Eight years without you, my sweet Hadi. Zakaria and I visited your grave this morning. Zakaria insisted that we pick up Duck Donuts and tried to convince me it was tradition that we went on your death anniversary. Definitely not the case but I let him have it and smile thinking about how you must have been chuckling while we were having the conversation. At the grave site, I asked him if he wanted me to step away so he could talk to his brother, his quick response was-I am. I told the story about how the two of you took Vaseline and wiped it all over your toddler beds when you were younger. I can only imagine what shenanigans you two would pull today. Actually, the two of you would probably argue over how to study the periodic table. Zakaria has a test on the periodic table today.
My sweet child, you have been gone longer than you were with us. Knowing that you can play some hoops with all the other kids in Jannah and not worry about any bruising or your hemoglobin being low does give me some comfort. Remembering all the incredible gestures during your aplastic anemia journey makes my heart all gooey, Pretty sure a heart shouldn’t be gooey but you get what I mean. As I was at Fouzia’s house for condolences for her brother, I had to exit before the tears fell thinking about how she made ME puppy chow (if you aren’t from the Midwest, look it up) even though the event was for her. I had the BLOOM event that evening and so I was able to use that as my excuse for leaving. We spent 13 months at the NIH and while grief moments can gut punch you like nothing else, there are moments that put a smile on my face. Gut punch-watching my child have to be intubated. Smile-laughing at him playing on his Switch until they had to take it away from him before an MRI. Gut punch-hearing my child wail in pain from stomach pain. Smile-Hadi making fun of Nurse Kelly for not knowing my name. Gut punch-learning what a normal range of platelets should be. Smile-Hadi and Zakaria doing the Rock Chalk chant. Gut punch-people trying to be supportive but using the phrase “I can’t imagine…”. Smile-me imagining back handing them. Alright, that is not true. Well, not entirely. ;)
I went to Cold Spoon and had some yogurt and a latte. Cold Spoon has been such an integral part of this journey. From the gelato Hadi loved to the first Team Watience fundraiser (where my ex-husband was plotting to move out that very night), it provides a sense of comfort. You know what doesn’t provide a sense of comfort? All these freaking political texts. My poor little brain/heart goes from being so appreciative of someone telling me they are thinking of me today to wanting to go all Kansan on anyone who still supports Trump. Yes, I used Kansan on purpose.
I recognize this post is all over the place and ya know what? I am allowed for it to be all over the place. A grieving mother is allowed. A grieving mother is allowed to sit through a BLOOM Gala and recognize that Allah has a plan but admits it is hard to understand. Yes, that was a Mumford and Sons reference. I lost my son because he was too cool for his bone marrow to keep up. The sons and daughters in Gaza, Sudan, Morocco…what about them? A grieving mother who is also an event planner is allowed to wonder what silent auction item is going to get the most bids while also silently crying listening to Dr. Nada Mallick talk about her experiences in Gaza and also think about her being at Children’s National…where we ended up saying goodbye to Hadi.
My parents are going to visit Hadi’s grave and then come over. Saira Mir messaged me and told me to let my tears fall freely. Oh, they are, my sweet friend. They will continue to as I think about my sweet dad at NIH. Gut punch-watching my parents have to endure the loss of their grandson and watch their daughter go through an immense amount of grief. Smile-thinking of my dad learning how to play MarioKart.
