Ruhee

This is the story of my precious daughter, Ruhee, who was diagnosed with anencephaly.

The Day It All Began

It all began on a day that seemed ordinary, yet quickly turned into a whirlwind of unexpected turns and emotional moments. I went to the hospital expecting a routine pregnancy booking at 8:30 am. With the recent change in scanning rules, they now included a scan as part of the booking routine. I went on my own and during the booking with the midwife, she mentioned the scan. I was a bit surprised, and she apologised, saying they should have explained it beforehand.

Caught off guard, I called my husband. Without hesitation, he left all the kids at home, with the computer and phone on so we could check on them. He got a cab and just made it as I went on the bed for the scan at 10 am.

The sonographer was a young woman. After a few minutes, she had a visible reaction as her face dropped. She explained that the baby didn't have the top part of the skull and the brain was exposed, most likely already very damaged. Despite this, the baby was moving a lot and had a heartbeat. She said she needed to get a second opinion before informing us of the diagnosis. When the senior doctor came, he confirmed the same condition: anencephaly. When the final diagnosis was confirmed, I broke down and cried.

Anencephaly is a serious birth defect in which a baby is born without parts of the brain and skull. Babies with anencephaly are usually blind and deaf. The prognosis was grim, as most babies with this condition don't survive pregnancy. The doctor explained that most people choose to abort because if the baby is not stillborn, it is born deaf and blind, and stays alive for only a few minutes or hours. The baby doesn't feel pain, as there is no brain to process it.

My husband was strong for me; he was my rock, even though I knew he was broken inside. As we were leaving, they advised us to consider abortion. The sonographer came running after us and asked if she could do anything for us. But what could anyone do for us at this difficult time?

As I was leaving the hospital, I bumped into a friend. She was taking her son to the hospital. She saw me looking distressed and immediately came over, her face full of concern. She gently asked how I was, and as soon as she hugged me, I started crying. Her embrace provided a moment of comfort in that moment of despair. Later in the evening, she messaged me to check in, and I finally shared the heartbreaking news with her.

It was a lot to take in, and we tried to process everything. I felt a whirlwind of emotions—concern, fear, but also a deep sense of determination to face whatever comes our way together. We turned to Allah (God) for strength and guidance, knowing that He tests us with what we can bear.

A Day at the Seaside

The next day, we had a seaside trip planned with my youngest sister, eldest brother, my husband's brother, my friend and their families. Despite being surrounded by friends and family, I couldn't show my emotions or talk to anyone about what we had learned the previous day. No one could tell something was wrong. I felt so heavy inside and found it impossible to enjoy the day at all. It was hard to be present and cheerful when my heart and mind were elsewhere.

After the seaside trip, in the evening, I finally confided in my friend about what had happened. As I spoke, the weight of my grief felt a little lighter, yet the pain was still raw and overwhelming. Sharing the heartbreaking news with her was both a release and a reminder of the reality we faced. I also messaged my sister-in-law, and my sister, pouring out my sorrow and hoping for their support. They were all shocked, initially thinking it had happened to someone else, not me.

Seeking Solace in Stories

From that day onwards, I spent my free days and nights researching the condition. I found a website where other parents shared their stories and how they were handling things. Every night, after dealing with my younger children's midnight eczema flare-ups, I read these stories about babies like ours. It became a routine that helped me feel supported during those tough days. This website became a source of solace, connecting me with others who understood our pain and provided a sense of community and understanding.

Torn Between Hope and Despair

I couldn't escape the thoughts. Every kick, every flutter was a reminder of her fragile life and the looming loss. I found myself torn between hope and despair, wanting to cherish every moment yet fearing the inevitable. Each hospital visit, each scan added to the uncertainty, the anxiety growing with every passing day.

I was in two minds: should I avoid bringing her into the world to spare myself the pain that would follow, or should I embrace the chance to hold her alive in my arms, even if just once for a few precious moments? She was alive in my womb, but how long would she have in my arms? These thoughts consumed my days and nights, especially since the doctors had informed us on the scan day that many babies with her condition die during pregnancy.

