. The stillness let go. I floated upward, toward consciousness. I wasn’t alone. I drifted slowly, gently, toward this other. My eyes were closed. I was not afraid. I heard her breath and felt the patience in her waiting, and knew she was standing beside me, next to the bed. My eyes were still closed. I let them be closed. She waited. I opened them.

  She stood in the first light, smiling quietly, as if she had known all along, and still knew. It was spring, she was sick, and we had already been told she was dying.

  “Mommy,” she said, “I had a dream.”

  I lifted the covers and felt the warmth of a good night’s sleep escaping. She climbed in, wiggled her body close to mine, and turned to face me.

  “Mommy, I had a dream,” she repeated, “a very very special dream.”

  Our faces were almost touching. She paused, her eyes shining, as if she was about to spill a secret.

  “I dreamed that God and His angels came and picked me up and carried me into His world!”

  She clapped her hands.

  “Mommy,” she exclaimed excitedly, “wouldn’t that be so great?”

  She threw her arms around my neck. I held her as close as I dared.

  Epilogue

  SEVEN YEARS AFTER HANNAH’S DEATH, MANY THINGS HAVE changed.

  Claude and I did divorce. For me, our parting was both painful and inevitable. After weeks of soul-searching and truth-telling, the two of us sat at our kitchen table and drafted our own custody and settlement agreement. Just as we had done many times before, we used Dr. Markoff’s rule and made the best decisions we could with the information we had at the time.

  For the rest, I have walked into the life I sensed was there all along; its foundation is the stillness that emerged in my last year with Hannah, which has continued to deepen in me. My life today, which includes a new marriage, is ripe with the exhilaration of living with the unanswered questions.

  Will, Margaret, and Madelaine are flourishing; in part, I believe, because of Hannah’s continued presence in their lives. Will still talks to Hannah most nights before falling to sleep. Margaret and Madelaine speak proudly and often of their “big sister.”

  Hannah’s magnolia tree, planted in front of our church, bloomed the first year. It has become a place of remembering and return for those who loved Hannah. Angel and butterfly ornaments and a child’s plastic bead necklace still hang on its lower branches; bouquets of flowers are delivered to it on her birthday and on the anniversary of her death.

  Hannah’s red shoes were never returned to the box under my bed. They continued to click and dance through life on Madelaine’s feet until the patent leather on the toes was rubbed off, the straps split at the buckles, and the heels were almost gone. The image of them continues to live in my heart, a timeless reminder of Hannah’s bright spirit.

  Acknowledgments

  I AM COMPLETELY UNAPOLOGETIC IN MY GRATITUDE TO everyone who has been a part of this book, its wisdom, and its story. To those I have named here and to the many more I haven’t, I open my arms and heart to you, and bow.

  To Toni Burbank, my editor at Bantam, my deepest respect and gratitude to you for your clarity, generosity, and integrity. Your fierce commitment to this book and to me is a manifestation of grace in my life, and I know it. Thanks, too, to Beth Rashbaum, Barb Burg, Susan Corcoran, and many more at Bantam for the enthusiastic support and attention you continue to give this project.

  To B.G. Dilworth, my agent, it is an honor and a joy to be working with you. Thank you for your unwavering faith in this book and everything it represents. Your open heart, sharp intellect, and willingness to dream outside the box continue to inspire my work and my vision of what is possible in it. To Debra Evans, this book’s doula, I celebrate both your intuition and your willingness to act on it.

  To Mark Matousek, China Galland, Jeremiah Abrams, and Joan Oliver, thank you for your invaluable editorial input. The love and delight I experience as your friend is irrepressible and irreplaceable. To Jane Hirshfield, thank you not only for your thoughtful beauty and friendship, but for opening me to the poetry that lives in my heart. To Father Dunstan Morrissey, thank you for allowing my work to ripen in the solitude and sanctity of Sky Farm. To Dr. Clark, my high school English teacher, this book is what it is because you refused to give me A’s until I did my best. Thank you for that.

