Hello Friends,
How are you? This week's story is about my daughter, Mehak. Mehak, whose name means fragrance, gave me the gift of presence. The strangest and most peaceful moments of the challenging time frame of Mehak’s life were when I’d spend time with her in the NICU. Those were some of the most priceless moments when all was right with the world. When her belly went inward and then out as she breathed and the way she grasped my finger helped me remember that this moment was precious and it was ours.
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February is the lightest month of the year with a fewer number of days yet for me it packs a punch. It’s the month in which my first daughter, Mehak, was born on Groundhog Day. She lived a life of forty-seven days. When this time came around from February 2nd-March 20th, I’d brace myself in anticipation of something awful happening. I later learned that this was a trauma and stress response. It was certainly not how I wanted to remember the time I got to spend with my Mehak.
This year, it was Mehak’s tenth year birthday. Before Mehak’s birthday this year, I reminded my daughters that her birthday is coming. From there, all the planning was taken care of.
“We are going to get a cake with candles and celebrate Mehak. And then we’ll pray for her.” Rihab suggested.
The day arrived after a week of potent conversations between Shakil and me about Mehak. Reflecting on our conversations, it was evident that both of us had our very own unique experience of grief even though we both grieved the same person. We are there for one another but we walk our own personal terrain that neither one of us can walk for one another.
In that sense, we are alone in our subjective experiences of grief, but it certainly helps when there are dear friends and supporters making space to witness the sadness.
On February 2nd, I received a bouquet of flowers from a friend with a note saying that she was thinking of me and Shakil on this day. I also received a lovely card from my editor saying that she is celebrating Mehak and the journey I’m about to share with others. Tears of gratitude and healing gushed forth after receiving these gifts.
Shakil came early from work and we had lunch together before we went to pick up the kids from school. During the car ride, Rania reminded Haya about Mehak’s birthday.
Haya asked, “Wait. Does this mean Mehak will come when we have a party for her?”
Rania giggled, “No, silly. But she knows we are celebrating her.”
“OK. I’m going to get her a make-up kit because she is ten years old. I know she’d love it.” Haya said.
We laughed. Years ago I wouldn’t have thought this was possible that we could hold happiness and grief together.
When Shakil and I had shared about Mehak with our daughters, we thought it was because they had the right to know. I’m beginning to see that perhaps it was more for Shakil and me to cultivate this space of healing. It’s natural and maybe even necessary to cocoon oneself when a tragedy occurs, but at some point, the cocoon has to disintegrate. The walls have to come down. In sharing Mehak’s story, Shakil and I became open to receiving the outpouring of love from our friends and family. Grief is personal and we bear it alone, but inviting loved ones in can lighten this load.
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Thank you for reading and for your time. It means so much to me to connect with you on a weekly basis.
Next week, I'll write to you from the beautiful hills of Islamabad, Pakistan. Expect lots of pictures and brief snippets of life in Pakistan.
If you liked this week's story, I'd love it if you could share it with a friend. Thank you for your continued love and support.
With love and gratitude,
Sana Fayyaz
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