In these moments of doubt and fear, I turned to Allah for guidance and strength. I found comfort in the stories of other parents who had faced similar trials, and in the understanding that every life, no matter how brief, has a purpose in Allah's grand plan. Through prayer and reflection, I sought the wisdom to make the best decision for my child and our family, trusting that Allah's will is always for the best.

Seeking Spiritual Guidance

My husband and I sought advice from an imam (like a Muslim priest), who told us, "This is your ticket to Paradise." His words resonated deeply within me. My husband, with a heart full of love and concern, said, "I'm content, no worries whatever the case, but what if it's harmful for the mum?" The imam replied with compassion, "Ask doctors to give medical case studies as evidence to prove if it's harmful for the mother; continue with the pregnancy as Allah has willed it if there's no clear-cut medical evidence." He added gently, "The baby will be waiting for you in Paradise. Why do you want to say goodbye to her now before she is born?"

The doctors confirmed that the main risk is the baby's brain could attach itself to the womb, as raw flesh could get stuck to raw flesh, which could pose a serious risk to the mother. Hearing this was terrifying, adding another layer of fear to our already heavy hearts. However, they assessed that the overall risk to the mother was low. After hearing this, we sought Allah's guidance and then made our final decision to continue with the pregnancy.

The imam also related this hadith: Abu Musa al-Ashari reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, "When the child of a servant dies, Allah says to the angels: Have you taken the life of My servant's child? They say yes. Allah says: Have you taken the fruit of his heart? They say yes. Allah says: What has My servant said? They say: He has praised You and said, 'to Allah we belong and to Allah we return.' Allah says: Build a house for My servant in Paradise and name it the House of Praise".

These words profoundly moved us. We made a decision then, with heavy but resolute hearts. We would embrace whatever time we had with her, no matter how fleeting. I would hold her, love her, and create precious memories that would carry me through the darkness. The thought of holding her, even for a brief moment, filled me with a profound mix of sorrow and joy. We chose to cherish every second, to make every heartbeat and every breath a testament to our love and our faith.

Sharing the News

I finally had to share the news with friends and family. They tried to offer support, but their words often felt hollow, unable to reach the depths of my sorrow. I clung to moments of solitude, continuing to read stories of others, where I could allow myself to grieve and prepare for what was to come.

I met with my close friend, who lived in Abu Dhabi along with my other school friends. On the evening of our annual meet-up, we chose a restaurant for the occasion. At that time, my friends were unaware of my pregnancy. During our meal, we both went to the bathroom, and with a voice trembling with emotion, I broke the news to her. She had never seen me this heartbroken before. As the words left my mouth, I saw the shock and sorrow in her eyes, mirroring the pain I felt inside.

I used to secretly hope that if I had a miscarriage, it would be easier to bear. But after the 21-week mark, my hopes changed. Knowing I'd have to give birth to her anyway, I desperately wanted to see her alive, even if just for a moment. The thought of holding her, even briefly, felt more precious than anything.

A few weeks before the birth, we were moved into a hotel because our flat had asbestos and needed repairs and painting. A carpenter was working on building a bed, and a lady was doing the painting. During this time, I shared the prognosis with the painter. She was very sad to hear the news and remarked on how strong I seemed. Her empathy and kind words meant a lot during such a challenging time, adding another layer of support as we prepared for the baby's arrival.

Fighting for a C-Section and Considering Organ Donation

During the fifth month scan, I learned the gender of our baby. It was a girl. The joy of knowing we were having a daughter was mixed with the heavy knowledge of her condition. I imagined her tiny fingers and toes, her delicate features, and my heart ached knowing the difficult road ahead.

I wanted a C-section to give her a better chance of survival, ensuring her head wouldn't be hurt during a natural birth. However, I had to fight for this decision. Initially, the medical team wasn't convinced that a C-section was necessary, as they didn't want to waste money on a caesarean given her prognosis. I felt overwhelmed and anxious, knowing how critical it was for her safety.

I also wanted to donate the baby's organs so that it would provide another child with the chance to live. It wasn't easy; the idea of letting go of any part of her was incredibly painful. But I knew that if she could give another family hope, it would be a precious gift. Once again, it was a long, arduous process. I had to chase up doctors, fill out countless forms, and navigate a maze of medical and legal protocols. One of the hardest parts was accepting that they would take her straight away from me as soon as she died. I had to repeatedly tell myself that this sacrifice would be worth it, that it was the right thing to do.

