Yahya bin Nabeel was born on a Monday morning. Prophet Muhammed SAW was also born on a Monday morning. It is a blessed coincidence. It was the day Islamabad was shutdown to welcome the arrival of a prince. Was it my prince Yahya ?
Yahya
was born a beautiful boy on 18th February, 2019. A roundish square
face, big, gray, shining, shy eyes and a very hairy body that boasted of a
promising, handsome youth. Yahya began his life fighting for life in a beeping
incubator of NICU, MEDICSi. He was hit by asphyxia during delivery, born with
low APGARS and actively resuscitated back to life by superhero Dr. Wafa. He
survived dying at birth.
The
next alarm occurred within the next twenty-four hours of his birth. He was
diagnosed with a malformed heart with non-closing PDA and PFO. Such babies, the
doctor said, survive a few days only, if not hours. Another shock for us new
parents. The only place he could be treated was AFIC, Rawalpindi, which
unfortunately informed that it did not have space for more admissions. However,
they said, the baby could be brought in for a check up. Yahya made his first
out-of-city trip on the very first day of his life in a small, screaming
ambulance with the ventilator and all medical weapons on it. To our happy
amazement, the child heart specialist Dr. Maadullah, informed that Yahya had a perfectly
formed heart, fit for life and fit to fight for life. There had been a medical
misjudgment. We were, once again, a joyful party that night.
The
next day dawned, but Yahya was still not brought to me. I, in my recovery room,
was now hesitant to see him. With two medical alarms already resounded, I was
unsure to see him, to cuddle him and to build an association with him further
than the nine months I had already carried him and loved him. I kept myself a hesitant
distance away from him from fear of him being snatched away again. However, as
I was discharged from the hospital on the second day of the delivery, I could
not leave without meeting him. At last, I walked towards the NICU and entered a
room full of incubators. As my eyes searched for my new born son, whom I had
not seen yet, I saw the tag of B/O Nadia. I moved towards it and looked upon my
son in the glass crib, fighting for life, like a little warrior.
Day one turned into day two and day two
turned into day three until the count of fifty-seven days. Yahya’s breathing
hopped between the ventilator and CPAP and head box for oxygen life support. Each
day, we dragged our feet to the hospital, up the same elevator and down the
same corridor, for our daily visits. Every few days, Yahya would encounter a
critical medical condition, bring us to the edge of nerves and then bounce back
to life. Each feat made our feet stronger. Dr. Joza was one of our very special
allies. She would illuminate every medical dead end with a ray of hope, hopeful
words and hopeful expressions.
On
the eve of Tuesday, April 16, 2019, Yahya had a change of heart. His heart stopped.
After days and days of waiting for Yahya to be given to us in a warm blanket,
he was given to us wrapped up in a cold, white, kafan sheet. I will
never, ever forget Nabeel’s body language, as he received his baby’s body. Shoulders
bent, as a student receives his graduation degree, as a soldier receives his
sword-of-honor, as a father receives his martyred son’s uniform, Nabeel slowly
raised his arms to receive Yahya’s body. Without a word to each other or anyone,
as if in a trance, we started walking up the corridor, Yahya’s body in our
arms. Rooms and doors and lights flashed by. Perhaps nobody noticed us. Perhaps
they made way for us. Perhaps they shuddered with sorrow. Somehow we reached
the car. Nabeel handed him over to me. I am sure you will never believe me, but
pleasure burst through me as I finally held Yahya to my bosom. At last, after
fifty-seven days of birth, I was finally cuddling Yahya, tubes and wires free,
to myself. I told Nabeel, not to inform anyone, as I wanted this night, alone
with Yahya. Just Yahya, Nabeel and I.
Before
Yahya’s birth, I had placed a rocking chair in our drawing-room, by the bay
window, where I would hold my baby in the evenings and rock him. I had never
sat on it to this day. That night I did. I pried open the white-wrap around
Yahya. Oh my God, the little darling was still in a diaper. He looked so cute.
I opened up his arms, held them around my neck and cuddled him close, skin to
skin. And then I spent the night rocking him, caressing him and talking to him,
as the warm street light spilled through the trees’ branches onto us. Later in
the night, I put him close next to me, and slept my first and last night with
him.
I
woke up to the sound of my old father at Fajr. He was bending over my son next
to me, crying hoarsely. Wistfully, I asked my father if he would allow me to
bury my son in the lawn so that I would feel close to him day and night. He
refused, requesting me in turn not to bury him by making him see his
grandson’s grave every morning. I became mute with a heavy heart.
Oh
how the scenes flash by … when I felt the first nausea up in my office, the
surge of happiness on the positive strip test, the self care, sometimes not
well but not taking any medicines to protect the fetus, the morning sickness,
stopping elder children from tumbling over me, hands on tummy, the first kick …
again in my office, the recitations’ routine to make the baby’s routine, the
countdown, the rush to the hospital at two at night, and the first sight … !
I
gave him the Tehneek as I gave to all my children. I gave the Azan in
his ear too. Later I learnt that one of his doctors, Dr. Rehan, wondered if he
had been given the Azan or not, so he did Wudhu and also gave him the Azan. How
grateful I am to him for his thoughtfulness. And there was Aslam Bhai, the head
nurse, who always had kind words and compassionate eyes for us. And nurse
Nagina, who always had a comforting smile and a ‘Yes’ for us. And Dr. Sughra,
who headed Yahya’s team of doctors and counselled us for Yahya’s departure. And
ofcourse Dr. Dildar Bhatti, who Homeo treated all the way from Canada via Whats
App. This army of doctors and nurses continue to work at MEDICSi while Yahya
has said his goodbye and headed his own way.
Yahya
was handed over to us, with a page stuck to him, just like nursery children
come home tagged with newsletters from their school. The page stated, Date of
Birth, Time of Birth, Day of Death … Death ? Yahya ? Dead ?
Nay. Yahya is alive, with the children of Jannah, under the guardianship of Prophet Ibraheem AS. He is our baby warrior, who fought for life in this world for fifty-seven days, and then galloped off to Jannah to have fun always. Some people give their newborns to their relatives, who do not have children of their own. Some people put their children in hostels for classical schooling. Some people send their children abroad for advanced studies. My Yahya has gone to live with one of the greatest prophets, Prophet Ibraheem AS, in Allah’s Jannah. What an honor ! Perhaps we were not good enough for him. Perhaps he was too pure for us. He was planted on Earth to bloom in the Heavens. And thus the golden boy returned to the gold mine. Aslamo Alykum my son. Please recognize me in the Hereafter, hold your arms out to me and make me enter Jannah by your request to Allah Almighty for me. For I have no other solace, other than your intercession, to bear your farewell. I cannot go on, by thinking that you are gone, but to think, that you are, just on the other side of this world … till we meet again, in Jannah, Ameen.
