Hands shaking, I packed the diaper bag quickly, not knowing if I packed two bibs or twenty. My barely three month old started to cry next to me, lying on his change may, as I flew around the room, not knowing if we’d be in the hospital for minutes or hours. Better pack extra just in case.
The message had come through only minutes ago: The doctors have advised she doesn’t have much time left, come soon.
How could it be that less than an hour ago my family and I were sitting at breakfast, eating pancakes with syrupy strawberries and brown bananas?
My dad had said come to the house, not the hospital, only to change his instructions only thirty minutes later.
My baby cried again, wanting to sleep as I zipped the stuffed diaper bag shut and grabbed him quickly. A new life needed me while an old life hung precariously. I hugged my son a little tighter as I hurried down the hallway and buckled him into his car seat, hands fumbling with the straps.
My daughter ran to the car, her boots splashing in the puddles, as my husband loaded the baby into the car and I followed with the bag.
Rain pelted the windows as my husband turned the wipers on and I turned on the maps to see how long it would take us. The usual fifty five minutes was now an hour and twenty minutes.
I clenched my fists as we pulled out of the driveway, the baby’s cries mixing in with whining from my daughter from the backseat, asking to listen to some music.
As we merged into the highway, my son finally fell asleep so that the only sound was of the rain hitting the windshield, as we sat in traffic.
The car ride was peppered with phone calls from my family asking us how far we were as my husband wove in and out between cars. Oakville had never felt so far away.
Tears dribbled down my face as memories flooded my brain, at the words and moments I last saw my grandma, only a week before. My husband held my hand tightly as I erupted into sobs and then quieted again, trying to compose myself.
Finally, after an agonizing hour and a half, we pulled up to the sliding doors of the hospital. I flew out, taking my daughter with me as my dad met us, leading us down hallways that were too bright and elevators that were too slow.
Upstairs, my dad called one of my brothers so they can let us in the ICU. My brother hugged me before leading me down the quiet hallway into a room full of family, where my grandma lay in the middle.
The sound of Quran filled the room as my mom stood next to her mother, crying soft tears. My grandma has been taken off life support, she explained. She can hear me but can’t talk. No, won’t talk. Ever again.
I took her swollen hand in mine as I said my last Salam to her, sobbing as I told her I loved her, the words feeling like acid in my mouth. Because even though my mom said she couor hear me, my grandma was frozen, in linbo between life and death.
It didn’t take long. We stood around her, huddled in groups of twos and threes: her remaining children: my aunt, uncle, and mom; my brother and his new bride, my other brother, my two cousins, my mom’s cousin and his parents.
The nurses came in to check after a few minutes. They were cheerful for some reason; deaths were probably a part of their daily routine. My mom ushered mostly everyone out for privacy as the nurses need to uncover her to check her vitals.
It took them only a few minutes to perform their check but they were certain: she was gone.
I held my mom as she sobbed and we all uttered the Arabic words: to God we belong and to Him we return.
The rest was a blur of phone calls to other family members not present, hospital admin, and trying to find a private area to feed my son. Because even in the middle of being shell-shocked, I couldn’t lose myself to the waves of grief that crested my soul. I had to be strong for my children, strong to support my mom, the way she had always supported her.
And in those moments I realised how full circle these relationships are. My mother took care of my grandmother in these last few years, as if she was her child, having to become strong enough to do so. And so would I when my time came but for now, I’d try to take of my mom in the small ways I knew how. With kindness and patience.
Because none of us are here long and that’s really all we have.