All of my peony plants are white or blush double flowered varieties, except for one. The plant that sits exactly in the center of the row is a single petal, open center type and it’s the brightest hot pink flower that has ever dared to enter my garden. I must rewind to explain how she came to reside so boldly in my row of white flowers.

On August 8, 2006 our first son Alden was born. He had suffered a severe brain injury during labor and delivery. He was a healthy, full-term baby but he lived for just 11 days at Boston Children’s Hospital. We were devastated by the heartbreak of his short life. The tiny moments of solace we had during those 11 days were found in the Prouty Garden at Children’s Hospital. We took our baby for walks there and sat in the grass with him, sometimes trying to pretend we weren’t in a hospital and he wasn’t dying.

After Alden died, we returned to the hospital each year to bring gifts to the hospitalized babies and their families as well as the staff. Then we visited the garden to remember the time we spent with our son away from the monitors and needles and drip bags and disinfectant smell. Our two boys later joined our yearly pilgrimage and looked forward to the part when they got to bust through the hospital doors into the garden to play.

In 2016, the hospital underwent renovations and they chose to demolish the garden. Grief poured over me all over again. The social workers were kind enough to invite me and my husband to visit the garden one last time in the fall of 2016. They allowed me to take a few small squares of the grass and a peony root. I cut the grass squares into my backyard lawn and I planted the dormant root beside my vegetable bed and I waited to see what color the flowers would be in spring. I secretly hoped for a pastel or white flower, but mostly I prayed for the plant to survive.

(The peony bush in 2018. Of course she showed up being anything but pastel.)

A short while after our last visit, the demolition began. I opened my computer one morning to find a photo posted online of the massive Dawn Redwood tree laying on a flatbed trailer to be hauled away for lumber. I sat at the base of that awesome tree during the most difficult days of my life. Our kids balanced on her giant roots and chased each other around her trunk. I understand that the hospital had some special pieces made from her wood as well as art commissioned to commemorate the tree. None compare to her living presence in that garden.

For years after the garden was built over, we could no longer bring ourselves to return to the hospital, so we found other small ways to honor our son on his birthday. All the while, that peony bush grew stronger at home. We moved to the farm in 2020 and I of course brought the peony with us. I started praying over the plant again as I couldn’t bear for it to die after successfully rescuing her from the garden demolition. The first spot I chose was too wet so I had to transplant one more time. All kinds of celestial bargaining happened to see her through that last move. Amazingly, she never wilted or stalled. She now sits in the Barnyard Cut Flower Garden. A hot pink single petal variety in the very center of a row of white ruffled peonies.

(The peony bush on May 23,2025 in the Barnyard Garden at Spencer Brook Farm)

Last spring, when the peonies began blooming, I suddenly felt ready to return to Children’s. I wanted to bring some of the flowers and a basket of snacks to the family waiting room of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. When we arrived at the hospital with food and flowers in hand, everything looked different. They informed us that flowers were not allowed on the floor of the NICU. I tried to explain that we only intended them to go in the family waiting room outside of the NICU, but the policy was firm. I asked if they could at least keep the flowers there at the desk–that they were flowers from the garden that once existed at the hospital. The kind security guard accepted and did his best to awkwardly fuss over the flowers and thank us.

We wound our way through unfamiliar bare, white corridors to the NICU floor. The waiting room was now behind another security checkpoint so we could no longer leave the basket of snacks ourselves. We walked back down to the lobby in silence, ignoring the sign pointing to the new rooftop garden. I felt no urge to even take a peek. I don’t believe a place that doesn’t directly touch the earth can hold the same healing power. Still, rooftop gardens can be healthy and beautiful oases, especially in urban settings. I hope that garden is helpful to the current and future patients and their families. My son’s spirit and our memories, however, are not up there.

Alden’s Peonies

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