It’s been a month since Nanima passed away…

15/06/41 – 02/09/23

Today marks a month since my Nanima’s janazah.

Life has come to a standstill for me. The world has kept moving, but I’m still standing here where I was 5 weeks ago. I feel both empty and everything at once. She was the heart of our household; her absence has left a void too big for life to fill. 

Nani Shamim was so much more than a grandmother to us. She was the person we came home to every day, the person we’d call to share about our day when we were away. She was the one who turned us into a ‘fashion show family’. We would never buy anything without coming home to show Nanima everything and get her opinions on it all. I remember her gentle reminders whilst we prepared for exams, her knocking on our doors with bowls of fruits and almonds. She was the person who made our house, a home; she was our home. 

Nanima had cancer. This is a fact I hid from most people. Unless you were someone I’d consider a close friend or a colleague who needed to know, you wouldn’t have been aware until a few months ago. My Instagram friends would question why I was suddenly having too many down days, dark days, and vanishing. This was a big part of the reason.

Her battle with cancer lasted almost 3 years. She fought until she no longer could. She gave it her all to stay with us. The week before she passed isn’t one I can fully put into words. She lay there for 8 days without food and water, grasping onto any moments of life she could. We stood by her side, holding her, reading the Quran for her to hear and feel at peace. We called the palliative care nurses a few times a day for medication. She was leaving us, and we had to watch it happen. To see someone who had been the rock and the strongest person we knew lay there until they were lifeless broke us. It isn’t something I can do justice to through words.

We’ve spent years watching her slowly leave us, piece by piece. I’ve flown home every two weeks, been examined and quizzed on her cancer while crying my heart out. It was an unforgettable experience, to say the least. I lost count of the number of times we’d said ‘final goodbyes & I love yous.’ I’ve lost count of the number of flights I’ve bawled my eyes out on because I didn’t know if I’d see her again. I’ve lost count of the number of nights I’d been unable to sleep in case I got ‘the call.’ My grandmother was my mother’s mother, but she was also a mother to my siblings and I. She raised us alongside our parents.

She was the strongest person we had ever met. She managed to do so much while enduring excruciating amounts of pain. We’d ask her ‘Nanima, how are you?’ and her answer was always began with ‘Alhamdulillah.’ She was an incredible lady. Kind and welcoming to anyone who came to visit. Forever travelling and going outside, always ready for a trip anywhere. We would randomly call her to check in, and she’d be by herself on a tube going somewhere. She taught us independence – to be able to live life and do anything by yourself is a must, as long as you’re healthy and able to stand on your own two feet and move. She was so full of love, the most caring person I’ve ever met. She lived her life taking care of everyone around her, always adding happiness and love into our lives. She was our Nani.

I’ve seen many people pass away during med school. While I worked as an HCA, I lost count of the number of deaths I’ve witnessed. But this time, it quite literally hit home. I lost my dad’s mother when I was 19; at 24, I lost my mum’s mother. Losing both of my grandmothers while away at uni has shaken me to my core. They were the people around whom my life revolved. My brain currently freezes whenever it has to think medically. I’ve got brain fog, and the moment words like ‘atrial fibrillation’ are said, I can’t remember what I’ve studied. All I can think of is her. I’ve got a few exams left until I graduate to become a doctor, and I’m mentally stuck. But I know I will push through this once more for their sake.

Death isn’t a new concept for me. For the last 6 years, I’ve been reminded of it constantly. Once you lose someone so close to your heart, you live in a state of bereavement, holding onto your loved ones’ memories. Missing them even more whenever there’s a happy occasion. I didn’t expect to be graduating in a few months without my grandmothers by my side. They’re the ones who pushed me to keep studying every time I found myself exhausted from classes. They’re the ones I’d call before exams to make sure they were praying for me. They’ll never get to see me as a doctor. They’ll never see me receive my diploma. All I’ve wanted is to make them proud.

When I say Nanima was our home, I mean that quite literally. Our house functioned because of her. She knew where everything was. She was the one who made sure things were in place, cooked, cleaned, and did everything. It was a house. She made it our home. The week before her passing, I’d had breakdowns over not knowing where the bin bags were kept and not being able to ask her. I’d had breakdowns over burning my abaya and not being able to run to her to ask her to fix it. I ended up fixing it myself a week later, but the habit of running to her and knowing she’s no longer there to go to killed me inside. My mother reorganised the whole house a few days after Nanima’s passing.

I wore her abaya to her funeral, the one she’d worn for her last Umrah. Her last Umrah was a year ago, this week. I will always be grateful for having had the opportunity to be with her on her last Umrah. She knew it would be her final trip when we went. We all knew this was it. Knowing it’s the last time you’ll do things with someone is a feeling I can’t put into words. During that trip, she kept forgetting how to do basic things, so she started telling us about all the times she’d been to Makkah and Madinah. Thinking about how time had changed, both the cities and herself, she sat there missing my grandfather, who had passed away 2 months before I was born.

