The author, her husband, and their children were at the Children's Hospital Los Angeles before the first surgery for their father. Emily Henderson provided the photo.
I sat on the floor last Christmas, surrounded by wrapping paper, new toys and happy kids. It was like being in a bubble bath with too much soap and bows flying as each new box was opened. It was hard to tell what was a gift and what was trash.
Our 20-month-old son, Aiden, died during surgery to remove a tumor from his brain. It was our second Christmas without him, and I was still shopping for two kids instead of three.
Nick thought it was Mom who would open her stocking.
My daughter exaggerated her movements as she walked on her knees.
The first thing I pulled out of my stocking was a plastic round button. These are called buttons.
They are usually bright red with white letters. They became popular in 2005 when they were sold by Staples. The idea was that you could solve your problem by hitting this button.
The one in my stocking was white and had a black base.
I looked at my husband from the floor and he raised his eyebrow in confusion.
Is this for me? I asked.
He said to press it.
The kids were waiting for me to press the button, but I hadn't noticed before. The room was filled with sound when I pressed it.
The author has an Easy Button on his desk. Emily Henderson provided the photo.
I was not sure what I was supposed to hear. I heard a loud noise that turned into a laugh. When I looked at Nick, gravity pulled the tears from my eyes and made me cry. The siblings were playing with their brother.
In the recording, my daughter says hello, and my older son says "Oh no, oh no", and then there is a loud belly laugh from Aiden. The sound stopped as soon as it began, and the room was quiet.
The silence was broken by Nick. If you want to change the recording, you can.
I said it was perfect. I realized that Nick and the two kids picked out the recording together.
I put the Easy Button on my desk and didn't think of it until my friend asked me to watch her toddler. She needed someone to care for her baby while she was in the hospital.
There was no question that we would take Will. Nick and I are baby people. We knew it would be hard, but I thought having a toddler in the house again might be what we needed at this time.
I wasn't sure if you'd be ready for it.
I told her we couldn't wait.
There was a crib in our bedroom. After he got sick, we moved it from his room to ours. The crib was a shrine filled with blankets and stuffed animals from his life.
To make room for Will, I put everything in the crib into a corner, making sure not to break the plaster mold of the hand or misplace the plastic bag.
I got rid of my desk. I put my stuff in the living room. The Easy Button is on top.
A child is playing outside in June. Emily Henderson provided the photo.
Will is the same age as Aiden was when he was diagnosed. I couldn't tell who was who after listening to Will speak half-words and watching him take half-steps. He was doing all the things that Aiden was doing before he was diagnosed with cancer.
When I told my daughter she wouldn't be the one to rock Will to sleep at night, she almost cried. My older son was more reserved. I heard him say it more than once, but it was lost in the memory. Maybe not wanting to remember everything?
I asked my older son how he was feeling about Will being here. Is it hard for you?
He paused and thought about the question. It is hard but in a good way.
I was embarrassed that I wanted him to be upset so we could cry about how unfair it was. My 10-year-old made me feel better about being sad and happy at the same time.
Will picked up the Easy Button after crawling around my pile of things in the living room.
I wanted him to press it. This was a big moment in our family and I wanted my son to be a part of it.
He kept pressing and pressing, and what came out was stops and starts of laughter. From across the room, Nick and I smiled at each other.
Santa was visiting with the family for the first and only time. Emily Henderson provided the photo.
I prepared bottles and cut chicken nuggets and strawberries into small bites. I remembered what it was like to sleep after we sang and read.
By the end of the week, we were satisfied. My friend picked up Will and I watched him meet his baby brother for the first time.
We did it. We spent a week with a living, breathing, exhausting, adorable reminder of our grief, and we survived. But grief is not normal.
I used to see bibs, bottles and hooded towels that looked like dragons. I used to check the floor for choking dangers and a baby in matching pajamas. The house was quiet now that they were all gone again.
It was familiar. The older kids came back to school and Nick came back to work. I searched from room to room, looking for what I didn't find.
My mother's brother died when he was 4 years old in a tragic accident. My grandmother had a picture of him on her furniture. I got the impression that I shouldn't ask about him.
During the Depression, my grandparents came of age. They are part of the Greatest Generation, but also from a time when many people shied away from talking about grief.
I had the ability to keep my grief front and center. I had to turn my head to be reminded of him because I placed bits and pieces of him everywhere. There were pictures all over the house, a pair of socks in the trunk of my car, and a poster my friend made for his funeral leaning against a wall in the living room.
It was late November when he died. The start of the holiday season also marks the beginning of the mourning season, a time when we can't have a highchair or letter to Santa, and we have to go to New Year's without our son.
On Easter, Aiden was with his siblings. Emily Henderson provided the photo.
Our family will grieve, but how that grieves will change. The things that bring me comfort will change.
The crib is in pieces in the rafters of our garage, I wasn't ready to take it down before. I know that eventually, the time will come to donate the toys, but I still catch my daughter playing with them.
We are remodeling our house next year and I think I will have plenty of time to decide what to display, what to pack away, and what to let go. I have never rushed, never forced, never because I think I should do it.
Before my family gave me the Easy Button, I would have called it a useless gift, but it turned out to be one of my most prized possessions. It makes me feel better. It keeps my grief close and my son close as I move through these phases. I use it when I want to cry or smile. It is a beautiful reminder. It helps me remember the love we all shared. That love is still there. I can still feel it. We keep that love alive by remembering the joy that he brought us.
I press that button to remind me that what we have been through is not easy, but in a good way.
Emily Henderson lives in Santa Barbara, California. Her essays have appeared in a number of publications. She is writing a memoir about how she coped with the loss of her son. You can follow her on social media.
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The article was originally on HuffPost.
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