I reached out to Great Ormond Street Hospital (GOSH) for support because the hospital wasn't progressing with the organ donation process. Their involvement was crucial as they reviewed my case and provided their expertise. The organ donation confirmed the need for a C-section, something the hospital was initially against. Obviously, I would have fought for the C-section regardless.

It was a long, stressful process, filled with numerous consultations and discussions. Eventually, GOSH's involvement and my persistence paid off, and the medical team agreed to proceed with the C-section. Each step was emotionally draining, but I was determined to honour her brief life by giving others a chance at a longer one. They could only proceed with the organ donation if she lived less than three hours.

The Physical and Emotional Toll

Throughout this period, my headaches were relentless, feeling like my head would explode, especially at night. By the fourth month of pregnancy, my headaches usually subsided, but this time, they persisted. I couldn't cook and spent my days lying in bed, pretending to be okay when I was at work. I lost my appetite, unable to eat or drink properly. At work, I put on a facade, but once home, I was flat and exhausted. I almost fainted several times, with my ears ringing constantly.

The day of Eid (Muslim celebration) was particularly challenging. I didn't want to go out, but my husband forced me to go for the kids. My family went to a restaurant, and I went along reluctantly. I didn't eat and left after half an hour, unable to bear the facade any longer. Each day was a struggle, filled with physical pain and emotional exhaustion. Yet, I continued, driven by the love for my unborn daughter and the hope of giving her even a brief chance at life.

Balancing Work and Personal Struggles

All of this was done while I was working full-time; the weight of my personal grief was compounded by the professional responsibilities I carried. I didn't inform any staff members because I couldn't bear to pretend that I was happily pregnant. The thought of discussing her prognosis with my colleagues was too painful.

Towards the end of December, when I was due to start my maternity leave, some staff began to ask questions. Each inquiry felt like a dagger, and I struggled to find the strength to respond. I didn't want to speak to them; I couldn't handle the sympathy or the questions. It was only once I left that I found the courage to inform everyone through a text message.

Balancing the emotional toll of the baby's prognosis with the responsibilities of my job was immensely challenging. Each day at work felt like a monumental effort, hiding my pain behind a professional facade. The support from my friends at work and my faith in Allah were the only things that kept me going.

The Day of the Surgery

The day I had been anxiously awaiting finally arrived. On 5th February 2019, I arranged for my kids to be dropped off at school early and got to the hospital at 7:30 am. The doctors had assured me I would be the first to undergo a C-section, but on the day of the surgery, I found out I was third in line. The wait felt endless, each minute filled with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. It ended up being a 9-hour wait.

During that time, I emailed Moby, Ozzie's mum from one of the stories on this website. She lives in America, and her story included her contact details for anyone who wanted to reach out. Moby's child was the only one who was still alive, providing a glimmer of hope. I sought comfort and understanding from someone who had been through a similar ordeal. She replied straight away within an hour, her words providing a brief but much-needed respite from my anxiety.

Meanwhile, my kids had no idea I was pregnant or what was about to happen today. I had kept the pregnancy a secret from them to protect their innocence and shield them from the pain and uncertainty I was enduring.

I had named her Ruhee a few months ago—it meant a flower that touches the heart, my soul. After what felt like an eternity, it was finally my turn. As I was wheeled into the operating room, a flood of emotions washed over me—fear, nervousness, and overwhelming love. During the C-section, there were about ten professionals bustling around the operating theatre. My husband stood steadfastly by my head throughout the procedure. I could feel the tugging and pulling as the surgeons worked swiftly.

When Ruhee was finally born, I turned to my husband and asked him quietly if her head was as the doctors had diagnosed. His sombre confirmation pierced my heart. I had been secretly hoping, deep down, that she would be born without any defects. The weight of reality settled heavily upon me in that moment, mingling with both love for my newborn daughter and a profound sadness for the challenges she would face.

