family in more ways than one
Summer 2017 started off with a lot of excitement. Moving into my first apartment, celebrating my brother graduating from university, and most importantly, an entire four months with family and friends that I had missed so dearly. Little did I know that this would be the beginning of the worst year and a half of my life.
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I love Ramadan. I especially love Ramadan in the Middle East. The atmosphere, the tradition, the reminder to be continuously grateful, and always being surrounded by the ones we love. That Ramadan started off no differently, fasting and watching the Food Network pass the time away. You’d think it would be torture, but it truly satiated a part of that hunger. It fulfilled the sensation of feeing oneself through their eyes.
I always enjoyed fasting, not only for the ability to sit throughout the day and cook with my family but to be reminded of all the things I am privileged to have. For those that don’t know why Muslims spend an entire month fasting (yes indeed even not water), its a time for us to be thankful and empathize with those around the world that don’t have the luxury of a roof over their heads and consistent meals through their days. The holiest month of the year and even though I’m not the best example of what it means to be Muslim, I genuinely believe that no matter where you are from and what you believe in, you can feel and share in the spirit of giving during this time. From feeding those in need to the small abstentions, each person does what they can during this time, and I think that it’s truly beautiful.
This Ramadan was different somehow, not just because I had been gone for the better part of a year, but I felt different. That difference was somehow painful. Not even halfway through the month, and I had experienced a loss like none before it. My grandfather had passed away.
The next week filled with grieving, planning the funeral and trying to be there for my family. Doing anything I could to be there for my parents, who were pillars of strength. I didn’t break down until the funeral when I saw my friends, who I hadn’t even told.
That’s what happens when your friends are your family too. They’re there for you when you don’t even realize you needed them.
The pain was getting worse. I thought it was regular pain from fasting, hunger and thirst. May it was pain from grief even. But as per usual, my mother insisted I see a doctor, and as usual, she was right. I had appendicitis and needed surgery. I know what your thinking, great timing indeed. Oh, just wait for it.
On the road to recovery, having a multitude of visits from my friends and family, all bearing flowers to brighten up the smell of isopropyl alcohol and medicine, and chocolates which I couldn’t handle eating just yet. I was surrounded by so much love and support again when I least expected it.
The rest of the summer was just reminding myself how lucky I was to have people like this in my life. People that genuinely cared for my well-being and would always be there for me. The peak of this feeling occurred in August during a wedding, where two families whom we both knew and loved would be joining together. Being in one place as a friend group one last time before returning to Vancouver, it only reinforced the love and laughter of us. From horses fighting to be cramped in mini-bus with no AC, we didn’t run short on moments to remember for a lifetime.
Returning to school that year brought its own challenges. Juggling six courses, a position in my sorority, volunteering with middle schoolers, and applying to jobs for the summer was a mission. Finally, settling into a routine and coming to terms with not being able to go home that summer, I was so close to finishing the year and getting a much-needed break.
April 19, 2018. My grandfather passed away. You would think that since I had experienced a loss like this, it would be easier. No. Heart-wrenching. Suffocating. All-consuming. These are only a few of the ways I could describe this pain.
My Dedu was constant in my life. Every Friday, we would wait for him to come back from the Mosque to have lunch together. He would defend me, make fun of me, and, most importantly, always remind me how much he loved me. I never doubted for one minute the love he had for my mother and her siblings. The love he had for us.
He was sick for a long time, but you never expect it, as much as you think you prepare for it. You could never anticipate the gut-wrenching pain of this moment.
Exams were still going on, so I tried my best to hide it from my friends instead of distracting them. But, the night of his funeral was too much to handle on my own. Sitting in my apartment, I called the only person I could think of, sobbing and wailing, he honestly didn’t know if I was laughing or crying. The next thing I knew, I had four people in my apartment just sitting with me and holding me while I cried. I could never be more grateful for people to see me cry than that night. I barely spoke, but they stayed with me nonetheless. As the night went on, the boys left, but Rama and Hala stayed, insisting they would remain with me. I told them to sleep on my bed because I knew I wasn’t going to sleep that night. Nope. They fell asleep with me on a bean bag and the couch. It was the sweetest thing.
