November 12th marked the one-year anniversary of Aiden’s death. Coincidentally it was also the day his obituary was published.
Writing it had been one of those things on my to-do list that just seemed so unfair, but I also couldn’t not write it. In my tribute to my son, I said, “How does one write an obituary for their child? How can one begin to put into words this kind of loss?” It seems though, in this last year I have been both paralyzed and compelled to write about Aiden and the gaping hole his absence has left in my heart. Here is where I am today.
A Year in Grief
Getting out of bed is still hard, not as hard as it was a year ago, but there are still days when the weight of grief on my chest is too heavy. It’s like being trapped under an immovable object. I have to slide, roll, and duck until I can finally limbo my way to my feet and stand up. I don’t worry about leaving my grief behind. I know it will catch up with me at some point in the day and if not it will be there when I get back in bed again.
My father was an Air Force pilot and was killed in a plane crash when I was four. I was raised in a home where we didn’t celebrate his birthday or remember him on the day he died. It wasn’t that we couldn’t talk about him, it was just that no one did.
When I was 18 my mother died of breast cancer. I tried to follow her example and live a life of quiet grief. Sometimes I was successful. I had friends in my 20’s who I knew for years and had no idea I was on my own. Eventually stuffing all those powerful feelings of loss became too much and I turned to drugs and alcohol to ease my pain. That worked… until it didn’t. I never blamed my mother for how she managed her grief. Like all good parents, she did the best she could with what she had.
When Aiden died I made the conscious decision to keep my feelings of grief close to the surface. Being 12 years sober I couldn’t numb out the pain with alcohol, and miraculously I didn’t want to. I learned first hand that blocking the pain also blocks joy. I didn’t want to survive losing my son only to stop living.
In the first few days following Aiden’s death, we got rid of a lot of things right away. I wanted to remember his life, not his sickness. We wandered around the house trashing medical supplies and medications. I never want to see one of those purple emesis bags again. The pharmacy who provided us with Aiden’s IV nutrition came to pick up their pump. I remember seeing Nick sign for it and thinking how awkward it must be for the driver. I moved the uncomfortable rocker from our bedroom to the garage. I never liked it anyway and looking at it reminded me of too many rough nights trying to sleep in between bouts of vomiting. We took out the car seat. I donated his diapers.
Nick and I were like a slinky stretching across the house to take care of something only to be pulled back to one another to cry. I remember coming out of the house holding a hospital blanket I snuck in my bag crying, “It smells like him. It smells like him.” It didn’t have the sweet smell of a baby or even the sticky smell of a toddler, it smelled like chemo. A mix of mothballs and musk cologne. It didn’t smell good, but it smelled like him. I still sleep with this blanket every night. I haven’t washed it.
Every morning I move around Aiden’s changing table and crib to get dressed. The white crib, a hand me down from Peyton, is filled with dozens of blankets and stuffed animals. I have his binder from the childcare center. There is a bin of his favorite toys and a basket with a mold of his hand, footprints, and a lock of his hair.
The posterboards and pictures from his funeral sit up against a wall in the living room and in the dining room. I rotate the pictures from time to time. The busy board we all had a hand in building is still mounted to the wall. Aiden’s ashes are on the mantle in a bamboo box. The inscription reads,
“Aiden Thomas Henderson February 17, 2018 – November 12, 2019
Your scars show your strength, your big blue eyes your joy. Your chubby hands your playfulness. We knew every inch of you from the inside out and there is nothing more we want than to feel your heartbeat against ours. Thank you for choosing us to be your family. You are forever in our hearts sweet boy.”
There are silly things too, like the pair of socks in my trunk or the letter “H” on my dashboard, or the purple chapstick from the hospital perched on the windowsill in the kitchen. I have the 5 origami swans our babysitter made for the kids when Aiden was born on a dresser below the TV. We have lots and lots of frogs.
We still call Aiden’s room, Aiden’s room. Letters that spell his name hang on the wall. The closet is full of baby toys and his clothes and a basket of sympathy cards. His bookshelf with all the stories I read to him and the ones that were waiting for him sit beautifully arranged. Looking at the colorful titles always makes me smile.
20 months is not enough time on this earth. I keep wanting to add to what I have of Aiden in the same way I would if he were still alive. He should be bringing home his first fingerpaintings from preschool or making mud pies. We should be adding to our Thomas the Train collection rather than considering when is a good time to let this stuff go.
Maybe this is why I can’t stop writing about him. I want to tell his story. I want people to know his name, know what a warrior he is. I want to add to what I have of Aiden because what I have isn’t enough.
Thank you for listening.
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