When thinking of starting a
family with my husband, all that was in my mind was: you get pregnant, carry
the blossoming baby for more-or-less nine months and happily ever after begins.
I never thought there was even the slightest possibility that when I saw those
pink rose positive lines on my pregnancy test that having a premature baby or a
miscarriage was possible.
I remember the first time I saw
that bold positive make its way into that square window. I was excited; it felt
like my red heart could burst. “I am going to be a mother,” I told myself. I
calmly (as I could) sat down, leaning against the bath, tears welling up in my
brown eyes. I remember thinking: how should I tell my husband? My first
instinct told me to say something like: Nope love, false alarm. I couldn’t. The
excitement was just too much to control. The smile was spread too widely upon
my beaming face which gave it all away. Tears welled up in his eyes without
words.
Excitement hung around like my
own personal sun above my head as we shared the news with our close family. I
couldn’t help myself, I downloaded app’s on my phone to track baby-to-be’s
metamorphosis and I couldn’t help imagining how life was going to change. How
little did I know? Sigh. Soon after, I saw the red that scared me more than any
red had ever (or so I thought at the time). Threatened miscarriage. That was my
label, the next 48hours would determine what was going to happen. Three weeks,
desperate tears and chilled fears later, it was confirmed. Miscarriage. Black. Silence. Heartbreaking. Patience.
Allah knows best (God knows best). Nothing
ever hurt more than that moment (or so I thought). Everyone might feel the loss
of a miscarriage differently. To me the feeling of loss left me empty and bruised.
Physically going through a miscarriage, left me seeing red eternally.
People didn’t understand, why
would they? If you haven’t experienced the loss of it, why would you feel hurt,
sorry or sad for me? Why would you care what careless words you’ve spoken to
me? It haunted me like black air that just wouldn’t exhale from my already
compressed lungs. And then…
The pink rose positive appeared
again.
Scared. Scarred. Couldn’t breathe. Joy. Soon after, eternal red appeared again and the black air
seemed to suffocate me, strangle me. And
then… there was a mistake. “There is pulsation,” came the voice of the foreign
nurse. Alhamdulillah (All praise is due to God). The best most beautiful sound
my heart ever heard beat though the speakers in that dark room. A tiny heart
thudding its way into the world… fighting.
Husband and I stood in awe,
amazement and shock. I was scared, not knowing what uncertainties the future
held. Then came the words from others that cannot be taken back. The words that
sting. I kept my joy bursting in my heart and gratefulness in prayer. As the
weeks raced by and the healthy appointments and scans passed, I could only
picture her face.
One day, 27 weeks on, fluid
gushed so forcefully to the ground leaving me feeling panicked. Tears. Struggling to breathe. My
baby. I called my husband who determinedly sped home. My mother came over; drying
up the liquid I knew protected my baby. Couldn’t
breathe. Tears. Arriving at the hospital, little did I know that it would be
the start of my pink rose positive’s journey. That night and the next day, we
waited. Was she arriving? Heart beats in the morning and heart beats in the
evening. Kicking. And then…
29 weeks on, my awesome doctor
made the decision to save my baby’s life. Emergency
caesarean. Fear. Tears. Couldn’t breathe. Patience.
Allah knows best. The room was icy
and my heart was numb. The deep scratch of the drip and numbing of my lower
half made no impact on my pain sense. All I kept thinking was: My baby. Patience. The light above the operating scene was bright and
soothing. Like I could stare and just dissolve into it. And then…
The greatest sound my heart ever
heard, her first cry. The most wonderful sight my eyes ever saw is her. The
long journey had begun. After being sewed up, I could only be strong for her, I
only had eyes for her. I was told that when a baby is born prematurely the
mother feels it more than the father. I felt this because in my head I knew my
baby was still supposed to be in the safety of my womb. Here she was. Had to deal. Drips.
Oscillators. Ventilators. Oxygen. Drips. Breathe. The first time husband and I held her was 2 weeks after
she was born. She was connected to oxygen, drip lines and lines to the fresh
opening of her trimmed –off umbilical cord. The softest skin I had ever felt.
She’s perfect.
3 weeks after her birth, she got
sick. The saddest sight my eyes ever saw. The black air surrounded me as I
stared at her ash-white body as the infection lodged itself in her tiny
kilogram body. Critical for a week. Told to let our family say goodbye. Told us to say goodbye. Tears. Scared. Sad. Oscillators. Ventilators. Infection. Multi-organ failure. Countless of drips. More pricks. More blood. She needed to breathe on her own. Prayer.
SILENCE.
And then…
By the will of Allah (God), she
fought. She put on her finest armour and took out her mighty sword and she
fought. She breathed. We breathed. Not too long after, the infection was back;
waging a war throughout her body. Once again, she put on her glitz and glam and
baby high heels and she fought back. She bravely continued to fight for weeks.
At 2 months old (3 days corrected age) she had her first major operation. Ventilator. More blood. Scared. Tears. Prayer. Patience. Things
seemed better after the operation. She breathed on her own. She was in a crib
for the first time. The one in which a new born arrives in. For the first time,
she was going to leave the hospital after 3 months. And then… I noticed that
she looked weaker, something was wrong. The next day, all the drips and needles
came back. More blood. The infection was back again. Lung collapse. Oxygen.