The pain was recurring, and for the first time in my life, I postponed my finals. My eyes were puffy for days. But I was never alone for more than a few hours other than to sleep. Once again, I had no idea what I did to deserve so much love and sincere support.
The next few months were calm but filled with new experiences. My first real summer in Vancouver. My first real job in an office, helping at-risk youth with the job market. It was rewarding but calm enough that I wasn’t overwhelmed. I had played a lot of beach volleyball. We started the puzzle from hell itself (3000 pieces and took up my whole dining table). It was more than I could have hoped for after what I had just gone through.
Once my work period was over, I booked a ticket to go home. I cried, seeing my mother. I cried, seeing my younger brother become my height. To sum up, there was a lot of crying. The first time being home after a loss is weird. Everything looks the same but feels different. Friday lunches carried a new weight, looking at the chair that would have sat the person we used to wait for. There wasn’t a wait anymore.
My grandmother was in the hospital for the first week of my return, and I refused to go see her there. I told her that I would only see her once she got better. Once she was home and could cook my favourite foods.
So she got better. She got home and was upset with me (but not really). She made my favourite dessert and held my hand while watching her Arabic dramas that I could never stand. I could go back to Vancouver with this memory and be happy, knowing she would be here when I got back.
Then came Gamma Phi Recruitment Retreat at Manning Park. Listen, if you had told me 4 years ago that I would be in a cabin for three days with 60 women and was enjoying it, I would have said you were insane. Growing up more of a tom-boy, I didn’t know that I could be friends with this many women and actually enjoy it, especially not having any biological sisters of my own. Two brothers meant a lot of fighting, dog-piles, and at times, questionable smells just to annoy the hell out of me. This retreat brought me closer to these women. It really reminded me of what it meant to be in this organization. Women from all walks of life with a variety of interests and completely different views and experiences of the world. It was amazing.
That is until 7:00 am that Sunday morning. I woke up to a call from my mother, and I just knew. I ran outside as to not wake anyone up, and she told me. She just couldn’t wait to be with her husband again. That morning, my grandmother passed away. The only grandmother I knew. The woman who would always sneak away more money for me during Eid. The woman who prayed for everyone she met in her life. She was an icon in the neighbourhood. The most generous and loving woman I knew, strangers felt her warmth and were touched by her spirit.
This was the hardest one by far. I was sobbing in the lawn, avoiding everyone inside having breakfast. Maha took care of everything for me. She told our president and found me a ride home. She helped me with my things. And she was a constant source of love and light to remind me that the woman I loved and was inspired by was in a better place.
The worst year and a half of my life. This was difficult for me to write, mainly because I cried throughout the entirety of the second portion of it. I can honestly tell you that I have never experienced pain and loss to this extent in my life, not before. Surgery was easier than losing the people I thought would sing at my wedding and hold my children. I miss them with every piece of me, and I would give anything to know that they are happy and that we’re making them proud.
One of the things that got me through this period was my mother. She was the epitome of strength and love. The loss was profound, and she managed to keep their memory alive throughout her life. Always supporting her children and inspiring them to do all they could. She didn’t let this loss hold her down in any way, so I couldn’t either. Being thousands of miles apart and grieving, not once but twice, is not easy for a mother and daughter duo like us. She held me together, and I was just waiting to hug her again.
This was my second year. It was by no means easy nor could be characterized as a great time. And yet, it brought a lot of things to my attention. I have people in my life that I would not trade for anything in the entire world. Friends I’ve had since childhood and friends I’ve only had for a couple of years. These people had become the family I needed here when I couldn’t be with my own.
Loss has a funny way of making you appreciate things more. I would not wish this type of pain and heartache on anyone, but I am so thankful to know that I will always have this love in my life. Both past and present, those feelings will never fade.
I just want to take a minute here and thank the people that stood by me when I needed them most; when I was (and am) a sobbing mess, when I can be difficult, and especially when I don’t say it enough, but I’m thankful for you, and I love you so dearly.
So I know this wasn’t a short or easy read, but if you finished this piece, thank you too. My university was not all three-legged races down my hallway and watching Shrek until 3:00 am. These experiences shaped me into who I am, and I can’t change it. So when I said last time that not every experience is the same and it won’t always be easy, I truly meant it.
Be patient with yourself. Lean on the people that love you. Most importantly, remember that things can and will get better if you allow them to.