4:01 PM | 6 April 2020
Dear daughter of the patient who crashed in front of me,
I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m so, so sorry.
I knew your father was gone the minute his stretcher was brought in. His plantars were absent. His body was motionless. His eyes had that fixed look that only dead people have. We’ve seen it so many times now. It’s like the empty, sad moon looking around to borrow some light. He reminded me of my *Nana, now also dead.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
We lose patients every day. People lose grandparents every day, and parents, too. I used to think every loss was the same. But it’s really not. Just like every heartbeat is different—sometimes subtle, sometimes sharp—a deep pain stabbing in the middle of the chest is like a sharp prick in the soul. That heavy, empty feeling weighing loss—the loss of a being who was the center of your universe, who taught you how to crawl, how to walk, how to say ‘a’, ‘b’, ‘c’, and ‘d,’ till you managed to know that ‘zebra’ starts with “z.”
I wonder how many memories your father took with him—memories of holding you for the first time, of holding your tiny fists as you took your first steps, of your first day at school. And then, when he walked you down the aisle, his princess married her prince.
You kept shouting, **”myn aap se maafi bhi nahin maang saki, Abu!”
I pray that your scared, grieving heart finds peace, sister. I saw the sleeping face of your father closely as I recited Surah Mulk for him; he was at peace.
May the Almighty give your heart peace and your soul strength. May he look after you. May he look after us all.
Inna lil la ha wa inna ilaeye rajioun.
* Maternal grandfather * I couldn’t even ask you for forgiveness, father!
Dr. Arfa Masihuddin 