We believe that in Jannah, we will be reunited with those we love; this promise is what keeps us going. I pray she’s reunited with my grandfather and all her loved ones. She’s buried in the same place as my Dadima and a family friend, surrounded by her friends. Dadima and Nanima had the most beautiful relationship. They shared a room, the same one Nanima passed away in. They were together constantly, like sisters, and argued like a married couple. We couldn’t call one without calling the other at the same time. Living with our grandmothers was the greatest gift my parents gave their children. They filled our home with happiness and warmth. Without them, it feels empty and cold.

Nanima’s the one whose cooking we’re used to eating, her chicken curry was out of this world. We’d always tried to recreate it, but nothing will ever be the same. We grew up with her chasing us around asking us to eat. I’ve been unable to eat homecooked food unless it’s cooked by my mum, aunt, or siblings. There’s no other cooking I’m used to. 

She had told me off on a recent trip home. I had refused to examine her medically. She wanted me to palpate her abdomen and see me use my stethoscope as well. But I’d refused. I knew if I did, I would break apart when having to examine patients. She wasn’t my patient. I didn’t want to examine her. So, she had my mum continue to examine her and told me that I needed to be okay with examining whoever needs it in my family. During the week she lay there, I ended up listening to my cousins’ heartbeats and teaching them how to use a stethoscope.

July was a tricky month. Nanima had quite a few episodes, as I’ll call them, of ‘being horizontal’ throughout the year, in February, April, May, and a few times in June, we thought she was going to go each time. I had big plans for July and didn’t know if I’d be able to go, but I ended up going, and alhamdulillah, she was okay throughout. She had been looking forward to my trip and hearing my stories after. She was so proud.

In July, I went to teach high school students at Johns Hopkins University for an advanced medical summer program. I taught Cardiology and ran a mass trauma workshop. Nanima was so excited. I called her every day while I was there and told her off for not eating. I remember thinking that when she stops eating, she’s actually going to leave us. I needed her to keep eating and drinking. I needed her to be okay and stay with us.

When I came back, I showed her all the pictures and told her so many stories that she fell asleep. She asked me if certain friends would meet her someday; I knew the answer was no. She wouldn’t be around until graduation.

She’d apologised to me for not being able to make it to graduation. I had accidentally made her spiral at the thought of not being able to go to Pakistan. She had made plans months ago, knowing she’d never fly again, but we kept mentioning it because being hopeful of the future was a nice thought. But, one day, it got too much, so I changed her plans to her at least being able to come to my graduation ceremony in February. She said she wouldn’t be able to make it and that she’d be gone before then. I’d told her it’s okay; we can celebrate early when I next went home. The next time I went home was when she passed away.

Nanima knew how much it broke us when Dadima passed away. She saw the zombie-like looks on our faces when we had to fly home in that state. We found out about Dadima while we were away at uni and had to book emergency flights back from terminals I had blocked out of my memory. I’ve blocked out Sofia’s T1 and Luton Airport from my mind. They’re my trauma ‘grandma’s going to die’ airports. I just happened to be flying from T1 this time. I never fly to Luton, ever. Not unless there’s an emergency. I didn’t know when I was flying home this time that I’d come home to witnessing Nanima pass away. But she somehow stayed with us until all of us were home before she left. My brother ended up stuck in Sofia for a few days. He eventually managed to come home. We were with her when she passed.

I can’t put into words the actual moment of her passing. It’s too traumatic, and words are not enough. She passed away with almost the entire family by her side. All of us had been with her in the days before, reciting Quran and the shahada, telling her we love her, and saying our goodbyes.

I’ve learned a lot about my mother. Nanima was not only her mother but her best friend for over 55 years. My mother inherited Nanima’s strength. I’ve always seen her as a superwoman, amazed yet unable to understand how she manages everything. She’s highly educated and accomplished in her career as a doctor, constantly striving to improve her field. She’s incredible, she flies all over the world for clinics and conferences. My whole life I’ve grown up seeing her live medicine and it’s a big part of why I love medicine.

Beyond her life as a doctor, my mother is a mum to five. While we undoubtedly drive her crazy with our endless requests, she has somehow balanced her family and her career. This wouldn’t have been possible without Nanima. Nanima was everything to my mother—her mother and the person she lived her life with. Their routines were intertwined. Nanima was the one she relied on to be there for her kids when my parents had to work. She was the person she returned home to every night, not just during her childhood, but throughout most of her life. Her routine was built around Nanima. No one knew Nanima like my mum did, and no one knows my mum like Nanima did.

After Nanima passed away, in the house our family live in, it hit my mum more than anyone. We saw our mother age and started seeing Nanima’s face in hers around the time of Nanima’s death, I ended up crying in the kitchen thinking Nanima had walked in, it was my mum. My mum had to handle Nanima’s belongings and decide what to do with them. Every day, she wakes up and sees her mother’s room, cooks in the kitchen filled with memories of Nanima, and faces this loss. Yet, she continues to work and supports everyone, trying to ease their pain.