Holding My Soul

At precisely 4:02 pm, my soul was born — she was so tiny, so fragile. She didn't cry when they pulled her out; the silence was deafening and my heart sank with worry. They cleaned her and then brought her to me. She wasn't breathing well for the first few moments. When they brought her next to me, her colour changed and her breathing stabilised. I didn't know how long she would live — a few minutes, hours, or days. But in that moment, nothing else mattered. I just wanted to hold her, to cherish every second we had together. My heart ached with love and fear, but I knew I would treasure every moment with my sweet Ruhee, my fragrant flower who had already touched my heart so deeply.

I whispered prayers of gratitude to Allah for allowing me to hold her, even if only for a brief time, and sought His strength to face whatever lay ahead.

Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered outside the hospital room, eager to see Ruhee. As soon as I went into the theatre, people started arriving, some even sitting on the floor, waiting to see her. They started letting people in to visit once I was settled in my room.

My kids came to see Ruhee. My friend had taken them aside at school and gently explained Ruhee's condition to them before they came to the hospital. As soon as they entered the ward room, something extraordinary happened — Ruhee made a laughing sound. It was a heartwarming and tender moment, a glimmer of joy amidst the overwhelming sadness. Seeing her tiny face light up with laughter, surrounded by her siblings, filled my heart with a bittersweet blend of love and sorrow. Her laughter, so unexpected and pure, pierced through the heaviness of our hearts, offering a fleeting but precious moment of normalcy.

In that moment, I thanked Allah for this gift of laughter and the chance for my children to connect with their sister in such a beautiful way. It was a reminder of His mercy and the small miracles that can bring light even in the darkest of times.

Caring for Ruhee

She was a little stable but brain fluid was leaking out of her head. My husband watched the GOSH doctors carefully as they dressed Ruhee's head, studying their technique with intense focus. Determined to care for her himself, he soon imitated their method with gentle precision. Her first dressing was made from one of my husband's new handkerchiefs, lovingly folded and secured into a mini headscarf. We also used my daughters' swaddles, soft and familiar, to provide comfort and warmth. Every piece of fabric held a piece of our hearts, woven together in a blanket of love and tenderness for our precious Ruhee.

She drank a little milk, not much. But the main thing was, she was in my arms, breathing, for how long I did not know. Two medics from GOSH, including a senior doctor, monitored her from birth to the three-hour mark for organ donation in the room where she was born. But Ruhee, our little fighter, survived for longer.

The senior doctor later spoke to my husband's brother, expressing his admiration for how my husband handled the situation. He said that in his 35 years of experience, he had never seen anyone manage such a difficult situation with a smile.

Cherishing Every Moment

The first night, I tried to capture every possible memory. I carefully took her handprints and footprints, wanting to preserve every tiny detail. I even cut a lock of her hair, wanting to hold onto something tangible of her. The hospital staff provided a memory box, and I bought additional items to keep as mementos of our brief time together. Each item I gathered was a bittersweet reminder of the love and hope we were sharing, and I knew I would cherish them with all my heart. The hospital staff also gave me a book about losing a child. Its words truly helped, offering a sense of solace during my darkest moments. I would read from it from time to time, finding comfort in its pages, which seemed to understand my pain like nothing else could. One day, I received a copy of the same book via post, anonymously. I had no idea who had sent it, but it was clearly from someone who cared deeply. This unexpected gesture touched my heart profoundly, reinforcing the sense of support and empathy that surrounded me during such a difficult time.

Exhaustion and Pain

My body was on overdrive. I barely slept, terrified that she might pass away while I was asleep. I stayed awake around the clock, my eyes never leaving her. Two days later, my body was in severe pain, finally realising that I had given birth. The past two days of intense emotions had not allowed my body to relax and begin recovery.

Overwhelming Support

We had visitors nonstop from morning to night. Everyone wanted to come and see Ruhee. Despite the exhaustion and pain, I welcomed them, knowing each moment with her was precious and fleeting. I was determined to share every second of her fragile life with those who loved her, even as my heart ached, and my body cried out for rest.

