Mariposa, Adobe Illustrator & Print making, 2024

My motivation to create comes from a desire for experiences and adventure. My mom’s cancer journey has been an experience in all the good, bad, uncomfortable, and painful ways. This project is out of my comfort zone which is fitting to the overall experience of watching a loved one fight cancer. My main purpose in sharing this work is to help someone fighting cancer or walking with a sick loved one feel less alone. For the people who have never experienced cancer up close, I hope they can catch a glimpse of what my family's journey has been like so that they can support others in this world who have cancer.

The patterns in the work represent different elements of my home. The patterns started as drawings, became lino-cut prints, and are now digital illustrations and prints. Butterflies have held a special place in the Hudson house over recent years. I pulled the inspiration to include them in my piece from my mom’s 50th birthday card which is included in the poem series. The patterns and butterflies were intended to be lightweight and beautiful because although this cancer journey has been hard, it does not define my family and home. We are beautiful in who God created us to be. Through colors and patterns, I hope to intentionally and effectively communicate emotions and thoughts that ultimately draw the viewer into this experience.

ABIGAIL HUDSON

See poems & images of the installation below.

50th birthday card:

cured 4/20/21

Mom—

When I saw this card I thought of you. The cycle of a butterfly is a prime example of learning, enduring and living in this life. Caterpillars enter cocoons that then release a beautiful butterfly. As humans we live, reflect inward, refine through trials and then hopefully love outward.

Your cancer journey brought challenges that wrapped you up in questions for God, his love despite suffering and lessons he would teach you through this journey.

You didn’t choose this hardship, but in this cocoon you were forced to reflect inwardly and upwardly to God.

Now as you’re going into your 50s, this refined,beautiful butterfly is coming out.

You are a stronger braver and more healthy woman coming out of your cancer journey and into remission.

Life will always have its trials, but God will always use them to refine us.

This past year has brought you and me closer together than ever and I’m so grateful for you.

You inspire me in so many ways and I’m so grateful God gave me you as my mom to champion my sisters and I.

May 50 be a year of a beautiful butterfly celebrating.

Sick 6/15/21

my mom is sick.

sometimes i don’t even want to talk about it because it could be so much worse.

she hasn’t lost all her hair and she hasn’t been categorized as stage four.

It hasn’t spread throughout her whole body.

the doctors haven’t numbered her days.

some people have it much worse.

children who have it much worse.

but it still hurts even though i feel like it shouldn’t.

i worry that she feels alone when her hands tingle as her earring back falls to the ground.

i worry when she can no longer stand at church.

i want to cry when i see all the hair on the back of her shirt that is no longer attached.

i remember the first time she got sick from chemo and rubbing her back as she shook and the dread in her eyes as she went to her next chemo knowing this one would only be worse.

it’s the deep scary feeling that lingers of what if this is only the beginning.

what if this is only the beginning of a journey to the end.

i love my mom and i hate that she’s sick.

reoccurring 7/15/22

i thought this would be done by now.

i thought all the “hey girls we need to tell you something” would be done after last year.

because poisoning ur body for 6 months should be enough.

but no.

about every 3 months since there has been something.

first the hernia.

then the precancerous tissue.

now it’s the tumor markers.

when will it stop?

i can’t say that though because it might not ever.

she could never not have cancer.

why does it make my chest tight and my stomach turn.

i know everything is in God’s hands but my human flesh burns with anxiety.

i love my mom and i hate that this is reoccurring.

i hate cancer. 8/28/22

i hate false hope.

i hate doctors who summarize and generalize and give false hope.

i’m actually angry.

i’m angry that the cancer is back.

i’m angry that my mom is in pain.

i’m angry at the doctor.

i’m angry that there isn’t a chemo that works.

i’m angry that my sister is in 8th grade and she has to think about her mom dying.

i’m numb i’m numb i’m numb.

i want to cry so hard but i can’t.

i love my mom and i hate cancer.

My mom isn’t just sick she’s dying.

“How do you look so happy”

“I can’t understand or relate, im sorry”

“Im so sorry”

How could I even be mad at people because I don’t know what I need.

I don’t know what I need.

I don’t know how to handle it.

I can’t even relate to myself.

This isn’t the right phase of life.

My boyfriend shouldn’t have to meet my dying mother.

I should be able to spend the summer with my college friends.

I wish he could meet her not on chemo and not labeled with cancer.

I wish he could meet her with a full head of hair and my family not in distress.

My dad mutters to my friends that he’s “okay”

Can’t even explain how unlike him that is.

four 11/4/22

There is a number now.

Number on her days.

Number on her cancer.

The big fat ugly number four.

i love my mom and i hate the

healing 7/13/23

i really have hated the word healing for quite some time.

what if it doesn’t happen.

what if she dies.

what if it’s only a soul healing.

that’s beautiful but i want my mom to live to see her children’s children’s children.

i hate false hope.

i hate “your cured” and then stage four.

i hate four.

but i know my God can.

he can heal.

i pray that he will.

i pray in Jesus’s name that my mom would fulfill her work for the kingdom.

that she would live a long beautiful life.

that she would walk down the aisle of my wedding and hold my kids and Asher’s kids.

that she would watch them graduate and get married.

that she would outlive her own mother.

that she would have years with no scans.

no chemo.

i love my mom and i believe in healing.

every 3 months 11/4/23

My dad and I talk about the timer.

My anxiety fluctuates and is dictated by the timer.

Scans every three months- timer.

Prognosis is four years- timer.

Two are left of the four- timer.

I hold my breath every time my sweet mom boards the plane to Texas.

God has told her that she will live to see Asher graduate- timer.

The number four- timer.

There is a timer on all our lives actually.

Three months til the next scan is the worst timer.

Two years to live is the worst timer.

best care center 2/18/24

my mom went to the ER this past week.

it’s sometimes concerning to me that I can sleep through the night knowing my mom is in the hospital.

they thought she had sepsis, a blood clot, or a heart attack.

they said this unphased to my mom of four girls dying with half her life to live.

then it was fine.

they gave her medicine, monitored her and she was out by morning.

“sorry this is just a side-effect of chemo.”

back to anger, anger filled my heart.

this is how it normally goes though.

insensitive, unphased, traumatic.

i was reminded of the time i saw the advertisement for the Texas hospital.

it stated “best cancer center in the world.” and then crossed out cancer and put “care”.

for me, these simple “c” words evoked thousands of emotions and a handful of memories of feeling like my mom was a stat and not a mother with girls who still need their mom.

The doctors see the world though research statistics and data and don’t realize the importance of hope, spunk, prayers and milestones with kids.

Their clinical vocabulary treats my mother as a stat.

it is not a care center and certainly not the best care center.