Emily Henderson
@emilykathleenwrites

Content warning: this essay references the loss of a child.

Last year I went to a baby shower in Myanmar. Well, not actually in Myanmar. But the shower was for a friend who lives there, and guests came from all over the world to celebrate her over Zoom. The invitation said to give children’s books—together we would build a library for this new baby. 

Occasions like this have become emotional landmines since we lost our third child, Aiden, to brain cancer two years ago. He was 20 months old.

Aiden, our youngest, was in that sweet spot between infancy and toddlerhood when I noticed his head was always tilted a little to the right like he was asking a question. My husband and I played medical detectives, following clues from one appointment to another until an MRI showed a large tumor resting between his cerebellum (which controls posture and maintains balance) and his brain stem. 

Suddenly, the tiny things I’d noticed but hadn’t given much thought to came into sharp focus. Like the time Aiden tipped over backward at the top of the stairs at the elementary school and I caught the back of his head just before it hit the ground. Or how he could no longer pinch blueberries between his fingers and instead raked them into his mouth with his whole hand. Months later, after Aiden died, I would blame myself for missing these signs, for not demanding the pediatrician run tests, for not stopping the cancer from growing in the first place. But at the time my only focus was getting the tumor out. 

Before his first surgery, Aiden was on the verge of walking. He’d said his first word: “bird,” and loved to watch them gather on the power lines in front of our house. But after surgery, he lost the ability to swallow, crawl, and sit up independently. He went completely silent for nine days: no words, no cries. The doctors called it posterior fossa syndrome and said it should resolve on its own, but for me it was torture. I just wanted to hear my baby say “mama” again. 

I stared at Aiden in his hospital crib, studying the changes in his body and face trying to intuit the needs he could no longer express. 

I tickled him and saw the curl of his lopsided smile. He opened his mouth wide to laugh, but all that came out was a tiny squeak, his voice still scratchy from the intubation tube. When a nurse tried to place a feeding tube down his nose, I prepared for a tantrum like the ones he used to have when his emotions were too big and he didn't have the words to express himself—but he hardly made a sound. 

I felt like a new mom all over again—isolated and insecure—so I turned to the one thing that has always given me confidence: books. I gathered his favorite titles, toys, barf bag, and nurse call button, before pulling Aiden into my lap and draping the many tubes and cords coming from his body carefully over my legs. Then, we read. Just like we always had. We read Five Green and Speckled Frogs, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and How Do Dinosaurs Count to Ten. We read until he fell asleep and my butt was numb. For just a moment I indulged in the illusion that we were back at home in his room snuggled together in a rocking chair.

Slowly, over the next few weeks, Aiden found his voice again. He started to imitate the sounds I read, and they became words only I could understand. He roared and said ribbit and I felt the vibrations of his voice against my chest. When he reached his hands for me and said, “Ma,” I had a glimpse of what he might be like as a little boy. Maybe he would become obsessed with dinosaurs like his big brother or love art like his sister? 

On the day of the baby shower, I went to our local bookstore to pick out a gift. I scanned the shelves and my face fell at the sight of The Napping House. It was the book I read to Aiden as we watched our last sunrise together. Whatever spell of normalcy I was under was gone as I remembered the weight of his head on my shoulder that morning. In an instant I went from feeling ok to shaken, like a grief aftershock. 

I clicked on the link that night, and 16 squares with smiling faces popped up on my screen. I didn’t know everyone, and I worried I might say something awkward or, worse, not say anything at all. I could opt out. Everyone would understand. But I don’t want to miss out on the joy life has to offer to avoid feeling sad. I will be sad anyway.

The guests I did know at the shower were close friends, the kind of people who follow your lead when they know something will be hard for you. So when I didn’t mention Aiden, they didn’t press. When it was my turn to share my books with the group, I was nervous.  

I held up How do Dinosaurs Count to Ten and The Napping House and said, “These were my kid’s favorites.” My eyes filled, and I focused on the faces of the people who knew Aiden. It was impossible to untangle all I felt, joy for my friend, grief for my son.

After the shower, I wrote my friend a letter. I imagined her—a wide-eyed new mother—finding it tucked inside one of the books I sent—and smiled.

I told her, “There is a moment every parent has when they are alone with their newborn for the first time, and the weight of being in charge feels too heavy. Maybe your baby won’t stop crying, or won’t nap, or won’t nurse, and you’re both sweaty and tired and overwhelmed, and you feel like you should be better at this. When you find yourself in this situation, put your baby down. Let your shoulders drop, and your arms stretch. Walk away if you need to. Don’t be surprised if he stops crying. It’s possible he was tired of you too. Find a comfy spot near a window and try reading to him. Let the words on the page and the rhythm of your voice soothe him. Let them soothe you.”

In the days after Aiden’s death, I found solace in organizing his things. I folded his clothes. I donated his remaining diapers. Then, finally, I tackled his bookshelf. It was a mess, filled with books of all shapes and sizes. I pulled at one, and like Jenga blocks, they all came tumbling down around me. 

I picked up The Very Busy Spider and tried to conjure up memories of Aiden. Did he ever learn to neigh like a horse? I know he moo’d like a cow, and oink’d like a pig, but did he ever neigh? I hated that I couldn’t remember, and I felt rage well up within me.

The Lorax would never inspire us to plant Truffula seeds. Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? would never teach Aiden his colors the way it had for my older son. He would never shout “Yes!” the way my daughter did when Press Here asks, “Want to do it all over again?”

Between the pages of these books are memories shared and memories we never had the chance to make and I am desperate to hold on to both. 

Finally, I unearthed a book given to us after Aiden died: a personalized poem written to help parents and siblings talk about the loss of a child. My hand brushed across the cover with an illustration of a boy in a diaper with angel wings. I took the advice I gave my friend and found a quiet spot near a window. I began to read. 

“When you feel lonely, or just a bit blue/ take a moment and think of me. 
Look all around and right on cue/ I’ll be smiling back at you.” 

I found what is often beneath rage: grief. Then I let the tears fall.

Guest essay written by Emily Henderson. Emily is a freelance writer and stay-at-home mom living with her partner and two children in Santa Barbara, CA. When she is not running the trails near her home she is working on her memoir about running every street in Santa Barbara. You can find her at on instagram on her blog.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.