Ci-pap. Si-pap. I couldn’t breathe.
Patience. And then…
The weeks that followed were
brighter, the drips became fewer and she could breathe on her own. She fought
her way back to a crib. After 4 months, she was ready to pack her huggies and
formula and come home. Alhamdulillah. No more trips to the hospital. No more
coming home without our baby. Patience.
No more crying that she wasn’t home with us. And then…
More challenges up ahead,
overnight stay in hospital, constant doctor’s appointments. Patience. Perseverance. Allah knows
best. She’s been home for months and she knows that she totally owns us!
She holds our hearts in the grasp of her fingers. As she FIGHTS, we FIGHT.
As she PERSEVERES, we PERSEVERE. Every difficulty that
she faces, we face it with her. ALL for her. With EVERYTHING we have. Prayer.
Patience. All of the struggles are
worth holding her in my arms. It’s worth seeing husband gaze upon her with an
awesome love.
Right now, our mission
is to protect our baby from even a hint of a bug, infection, cough, sneeze or
anything that could possibly hurt her. We humbly ask that everyone understands.
Long months have passed without sleep for us and for her. She’s kept in
isolation with us for her own protection. We ask that everyone understand. Be
kind with words because they are forever and never forgotten. Understand that
when my baby is not well, the number on the scale, the puffiness in my face and
never-ending fashion of plain pj’s doesn’t matter to me. Weight is a changing
variable, sleep-ful nights will come and clothes will change to more
fashionable pj’s. All that matters is her. If you feel offended by my willingness to
protect my awesome daughter, then perhaps you still need to understand.
Watching my baby need machines to blow air into her lungs hurts me. It hurts
us. Seeing collapsed veins and the doctors searching where next to set up the
next drip. Hurts. Perhaps in her head again? Perhaps in her feet again? Perhaps
in her finger again? Perhaps in her neck again? Try to understand.
Having a baby who has fought so
hard has truly made me even stronger. I think of my mighty parents who have
lost 4 children and still they weather the storm. Imagine 4 lives of those
close to you. Imagine them gone. Some
people don’t even have 4 children. Sadly, some parents may never even have 1 child. 4 lives who had their own challenging
journeys.
27 years old- cerebral palsy and diabetes.
2 years old-leukemia.
3 years old- pneumonia.
1 day old.
And 3 miscarriages.
Emptiness. Tears for my
parents. Tears for my siblings. These mighty giants who are my parents have
been good examples of how to keep my head above the water. They’ve taught me to
keep kicking. Husband and I have come within a see-through breath of seeing our
baby meet death and it broke us. Allah
knows best. My strong parents.
After difficulty comes ease, Insha Allah (God-willing). Even though we
disagree, argue and fight, your value to my life is forever.
I think of the mothers
I’ve met along the way. 6 miscarriages and then a micro-prem. Nine months and
then a stillborn. I think of the mother and father whose baby passed away just
opposite ours. I remember how that sad father’s heart split open and tears
streamed down his cheeks. I remember feeling his pain because our baby was
critical just days before. I remember embracing that mother after their baby
passed away and my heart bled for her. Looking
at my precious gem, there’s only the feeling of gratitude no matter what
challenges lie ahead. I salute the mothers and fathers who have endured difficulty
and loss with their children. I salute the parents who trudge forward on the
challenging journeys with their children and who march with faith and hope in
their back pocket.
My pink rose positive. Ours. Her
trials and tribulations belong to all those who come to know of her awesome
story. Her test is first, our test as her parents. And then yours. We are so
awesomely grateful to everyone who have supported us and our baby girl, Zahraa
(name meaning: shining, flower, lady of Jannah (paradise). We thank both sets
of our parents. For everything.
Please always know that our love for you is limitless. Please don’t hold it
against us that we wish to safeguard our baby to whichever end. It might not
always come across in the way in which you would like to hear. We sincerely
apologise. We trust that you will understand as you have fought for us. As you
were strong for us. We’re trying our best to find a way to be the best parents
for our baby. And although it might be hard because you always want to over-shower
your love and protection over us- and now her- give us a chance to live up to
our wonderful examples. Insha Allah, we can do it. To our extended family, all of
the Super
Hero Doctors that fight to help our Zahraa, thank you. God has truly
blessed you with an awesome medical talent as you continue to save countless of
lives. To us, you are forever cherished.
As our pink flower blossoms and
transforms, we pray for blessings of rain to come her way so that her roots are
firm in the ground and that the sun shines upon her petals. Insha Allah, one
day those tiny toes will taste the fresh salt of the sea. The sun will kiss her
cheeks. And we will carry her always as the Almighty carries us. Forever
patient. Many obstacles and hurdles are up ahead. Our secret weapon lies in
our front pocket.
When thinking of starting a
family with my husband, all that was in my mind was: you get pregnant, carry
the blossoming baby for nine months and happily ever after begins. I never
thought there was even the slightest possibility that when I saw that pink rose
positive on my pregnancy test that having a miracle that would fight would be possible.
I
never thought that Allah would choose us for this phenomenal journey.
