A month ago, my family and I relocated to Toronto, leaving behind Karachi, Pakistan, where I had spent 20 years of my life. Saying goodbye to my family and friends was challenging, but the most heart-wrenching farewell was to my son’s grave.
This year, my son, Samir, would have turned 7. His birth was a harrowing experience, lasting 22 hours and culminating in an emergency C-section. I never had the chance to cradle him; I was too drained. However, I vividly recall his first cry, the sound that jolted me awake after I lost consciousness. The doctor’s words beckoned me to see my beautiful baby boy, and I remember kissing his forehead before he was taken away for burial. In his brief 14 hours of life, I saw him just three times. By the third visit, he had already received his angel wings.
I had wished to see him before he passed, but the need for a wheelchair after my surgery delayed me, and by the time I could go, it was unfortunately too late. Throughout the night, I drifted in and out of sleep, and I remember the doctor saying, “His lungs have collapsed; prepare for the worst.” I didn’t fully grasp what that meant. I should have risen then; I should have held his hand in the NICU, providing the comfort he needed. Instead, I remained in bed.
The next morning, I attempted to visit him but was overwhelmed with fatigue. I asked everyone to give me a moment, thinking I just needed a bit of rest before seeing him. Those moments turned into a lifetime of regret.
Fast forward to today, I have a lovely 4-year-old daughter, Noor. She is a handful, and her pregnancy was nothing short of challenging, a stark contrast to the smooth nine months I experienced with Samir. Because of her, we made the difficult decision to leave Pakistan; the environment had become too dangerous. Noor deserves to grow up in a safe and developed country, where she can enjoy museums, zoos, and outdoor play.
As we prepared for our move, saying goodbye to Samir’s grave became the most heart-wrenching task. I hadn’t visited often during my daughter’s early years, always making excuses. I believed that she needed me to be strong and stable. Each visit to his grave would shatter me emotionally. While my husband found solace there, for me, it was a flood of regrets.
A few days before our departure, we went to bid farewell together, standing side by side in silence, tears streaming down our faces. Standing at your child’s grave reveals depths of your partner’s soul like no other moment can. The unbreakable bond formed through shared grief is profound.
We entrusted the care of his grave to two close friends, leaving with more tears, which will never cease when it comes to the memory of a child.
Today, as the sun shines, Noor is off to school, and I find myself counting down the hours until her return. Occasionally, while walking to the library or riding the subway, my thoughts drift to an alternate reality—a life where Samir is still with us. In that imagined world, I would hold two tiny hands, one on each side. Life would have been different, perhaps grander.
I bid farewell to his grave, but I will never say goodbye to his memory in my heart. No mother can. Whether it’s 0 hours, 14, or even a million, the time spent with our children leaves an indelible mark that transcends the universe.
For more insights on navigating fertility journeys, check out this other blog post. It’s essential to note that resources like this page can provide valuable information on pregnancy and home insemination. Additionally, for those looking to enhance fertility, consider exploring fertility boosters for men.
Summary
In this heartfelt narrative, Maya Ahmed reflects on her emotional journey of leaving Karachi and saying goodbye to her son Samir’s grave while embracing her role as a mother to her daughter Noor. This poignant farewell encapsulates the enduring love and connection between a mother and her child, regardless of the time spent together.
Keyphrase: Saying goodbye to my son’s grave
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]