  To Jennifer Welwood, your friendship is a source of light in my life. To John Welwood, I am deeply nourished by the integrity and heart you pour into your continued search for what really matters. To Palden, I bow to you and the silence where we meet. To Rahim, thank you for so gracefully receiving, as you put it, “the silken whack of my angelic Zen stick.” To Susan Shannon, it is a joy to walk along the path of devotion with you. To Florence Falk, thank you for your friendship and wisdom. To Diane Berke and Tony Zito, your friendship and generous hospitality allow my visits to New York City to be both more frequent and more fun.

  To Mary and Phil Lore, I will always be grateful for the way the two of you walked through the fire with me. To John, Kaitlin, and Samantha, thank you for sharing your home and your hearts.

  To Amy Fox, Vanda Marlow, Kath Delaney, Gary Malkin, Nick Hart-Williams, and Jeff Hutner, your friendship and support of me and my work goes far beyond the call of duty. To Wendy Perry, thank you for opening your home to Roger and me, my children, and my work. To Farhad and Min
a Nawab and John Salz, I thoroughly enjoy the simplicity of our café friendship and the thought-provoking conversations we share. To Darlene at Donut Alley, much gratitude for the glazed and jellied inspiration you contributed to the long hours I sat in front of my computer.

  To Dr. Peri Kamalaker, Dr. Joel Edman, Dr. Mark Markoff, Dr. Joel Brockstein, Dr. Bekele, Dr. Saad, Dr. Bagtas, Jill Kurnos-Wichtel, Susan, Nurses Pat, Katie, Amy, Bridget, Kathy, and others whose names I cannot recall but whose faces I cannot forget, I will be forever grateful for the degree of care and compassion you offered Hannah and our family. To the Christ Church United Methodist congregation in Fair Haven who prayed for us, cooked for us, and supported our family through Hannah’s illness and after her death, particularly Martha and Rich Wagner, Dave, Maureen, Allison and Sara Squires, Nancy Farr, Bonnie Hallowell, Karen Ganson, and Pat Magowan, thank you.

  To Laurajane Baker, your friendship and love continue to live in me. To Ralph and Carolyn Baker, thank you for allowing me to include Laurajane’s life and laughter in this book. To the Fair Haven community, particularly Rhea and Fred Harris, Bob and Loukia LoPresti, Daryl and Tom Ley, Brenda Jacobson, Meaghan Ladd, Jamie Sussel-Turner, Nancy Sheridan, Maureen Campion, Nina Fisher, Joan Forsythe, Rhett Castner, and the Meadow Flower Nursery School, thank you. To Kim Montella, Kate Shevitz, Lili Carroll, Ann and Mark Orr, Barbara and Jimmy Shaw, you were there, and I will always be grateful for that.

  To all the children whose lives live on in the hearts of those they loved, including Scott Lore, Danielle Markoff, Erin Barbolini, Kimberly Pertrillo, Ryan Saberon, Bryce Ziegler, David Bínaco, Stephen Verdícchio, David Vanderbilt, Sara Appelbaum, Cliff Dainty, Tushar Bhatnagar, Margaret Rose Delatore, Debbie Steup, Pamela Mullen, and Anthony Mar tell, I bow to you and your moms.

  To Claude, I am grateful to you as Will, Hannah, Margaret, and Madelaine’s dad, and respect the way that each of us continues to do the best we can with what we know. To the rest of the Martell family, including Wilbur and Helene Martell, Marien and George Kissling, Susan Martell, Ruth and Larry Allen, Charles and Cindy Martell, Julia Martell-Schnaar and Rod Schnaar, Molly and Alan Lynchosky, and Diana Martell, thank you for the unique place that each of you had in my life.

  To Yann Housden, Gladys Housden, Mark and Elke Housden, and Claire and Ian Stone, thank you for opening your lives and hearts to me.

