Since my father’s passing in July 2015, Nande has seemed to lose a significant part of her strength. She used to be relatively stable despite her diabetes, but after he was gone, her health gradually declined, as if her body was carrying a burden far heavier than before.
Since then, not a single year has passed without accompanying Nande through hospital treatments. It wasn’t just her old illness worsening—new health problems kept emerging, one after another, as if there was no end to them. Every time we hoped for improvement, something else would pull us back into the hospital.
Little by little, the once unfamiliar world of medicine became all too familiar. Terms I had never even thought about before became part of daily conversations. The list of medications she had to take kept growing, each new prescription a sign that her body was in a never-ending battle.
Wounds on her feet appeared out of nowhere, as if her body had lost the ability to heal itself. Then came the pus that built up, rendering her left arm almost useless, limiting her movements. Stomach issues came and went, making it difficult for her to eat properly. Cancer and dialysis loomed over us for a while, adding to the fears that had yet to subside. And then, in the end, her heart condition demanded something even more serious—a surgery that felt almost too heavy to bear.
Observing the obligation of fasting as a Muslim often comes with an undeniable sense of hunger and thirst. Yet, no matter how difficult it gets, only the Maghrib call to prayer serves as the one and only reason to break the fast. The same could be said about the long journey of caring for Nande.
I was never a perfect child, and my patience often wore thin. There were so many dreams I longed to chase, but at the same time, an exhaustion that was impossible to ignore—both physical fatigue and the deep weariness of watching her fight an illness that never seemed to relent. But just like fasting, which cannot be broken before its appointed time, taking care of Nande would never end by any reason—except when God Himself decided to call her home.
And that time came. On March 19, 2025, less than two weeks before Eid al-Fitr 1446 Hijri, Allah, the Lord of the Universe, took my mother back for eternity.
Throughout the countless hospital visits, I often thought about documenting her medical journey. What she complained about, how the doctors responded, and how we, her children, managed our bodies and emotions amidst the uncertainty.
Writing has always been my catharsis—a way to process emotions when faced with sorrow and fears too heavy to put into words. Every time I saw her lying weak in bed, a question lingered in my mind: Will this be the last time? But Allah is Most Kind. When her health improved, my worries eased, and so did my desire to put everything into writing.
Perhaps, when she was doing better, my subconscious chose to fully cherish those moments rather than dwell on memories of her pain. My happiness and hope slowly replaced the need to pour my emotions into words.
But when the doctor finally declared that Nande was gone, my mind immediately wandered back to the past—searching for memories that could bring me comfort, something to assure me that I had been a good child to her.
Yet, what I found was the opposite. All that remained was regret—regret that I wasn’t good enough, that maybe I had never truly made her as happy as she deserved to be.
I thought this hospital stay would be just like the previous ones. There would be difficult moments, but in the end, she would recover and return home, just like before. I convinced myself that this was just another test to endure, that there was still time to be with her.
But this time was different. This time, she did return home—but not with a relieved smile or gratitude for healing. This time, her homecoming was met with tears, with hearts desperately clinging to hope, even when reality had spoken otherwise.
Not once have I questioned God's will, for I know everything rests in His hands. But in the quiet moments of my prayers, filled with longing, I whisper over and over again:
"Oh Allah… How quickly You took away my soulmate, my world, my heaven, my home, my dreams, my purpose, my refuge, my happiness."
So quickly that I never had the chance to be truly ready. So suddenly that it still feels like a dream I am not ready to wake up from.
I try my best to steady my heart, to move forward as I should. Silently, I make plans, searching for ways to walk without my mother’s prayers guiding every step. But the harder I try, the emptier it feels.
New clothes that once excited me no longer look beautiful—because her eyes are no longer here to see them with pride. Delicious food that used to bring satisfaction now tastes bland—because I can no longer enjoy it with her. Places once filled with memories have lost their charm—because she is no longer there.
And when people offer their empathy, it should bring me comfort. But instead, it does the opposite—every kind word, every gentle touch, only makes me more aware of how not okay I truly am. Of how real, how deep this loss is, and how I am still trapped in it.
In my attempt to console myself, I whisper to my own heart:
"No one can ever be truly ready for a loss this great, even when we have accepted God’s will. No faith is strong enough to erase the pain of longing—and that’s okay. God knows how deeply I love my mother, and He understands how much my heart aches right now."
This sadness will not simply fade away, and it doesn’t have to. A loss this profound doesn’t need to be rushed into healing or forgetting. But in between my tears and prayers, I hope that one day, I will find peace—not because I have moved on, but because I have come to realize that my mother never truly left.
She remains in every prayer I whisper, in the values she instilled in me, in the love she gave that has now become a part of who I am. Her presence doesn’t have to be something seen—it exists in every step I take, in every kindness I show, in every memory I cherish with love.
I know that words will never fully mend this loss. But I hope that, through my prayers, I find a little relief. So let me grieve, let me cry, let me miss her, and let me slowly find my way forward—carrying her love with me in every step I take.
I have also come to understand—no one is ever truly ready for a final goodbye. No matter how great the love, no matter how strong the bond, parting will come when its time arrives.
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