The hospital called it the Remembering Heart.

They gave it to me as part of a bedside ritual the day Aiden died. It’s a necklace with two white ceramic heart charms tied with gold strings. A smaller charm fits inside the larger one’s heart-shaped hole—a mother and son BFF necklace. 

Nick and I were able to spend several hours with Aiden after he died. Nick washed his body, we took fingerprints and handprints, and in between sobs, I told Aiden how much I loved him. I took his tiny hand in mine and tied the smaller string around his chubby wrist. I closed his hand around the heart and tucked the larger charm into my pocket. I kissed his forehead for the last time, and then we drove home with an empty car seat. 

For several weeks I slept with this necklace tied around a blanket I stole from the hospital. I squeezed it along with one of Aiden’s swaddle blankets between my left arm and chest like I was holding a football. Several times a night, I moved the heart-shaped charm so I could feel it on my skin. 

Eventually, I felt ok hanging the necklace on my wood bed frame. While lying in bed I often put my hand on it to say goodnight to Aiden before turning off the light.

A few weeks ago, I found the necklace in a pile on the floor, broken into three pieces.

I fell to my knees and wailed until my voice cracked. 

The kids were outside on a Zoom-school recess. I felt grateful for the opportunity to unapologetically cry as loudly and as long as I needed to. 

I don’t know how it happened. At some point, it must have been knocked off. I’m glad I don’t know. Had the housekeeper or one of the kids brought it to me broken, I would have had to say, “It’s ok,” when it’s not. Out of kindness for whoever had the awful task of telling me the necklace broke, I would have had to stuff my tears. 

So much of my energy goes into making sure other people feel ok about my pain. It was nice to have the space to accept just how sad I actually am. 

I hold on so tightly to everything I have left of Aiden; there just isn’t enough. 

I gathered myself, sort of, and called a friend for help. She was at my back door in 10 minutes. I calmed down, and she said to me, “We can totally fix this.” She was so sure that it was easy for me to latch on to her confidence. 

She stayed for a while, and we talked about a lot of things, our kids, the pandemic. We speculated about covid numbers and vaccinations, and then I turned to her and said, “Brain cancer? How did my baby end up with brain cancer? Who gets brain cancer?” We just shook our heads—more than a year after Aiden died, and I’m still processing his diagnosis. 

After she was gone, I felt a kind of peace I hadn’t experienced in a long time. The pandemic hit just as we were finding our way through this unrecognizable world without Aiden. I have a lot of support but have been left to process the bulk of my grief alone. I needed that cry. I needed that talk. I needed to share space with someone who wasn’t going to try and make me feel better. 

I knew the necklace would never be the same, so I asked the jeweler to paint gold along the cracks highlighting its brokenness. It looks more like the real thing now. With its Aiden-shaped hole, its cracks are fortified and made more beautiful with gold and time.

This is where I am today. Thank you for listening.