  To my parents, Ron and Lenore Schlack, you have never stopped reminding me how capable and loved I am. This book is a testament to your unwavering love and support of me and each other. To the rest of my family, including Diana and Chris Root, Laura and Brock Albaugh, Ben Schlack, Karl and Marilee Schlack, Larry and Marilyn Schlack, Betty Hoodak, and Kathleen and Lou Roehrig, thank you, thank you, thank you.

  To Will, Hannah, Margaret, and Madelaine, each of you is a fount of wisdom, love, and beauty in my life. It is my greatest joy to be your mother.

  To Roger Housden, my husband, my love, when you looked into me the first time we met, I knew that I had finally been seen. Thank you for every way that you so gently and fiercely supported me and this book. I know that it stands in its fullness because of you. I am grateful for everything you are, all that you have given, and for our love, as timeless and inconsequential as a last breath.

  About the Author

  MARIA HOUSDEN is a lecturer, author, and passionate advocate for quality of life at the end of life. From 1995 to 1999, Maria served on the Board of Directors of the Kimberly Fund, a nonprofit organization that raised money for families of children facing life-threatening illnesses. In addition, as part of her commitment to helping others learn to live life more fully, she has led groups of women on contemplative, silent journeys through Death Valley.

  The mother of three children in addition to Hannah, Maria is a native of Traverse City, Michigan. She and her husband, Roger, live in a beautiful log cabin in Woodstock, New York. You can reach Maria by e-mail at hannahsgift@juno.com.

  Praise

  ‘A lyrical, heartbreaking and heartwarming account of a mother’s three-year-old daughter’s illness and death … Housden herself offers a real gift to us all with this book.’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘I absolutely could not put Hannah’s Gift down. It broke my heart and filled me with joy and gave me wisdom for my own daily walk.’

  Anne Lamott, author of Travelling Mercies

  ‘Maria Housden’s testament to a dying daughter’s transcendent wisdom, a mother’s all-too-earthly devotion, and love’s uncanny gift for transforming the greatest suffering into joy and self-awareness, comes as a gift to us all.’

  Mark Matousek, author of Sex Death Enlightenment

  ‘I love Hannah. I love her hands and her shoes. I love what she knew and knows. I love your book.’

  Eve Ensler, activist and playwright, The Vagina Monologues

  ‘Superlatives seem pointless; I have only gratitude for the lessons of self-realization emerging here. Read it and weep for the sheer joy of being alive.’

  Jeremiah Abrams, author of Meeting the Shadow

  ‘Hannah’s Gift is a celebration of life in all its richness, pain, mystery, and wonder. Maria Housden gives us renewed faith in the transformative power of love,’

  John Welwood, author of Toward a Psychology of Awakening

  ‘This is a profound and extraordinary book; a small treasure which I’m grateful to have and glad to recommend to anyone who wants to understand how sorrow and joy are inseparable.’

  Susan Griffin, author of A Chorus of Stones

  ‘Maria Housden gives us the sure knowledge that love not only surrounds us but goes on after death.’

  China Galland, author of The Bond Between Women

  ‘… Housden’s skilful writing and mature understanding of grief make this a spiritually inspiring story about life. Sure you’re going to cry. But it’s the kind of heart-cracking-open cry that comes from an abundance of feelings: sorrow for this wise and gut-honest narrator; tenderness for Will, the loyal elder brother that Hannah left behind; and love for this baffling, wonderful life that gives us gifts like Hannah.’

  Gail Hudson, Spirituality Editor, Amazon.com

  Copyright

  Element

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  is a trademark of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  First published by Bantam Books 2002

  This edition published by Element 2003

  © Maria Housden 2002

  Lines from “On the Beach,” by Jane Hirshfield, from

  The Lives of the Heart, © 1997. Published by HarperCollinsPublishers, Inc.

  Used by permission of the author.

  Lines from “The November Angels,” by Jane Hirshfield, from

  The October Palace, © 1994. Published by HarperCollinsPublishers, Inc.

  Used by permission of the author.

  Lines from The Essential Rumi, translated by

  Coleman Barks, © 1995. Published by HarperSanFrancisco.

  Used by permission of the translator.

  Maria Housden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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