Mom, and the cancer

That night wrapped itself in an eerie stillness. The heavens appeared to dim their glow, as if they sensed the sorrow that was looming over our little family. In the chill of that room, my mother lay delicate and wan, yet she still radiated the warmth of a remarkable woman. I sat beside her, cradling the hand that had so often brushed away my tears and offered me her steadfast solace.

“Mom, please just rest. Worry not about anything,” I murmured gently, my voice quaking as tears threatened to spill from my eyes.

She gifted me a faint smile – a smile so fragile yet profoundly calming. “What about you?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Are you prepared for your future?”

I froze, my heart shattering at her inquiry. How could I ever respond when I knew my future would be forever altered without her presence? But I swallowed my sorrow, recognizing she needed my strength.

“I’ll manage, Mom,” I finally replied, my voice quivering. “I’ll become the person you have always believed I could be. I’ll care for myself, for Dad, for everything. I’ll remain strong – for you.”

Her smile blossomed, and in that instant, I glimpsed a flicker of peace in her eyes. “I know you will,” she assured me. “You’ve always been amazing. I’m so proud of you.” She slowly lifted her hand to caress my cheek. That tender touch felt like a blessing, a silent prayer inscribed upon my heart.

Later, outside the operating room, it felt as though the universe had crumbled around me. My father stood beside me, striving to keep his composure, though I could see the fissures in his strength. The doctor had just delivered the news that the cancer had spread too far. Hope felt like a dwindling specter.

“No, Dad,” I wept, my voice raw with despair. “I don’t want Mom to endure this. Please, if it’s possible, let me take her place. I’ll do it – I don’t mind if it hurts me instead.”

My father drew me close, his arms quaking as he enveloped me. “No, sweetheart,” he whispered softly, his voice laden with grief. “Allah love Mom more. She’ll heal after this, by God’s grace. And if I could trade places with her, I would. I understand how much you and your siblings need her.”

I shook my head, tears flowing endlessly. “No, Dad,” I cried, my voice fracturing as I clung to him. “Let it be me. I’d prefer it to be me.” I collapsed into his embrace, sobbing without restraint. The operating room felt like a frigid, unyielding divide between us and the world we once knew – the world where my mother was always present.

My father held me tighter, trying to remain strong, though I knew he was shattering inside just as much as I was.

Months later, the phone that Mom had bestowed upon me continued to be a cherished part of my life. Even with its scuffs and scratches, I preserved it with care, whenever it showed signs of wear. That phone transformed into a testament of her love and resilience – a perpetual reminder of the woman who stood strong, even amidst the deepest suffering.

When the ache of her absence struck, I would close my eyes and revisit that night – the final night she mustered the strength to inquire about my dreams. And I remind myself, I must forge ahead. For I wish for her to remain proud of me, wherever her spirit now dances, in the tranquility and light she so richly earned.

That morning, our home was wrapped in an unsettling silence, though sorrow and anxiety clung to every shadow. I sat beside the bed, observing my mother as she lay there, so frail. Her face radiated tranquility, yet her body appeared so weak, her breaths shallow, as if each was a battle.

Kneeling beside her, my older brother cradled her gently, ensuring her delicate form felt at ease. We all sensed these might be our final moments with her in this realm. Yet, there was a force that seemed to anchor her here. She leaned into my brother’s chest, but her breaths wavered, as if her story was still unfolding.

My father, standing a little distance away, looked as though he were lost in a sea of thoughts until a realization broke through his gaze. With deliberate, measured steps, he approached the bed and placed a hand on my brother’s shoulder. “Son, let me take over,” he said, his voice quaking with emotion.

My brother shifted aside, creating room for my father. As he enveloped my mother in his arms, her taut body began to unwind, as if she had finally discovered the solace she craved. Her eyes fluttered shut, yet her essence remained. I clutched her hand tightly, tears flowing freely. I wept, gripping her hand as if trying to halt time, to defy destiny.

“Let her go, sweetheart,” my father’s voice pierced through, heavy with both grief and understanding. “Let her go. Don’t add to her burden.”

I shook my head vigorously, my tears soaking my cheeks. “No! I can’t bear for her to leave!” I cried out, my voice faltering as my entire being shook with emotion.

But deep within, I understood. This was never about my desires. It was about granting her the peace she so desperately needed. With a heart weighed down by sorrow, I finally released my hold. And in that instant, something extraordinary occurred. The small prayer bracelet my mother had worn – never once departing her wrist – somehow found its way onto my hand. I stood still, gazing at it, realizing this was her way of leaving a piece of herself with me.

As I loosened my grip, her body ceased its struggle. She departed quietly, cradled in my father’s embrace, enveloped by the infinite love of her family.

Our home was a sanctuary of souls that day. Countless hearts gathered, shedding tears and offering prayers for a woman whose love had enveloped the world. Even as we made our way to the cemetery, the once-scorching sun dimmed its intensity, and a soft breeze caressed our skin, as if the universe itself was honoring her departure.

Around her resting place, butterflies danced gracefully in the air. They appeared as if summoned, filling the atmosphere with a beauty that resonated deep within every heart present. One of the mourners murmured, ‘I’ve never witnessed anything quite like this. So serene, so enchanting.’

Months after my mother’s journey ended, I found myself sharing a car ride with my elder sister. She’s a healer, the one who grasped the truth of what had been unfolding with our mother more than any of us. I stole a glance at her before asking in a gentle, almost timid tone, ‘What was it like?’

‘What?’ she answered, her brow furrowing in confusion.

‘Understanding that Mom was running out of time, yet having to maintain the illusion that her illness could be reversed and she would recover?’

She fell silent. For a moment, the car was steeped in quiet. Then, with a voice that quavered, she uttered, ‘Don’t ask… Each night, I was tormented by nightmares.’

Her response constricted my heart. I realized she had carried the weight of it all alone, preserving the illusion of hope for Mom to keep our spirits lifted. I reached out, intertwining my fingers with hers, mirroring how Mom used to hold my hand.

And in that fleeting moment, clarity washed over me. Though this void was unbearable, Mom had gifted us with an irreplaceable inheritance – love, strength, and the unwavering belief that we must continue onward, just as she had always inspired us to do.