The month of October sucks. Big ones.
And then, we turn to Allah in gratefulness for what He has done for us.
This sounds like we may be all over the place. This month right here…October 2017, flipped up, turned us over, put us in reverse, choked and spit us out. Prayerfully. We’ve been all over the place emotionally, spiritually and mentally.
Our youngest son was hit by a car this month. En route to the hospital, we had no information. Suddenly, everyone at the police department and the hospital staff knew nothing. How did everyone get stupid as soon as my child is hurt?
The silence hurt my heart and caused every Mother’s unimagined fear to come to life as I drove. The closer I got to Atlanta Medical Center, the more intense my fear. We rode in the car in silence. I ran out of prayers to say. Each prayer said the same thing. For my son to be alive and to not have any long-term illnesses or to be a paraplegic. Then, I swapped that prayer for another one, because I wanted to love him even if he were wheelchair bound. Next, I found myself praying for Mother’s who had already lost a child, and to be humble enough to know my son was no greater than theirs.
By the time we walked through the doors of the ER, Hasan had to hold me up. I wanted to know if my youngest child was alive, but the fear of a potential dead body consumed me. Hasan held me. He told me we had to go in. And I wondered what do you ask the ER Front Desk under these circumstances? What is the best question to get the best answer that does not lead to death?
I concluded I needed to remain silent. If my fear, my pain or my worry spoke the motherly words I wanted to say, I knew I’d be hospitalized too. My words was gon’ show out, sound crazy and not make sense!
Hasan said something. Who knows what it was. I recall the attendant saying, “He’s in Room 118.”
This meant life. I fell limp. Again. I praised Allah in Arabic and in English in that ER! I needed to move to go see my son, but right then, a praise pause was needed. The neck brace still held onto his rigid, swollen, bruised and bloody body when I entered the room. Miraculously, his face did not have a scratch on it.
I wept. I stood next to his hospital bed and I cried. I cried for the life he had been given. For the life that he had to come. For the life that had not been taken from him. For the life I had taken for granted.
When my son told me how he called out, “Mom…Momma” when the pain was so intense and I had yet to arrive at the hospital, I felt like shit. Guilt took over and called me all kinds of names. I made sure during his entire hospital stay, this moment never occurred again. I rarely left his side. Had I not required a bath, I wold not have left when I did.
His hospital room already smelled like…well…a hospital.
The bleeding wound on his back earned a sour smell from his sweat and lying on his back for hours. Atlanta Medical Center did not need me to add to the smells in that hospital room!
While dealing and living with our son’s recovery, 5 days later, a beloved family member committed suicide. Devastation appeared all over again. I will not rehearse the questions, feelings and thoughts that ran through my mind. These questions, feelings and thoughts continue to run a marathon in my head. One day, they will stop. Just not today. I’m ok with that. I cleaned my family member’s blood from her home. Initially, I felt angry that there was any blood to clean up at all. I scrubbed, cried and turned to Hasan as needed while I cleaned. I’ve decided that despite the hurt within all of this, this act…this cleaning up…is a gift I was able to give to her and to her children.
During this time, Hasan and I have gotten upset with one another. This month, for the first time in our marriage, we were so exhausted, we slept in the same room, but separately. We’ve never been together and slept apart. NEVER. We’ve trusted each other to show up, to be quiet and to love when we didn’t know how to ask each other to do it.
During this time, Hasan and I have appreciated one another more. During this time, we’ve gone back and tried to recover from a wrong or to repair a snipe expressed verbally. We didn’t want to leave it in hanging on the ears of the other person.
Hasan has contacted a loved one struggling with their own mental health symptoms and laid down some ground rules of love to ensure this person lives. And lives a life knowing love despite every mental health symptom they struggle with or never share with us.
As a husband and wife, we took moments to be more vulnerable. To ask more questions. To make sure that when the pain occurs, we make sure, we make a difference. To make sure we leave this marriage and this life better than we came. And October 2017 did that for us.
This has been a gift.