I did not want the name Ibrahim, I wanted something less traditional. Your father loved the name and wouldn’t discuss any other. As soon as I saw your beautiful face, I knew that the name suited you.
I never saw your eyes open; your father was the only one who had the luxury. He said you looked like Fahad. He said that you had a lot of character in your face and that you scared him. He also said that it was the first time he felt unconditional love.
When I saw you, I was so afraid of you, afraid of all the nurses and the doctors, the needles and tubes, knowing that you were really sick. I pushed aside the fears because you were my baby and I had to tell you how much I loved you.
The first day, I sat in my wheelchair next to you, groggy. Praying over you. Too scared to touch you.
For the eight days you were alive, I sang to you, read every prayer I knew by heart over you, and told you again and again that I loved you.
I remember your cute, little lips move as I said, “I love you, baby, I love you, Ibrahim.” Your father and I witnessed this miracle. You did this on your fifth day. After this, there were to be no more little miracles.
I touched you and kissed you everywhere because I knew you had little time left with me. Your Mamajaan and Auntie wouldn’t hear any of it; they told me that you would be coming home with me soon. I knew deep down that my baby had only a few days on earth and I wanted to make the most of them. I spent my days with you, going back home in the evening when my stitches hurt too much from not resting.
God is great. On the night you went to heaven, your family was there with me and your father- your Mamajaan, Saira Auntie, Aaisha Auntie, Adnan Uncle and Fahad Uncle. When they told us you wouldn’t make it through the night, your father and I agreed right away to holding you the last few hours of your life. I had never held you in my arms before.
It was the scariest, saddest moment of my life and I sometimes wonder how I am still alive after witnessing the most terrible, terrifying thing in my life.
At first, you felt foreign in my arms. I didn’t know how to be a mom. I mostly didn’t know how to be a mom who had to prepare herself and her child for his journey to God. I silently made a prayer for patience and accepted God’s will and prayed over you while you took your last breaths.
I cried the whole time but I did not scream like I thought I would. I wanted you to know your mom was being uncomplaining because she understood it was Allah’s will. I wanted you to know your mom was strong because she knew she would meet with you in Heaven one day. I wanted you to know that I loved you since you were just an idea in my head when I was a little girl, since I knew you were inside me, since I felt you kick for the first time, since I saw your beautiful face.
You took your last breath in my arms and they took you away from me.
I am so proud of your father for taking care of you. He did everything a father is supposed to do and more. He brought you home, bathed you, and prepared you for the funeral. He laid you to rest and came home to tell me about it. I loved your father before you were born, but after you left, I am awe-struck, in love with the strength and love he has shown me. You gave me that, Ibrahim.
Sometimes thinking of you with all of the needles and tubes hurts me and the pictures of you that I have hurt to look at, but I look at them with pride- knowing that underneath all of it lay my beautiful baby.
I know that I will see you in Heaven one day. This is what I believe. I cannot wait for that day when I can finally hold you in my arms, eternally, as moms are supposed to.
Love, Mommy
