No calamity strikes, except by the permission of Allah (SWT). And whoever has faith in Allah SWT, He will guide their hearts ~ Qur'an 64:11
These are the deeply painful memories of my heart and soul. And a part of me doesn’t want to think about it, and even less write about it.
But I can’t stop here.
I remind myself that Allah SWT has given me the ability to write things that other people can relate to. And maybe one day, someone in difficulty will read these blogs and grasp the one universal message that’s repeated in each and every blog, in different ways. Flee towards Allah SWT. Never away.
So, I continue. And I seek refuge in Allah SWT, as I’m writing these last few blogs, from imagining I’m being tested with more than I can bear, when He has promised that He would never test me, or any believer, in such a way.
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A journey of 17 days…
The maintenance chemotherapy was a quick procedure – some blood tests and the chemotherapy drip – and within a few hours Yaseen was discharged. But what happened afterwards wasn’t as straightforward.
Yaseen had gone in on 16 December 2020 for the treatment, and on 19 December he was readmitted with a high fever. He adamantly refused to stay over in hospital, and it took both Mujeeb and I to convince him otherwise. He had had enough of hospitals, and with everything that he had been through, I couldn’t blame him.
Anyway, Yaseen finally relented, and he was readmitted into the Sunflower ward. The rules of the Sunflower ward were less rigid than that of the BMTU, so Mujeeb and I could visit more freely and we took shifts spending time with him.
I didn’t regard the situation as being that serious. In fact, while Yaseen was in hospital, there was another teenaged patient who was facing a major medical complication. And as sad as I was to hear this, I couldn’t help feeling grateful that Yaseen would be in hospital only for a day or so till the infection was under control, then he’d be home again.
But I was wrong. It was longer than a day or two. One day turned into another and then another, and so it carried on until more than a week had passed. And as the days passed, a feeling began to manifest in me that things weren’t as simple as I first assumed.
Day in and day out, I was back at hospital. It was on one of those days as I sat with Yaseen in his hospital room, that I looked at him on the hospital bed and, feeling sad, I told him: “I’m sorry”.
Yaseen never asked me what I was apologizing for. He just looked at me and said: “It’s okay”. Just like that, no questions asked, I had been forgiven.
Whatever inadequacies over the years that I had shown as his mom, I had been forgiven for that. For the scoldings, naughty corners and the shots with the wooden spoon, I had been forgiven. For whatever mistakes I had made in our battle against cancer, I had been forgiven. Everything wiped out with his unconditional “It’s okay”.
All Glory be to Allah SWT. Truly, those two words, spoken gently by him, were strong enough to lift the weight of mountains from my shoulders.
Yaseen had been in hospital for about 12 days, and by now he was back in the BMTU. This move back to the BMTU was a clear sign of the situation being critical. But I needed to know – how critical?
So, without any appointment, I decided to confront his doctor. I stood in the waiting area outside the BMTU, and as the doctor exited the Unit after his patient rounds, I practically ambushed him.
As a medical professional, I wanted to know the truth from him – what was his honest perception of Yaseen’s condition.
My previous work as a mediator allowed me to be sensitive to body language, and so I watched him carefully as he answered. Just by the look on his face, without him needing to say much, I knew. Yet again, we were battling to save Yaseen’s life.
It was a Thursday, I think, and after the conversation with the doctor, I had a bit of a breakdown. I was going to lose my son, I thought. I felt it. In the absence of a miracle, I was going to lose my son.
That day, I had the morning shift with Yaseen, and after speaking to the doctor, I was terrified of stepping into Yaseen’s room. What state was my son going to be in? Feeling emotionally wrecked, I forced myself to don the protective gear of the BMTU and walk in.
I was surprised to find Yaseen looking physically better than what I was expecting, despite his high fever and pain. But still…I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling that this time the situation was different. ‘I’m going to lose him’ kind of different.
I wasn’t ready for that kind of reality. I had beautiful dreams of the future for him, and I hadn’t yet seen those dreams fulfilled. As I stood there, I realized that much of what I had imagined up to that point as being important for my boys, truly, weren’t. Not the acclaimed university they would attend, nor the life of affluence they might live.
My children being alive and well, that was beyond important. It was priceless.
I can’t explain the difficulty I experienced, fearing the loss of my son, but pretending to the world that I was okay. It was a lonely time, made even more lonely because of isolation and Covid.
I couldn’t appreciate that solitude back then. But now, I’ve come to understand that Allah SWT was giving me some special time alone with Him. For almost sixteen months, every other supportive relationship was moved to the background, and my relationship with Allah SWT was made the focus.
Allah SWT knew the direction my test was heading, and He knew my weaknesses in coping. My only hope of succeeding the hardest test I could imagine was to do what I had been forced and trained to do for 16 months. Flee to Him – even if my ‘fleeing’ on some days felt like a walk, or even a crawl.
It was nearing two weeks of Yaseen’s hospitalization, and we hadn’t managed to get the infection or his fever under control. We were trying all that we knew to try and save him, but it wasn’t working. Yaseen’s immune system was too weak. So, his doctor proposed an unconventional treatment – one I had never heard of before – to try and boost his immune system. And we agreed. We were prepared to try anything if there was any possibility of it working, that’s how bleak the situation was.
This calamity that had befallen us, that Allah SWT had decreed. And the calamity that was yet to befall us, that He had already given permission for. I didn’t know the decree, I just knew that in the past, we had experienced so many miracles with Yaseen. And I was hoping, with everything inside of me, that we would experience another one. Just one more.
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Words of motivation…
When my writing takes me back to a hospital room and sad memories, emotionally hard to bear, I allow myself to dream of something beautiful. Inevitably, my dreams take me to the place where I’ve felt the most at peace, standing beside a Green Dome.
I dream of sitting next to the grave of the man who taught me how to love Allah SWT, regardless of what situation I found myself in. A Prophet who had lived to bury six of his seven children, yet he still loved Allah SWT. Obeyed Allah SWT. Trusted Allah SWT.
I can’t imagine the pain in losing so many children.
I can’t imagine the pain in losing two of your greatest supporters – the uncle who raised and protected you, and your wife who loved and supported you – both dying days apart from each other, even as you faced the hardest period of your life.
I can’t imagine the pain of your own people persecuting you, and then, as you look for support in a new city, those people humiliate and assault you. Yet even then, rejected, bruised and bleeding, you still have something beautiful to say in your prayer to Allah SWT.
These words, taken from the prayer of the Prophet Muhammad (SAW) after he was chased out of Ta’if, in the year known as ‘the year of grief’, are truly special. It is a reminder, an inspiration in the face of any calamity:
‘(My Lord)… As long as You are not displeased with me, I do not care what I face.‘