My mother is a person I may never fully understand. Personally, I have shut down and escaped to university to cope, but my mother faces life every day. She’s instilled this within the rest of her children as well, my siblings are dealing with so much, the loss of their Nani and more, but still face life and their everyday. My mother heard about her father’s passing while she was driving home, seven months pregnant with me. Now, 24 years later, she has lost her mother, the person who was her everything, every day. I don’t know how she does all she does, she’s human as well at the end of the day. I admire and respect her so much.

Our family dynamic revolved around Nanima. After Dadima passed away, I refused to come home often. However, when Nanima fell ill, we all started returning home more frequently. Our family routine began with breakfast with Nanima. Throughout the day, at least one of us would be by her side, and the day would end with my parents sitting with Nanima, watching TV, knitting and crocheting. Nanima had knitted something special for everyone. Witnessing her lose strength in her arms and being unable to knit anymore was heartbreaking.

Learning to function and live in the house without her brings me to tears. My parents and siblings have to see her empty seat in the living room and eat at the same dining table where we used to eat with her. My youngest brother still stays in the room he shared with her, holding onto her memory. He spent his days and nights with her, moving into her room after Dadima passed away. She was his constant, the one who loved him the most. Losing her has left his world shattered. My father and Nanima had such a beautiful relationship, she was as much a mother to him as his own, Nanima would pick him to sit with on flights over me. The loss is immense, and it affects our daily lives, as she was part of our everyday.

Nanima loved her flowers. There was always a bouquet on the dining table where she prayed and read the Quran. Her joy whenever I’d buy my ‘flowers of the month’ for myself is why I continue to buy them. I started FOTM as an act of self-love since my name means ‘a bunch of flowers.’ During one of her last calls to me, I showed her my August flowers, and she began giving me more of her ‘last wisdoms.’ She told me to always keep my house filled with flowers, explaining how they reminded her of Allah and the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ. She left us with so many of these ‘last wisdoms.’ One of the last ones was, ‘Study well, you’re going to be a Doctor soon, and you should know how to treat people properly.’ Our final call was after I passed my last exam for obstetrics and gynaecology. She lost the ability to speak a day after that call. I had shared the news, detailing the questions I was asked and what the examiner had said, and she fell asleep midway through the conversation, but had managed to tell me how proud she was just before.

I miss her beyond what I can put into words. The world doesn’t seem real anymore. How can it be when I no longer have my Naans? I’ve faced grief before, but I question if I’ll ever be the same again. I don’t know how I’m going to go home, knowing she won’t be there waiting for me. I’ll be away for 2 months this time. I haven’t been away from home for this long in years. I’ve never stayed inside by choice for more than 3 days; it’s been 3 weeks.

I’m 24. I’ve had her by my side throughout my life. I remember that brief period of time when she tried to live by herself, but we would spend all our time with her, so she was never alone. I remember growing up with her constantly bringing plates of food to me. We’ve always said salaam to her when we leave the house. I’ve always taken her coats when she doesn’t want them anymore. We’ve always come home to her. We’ve always run to her whenever we needed anything. We’ve always had her to love us unconditionally. She was our rock. Our pillar. The one we called home. And she passed away a month ago.

There’s so much more I’m thinking and want to say, but I’ve written thousands of words now in hopes that pouring out my thoughts will help me reach a better headspace. Nanima was a caring woman, someone who had lost so many people close to her in her life and kept going. She took care of everyone around her and was there no matter what. I miss sitting with her and watching TV, laughing with her, and sharing stories from our lives. I miss watching her knit and the joy on her face whenever we came home. I miss her cooking and her asking us to come and eat a hundred times before we finally came downstairs. I miss her smile, her laughter, her hugs. I miss the way she always fed our cats, Major and Muezzas reactions to realising she was gone broke me. I miss seeing her sitting there reading the Quran every day. I miss her stopping whatever she was doing to go and pray when it was time, silently reminding us through her actions. I miss her being our constant.

I miss her incredibly, and the only way I’ve found to keep those who’ve passed away present in our lives is by adopting their daily habits and continuing the good they did. Death is the only certainty we all have in our lives; we will all face it someday. But we remind ourselves of ‘inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon’, they’ve finally gone home, returned to Allah where we all belong. We console ourselves with the fact that death is not the end in Islam; in Jannah, we will be with those we love. We continue to strive to be our best and work hard to become of those Allah is pleased with. Death is not goodbye; it’s an ‘I’ll see you later, in shaa Allah.’

Please remember her in your prayers. May Allah accept all the good she did in her life and forgive any mistakes. May He illuminate and expand her grave. May He grant her a place in Jannatul Firdous and reunite her with her loved ones someday. May He enable us to do good deeds on her behalf. Ameen.

Al-Fatiha.