Chapter Fifteen: The Night That Shook Us Again

 Nīkah Written by Qādr, Tested by Genotype

Chapter Fifteen: The Night That Shook Us Again

It had been exactly two years since the period of difficulty that once defined our lives, and in those two years we had slowly adjusted to a new sense of normalcy that we believed would continue without interruption. The memories of pain had not completely disappeared, but they no longer controlled our daily lives in the way they once did. We had learned to live with what we could not change, and we had embraced the relief that Allah had placed within our situation after a long period of patience and endurance.

On that particular evening, everything felt calm in a way that gave no sign of what was about to happen. The air was cool, and a gentle wind moved through the surroundings, creating an atmosphere that felt peaceful and comforting. It was one of those evenings where nothing seemed out of place, where the simplicity of the moment carried its own kind of happiness.

Sibghatullah was outside with his father, and the sound of their laughter filled the space in a way that made my heart feel light. It was a scene that reflected the beauty of family, a father playing with his son in a way that showed love, care, and the natural bond between them. They were joking, running, and engaging in playful movements that caused continuous laughter between them.

I stood at a distance, watching them with a smile that I could not hide, because moments like that reminded me of everything we had gone through and everything we had been given after that. Seeing my son healthy, active, and full of life was something I had once feared might not happen, and now it was right in front of me. His laughter was loud, his movements were energetic, and his happiness was clear in every expression he made.

His father continued to play with him in a way that made him laugh even harder, lifting him, spinning him, and engaging in playful gestures that brought out a level of joy that could not be contained. I found myself laughing as well, not just because of what I was seeing, but because of the peace that moment carried.

However, within that same moment, something changed.

At first, it seemed small and unimportant. Sibghatullah began to cough, and it sounded like the kind of cough that could easily be dismissed as nothing serious. It did not carry any immediate alarm, and for a brief moment, we thought it was part of the play, something that would pass as quickly as it came.

But then, the cough continued in a way that felt different.

Before we could fully process what was happening, he suddenly fell to the ground.

For a moment, we did not react with immediate fear, because it looked like part of the play, as if he had simply lost balance while laughing and moving around. His father paused, looking at him with slight confusion, and I took a step forward, trying to understand what had just happened.

But within seconds, everything changed.

We moved closer to him, calling his name, expecting him to respond, expecting him to move, expecting him to laugh again as if nothing had happened.

But he did not respond.

His body remained still, and his eyes were closed in a way that immediately filled us with fear.

At that moment, panic took over.

We shouted for help, our voices filled with urgency and desperation as we tried to understand what was happening. Neighbors began to gather, drawn by the sound of our voices, and they tried to assist in whatever way they could. Some attempted to revive him, others suggested immediate action, but nothing seemed to bring a response from him.

The fear that filled my heart at that moment was something I cannot fully describe, because it felt as though everything around me had disappeared, leaving only the image of my child lying motionless before me.

Without wasting time, we rushed him to the nearest clinic, hoping that immediate attention would make a difference. The journey felt longer than it actually was, because every second carried a level of urgency that made time feel slow and heavy.

When we arrived, the staff at the clinic attended to us quickly, but after a brief assessment, they informed us that the situation was beyond what they could handle. They explained that his condition required more advanced medical attention and that we needed to take him to a hospital immediately.

They mentioned that it could be related to a condition such as a severe airway obstruction or a complication like congenital airway blockage requiring emergency intervention, something that would likely require surgery to stabilize him.

Hearing those words made everything feel even more serious, but there was no time to process anything.

We moved immediately, taking him to the hospital with a sense of urgency that did not allow for hesitation.

When we arrived at the hospital, we were faced with another challenge. As expected in a local setting, the immediate presence of a doctor was not available. We were asked to wait, and that wait became one of the most difficult moments I had ever experienced.

Time felt like it had stopped.

Every minute that passed felt like an hour, and every second carried a level of fear that made it difficult to remain steady. I held onto my child, watching him closely, hoping for any sign of movement, any indication that he was still fighting, any reassurance that he would be okay.

We waited for almost an hour before a doctor finally arrived.

That hour felt like a lifetime.

When the doctor came, everything began to move quickly. Examinations were done, questions were asked, and decisions were made without delay. The seriousness of the situation was clear in the way the medical team responded, and it became evident that immediate action was necessary.

They informed us that surgery was required.

The words carried a weight that I had not prepared for, even after everything we had gone through in the past. The idea of my child undergoing surgery at such a young age was something that felt overwhelming, but there was no alternative.

Preparations began immediately.

We were asked to step aside as they prepared him for the procedure. I watched as they took him away, and in that moment, I felt a sense of helplessness that I had never experienced before. There was nothing I could do except stand there and pray.

The surgery began.

The waiting that followed was filled with silence, fear, and continuous du‘ā’. Every moment felt uncertain, and every passing minute carried the question of what the outcome would be.

Not less than an hour later, the surgery was completed.

We were informed that the procedure had been carried out, and we were allowed to go in and see him.

When I entered the room and saw my son lying on the bed, connected to medical equipment, my heart felt as though it could not bear the sight. The strength I had tried to hold onto began to fade, and I felt a wave of emotion that I could not control.

I wished in that moment that I could take his place, that I could carry his pain instead of him, that I could do anything to change what was happening.

But I could not.

I stood there, watching him, feeling both relief that he had come out of the surgery and pain at the condition he was in.

Within a few minutes, something happened that brought a different kind of emotion.

He opened his eyes.

That simple movement changed everything in that moment.

I rushed to him immediately, holding him carefully, and tears began to fall from my eyes in a way I could not control. It felt as though everything I had been holding inside was released at once.

I cried deeply, as if it was the first time I had ever experienced such fear, even though it was not.

My husband stood beside us, unable to hold back his own emotions. He embraced both of us, trying to comfort me, reminding me that our child was alive, that the surgery had been successful, and that things were moving in the right direction.

He spoke softly, asking me to calm down, telling me that everything would be okay, even though I could hear the emotion in his own voice.

Time passed slowly as we remained by his side.

Then, within a short period, the call for Subhi prayer began.

The sound filled the air, reminding me of something beyond the situation we were in. I could not bring myself to leave my child, not even for a moment, because fear still held onto me in a way that made it difficult to move away.

So I prayed there, in the hospital, standing close to his bed, keeping my eyes on him even as I performed my prayer. It was a moment of connection, a moment of seeking strength, and a moment of placing everything in the hands of Allah.

Morning arrived slowly.

Around 8:00 am, my friends Sajidah, Sawberah, and Tasliyah came to visit.

The moment I saw them, something within me broke.

I rushed toward them, embracing them tightly, and the tears that I had tried to control began to flow again. The emotions of the night, the fear, the exhaustion, and the relief all came together in that moment.

As I cried, they cried with me.

The bond we shared became visible in that moment, because they did not need an explanation to understand what I was feeling.

The weight of everything became too much for me, and I felt my strength leave me. My legs could no longer support me, and I fell down, overwhelmed by the emotions I had been carrying.

They held onto me, supporting me, and together we made our way to my son’s bed.

When we reached him, the atmosphere changed slightly.

Despite everything, we tried to bring a sense of lightness into the moment. We spoke to him, gently interacted with him, and allowed ourselves to smile through the tears.

It was not a perfect moment.

It was not free from pain.

But it was real.

And in that reality, we found a way to continue.

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Written By: Ahmād Zāhir Enagi Abū-Khālif