Over the first few days, we had over 100 visitors, all wanting to see Ruhee before she departed, not knowing when that would be. Friends, family, and well-wishers filled the hospital, each bringing their love and prayers. So many people kept messaging me; some felt bad they were bothering me but couldn't help it. Some said I didn't need to reply but wanted me to know they were thinking and praying for me. Some, I had heart-to-heart conversations with, and they cried with me through messages. The nurse in charge of the ward informed us that the director of the maternity ward wished to see us, curious about the couple with so many guests. They even provided us with an exclusive door for our visitors to use.

Chinwi, a senior bereavement nurse who was allocated to me, did extra hours at the hospital taking care of me and Ruhee. She was such a lovely and compassionate lady, always ensuring we had everything we needed and offering comforting words when they were most needed. Her presence was a beacon of kindness and support during such a difficult time. We exchanged numbers with Chinwi, and she told me I could contact her at any time. She even visited me at home after Ruhee passed away, continuing to offer her support and compassion.

Deterioration

I thought she wasn't going to make it through the first night. I messaged everyone to supplicate and cried to Allah for strength and mercy. At one heartbreaking moment, I thought she had slipped away. In that desperate moment, I cried out to Allah, pleading for more time with my precious Ruhee. I prayed fervently that her tiny soul would only depart when my heart was filled with peace and acceptance.

On her fourth day, her condition deteriorated. She began having spasms, and her breathing became shallow. I was overwhelmed with fear and helplessness. Seeing her in such distress tore at my soul.

Earlier on that day, we had taken professional pictures in the morning. She was weak, but we tried to give her sunlight as she looked jaundiced. The nurses gave us hot packs to put under Ruhee to keep her warm as her condition began to decline.

The sight of her fragile body struggling to hold on was almost too much to bear, and I clung to every second we had left together, hoping for a miracle that would ease her pain and give us a little more time. My faith became my anchor in those moments of despair, trusting that Allah's wisdom and compassion would guide us through this trial.

Hospice Care

I had to stay in the hospital for three nights after my C-section before going to the hospice. On the fourth night, I went to the Richard House hospice with my husband and family. Initially, I hadn't wanted to go to the hospice due to its location near the A13, which I feared would be inconvenient for visitors as there is always traffic in that area. However, once there, I found that the hospice, though a place of sadness, was also strangely beautiful—a peaceful space to spend our final moments with Ruhee. Two of my nieces, stayed with my kids in the hospice flats, which was a great help during this difficult time.

Throughout the day, visitors kept coming, with some returning multiple times and others showing up every day. They would always bring food for us, big pots, which we shared with all the staff. Despite the grief, there was a sense of community and shared warmth.

My family helped so much, providing support and comfort throughout this challenging period. They were a constant presence, their love and compassion wrapping around us like a warm blanket. They cooked meals, cleaned, and took care of the other children, allowing my husband and me to focus on Ruhee.

Butterfly Mural

At Richard House, in my room, there was a beautiful, two-toned mural of eight butterflies. One was apart from the rest. I kept staring at this mural; it felt like it summed up my family perfectly. There were eight of us, but one, Ruhee, was far apart from the rest. She was soon to depart and leave us all. The mural featured a cluster of five butterflies together, with two butterflies connected with dots, which I thought represented the mum and dad. The lone butterfly, far away from the rest, represented Ruhee. The sight of that lone butterfly brought tears to my eyes, a heartbreaking reminder of the painful reality that our family would never be complete without her. The mural became a symbol of our love and loss, capturing the deep ache in my heart as I prepared to say goodbye to my precious Ruhee.

Cherished moments

She opened her eyes very little sometimes but was most likely blind due to her condition. I fed her breast milk through a syringe. She had a cleft palate but would sometimes try to suck. Ruhee was adorable beyond words — she was simply edible! Her tiny features and the way she clung to life despite all odds filled me with a fierce, protective love unlike anything I had ever known.

I couldn't sleep; the uncertainty of when she would slip from my arms was overbearing. It was agonising to keep her head dressing in place. We started with wet gauze, then dry gauze, followed by clingfilm and a mini hijab to secure it. My husband took charge of most of the dressing changes, but it was a constant struggle as it kept coming loose with brain fluid oozing, needing frequent re-adjustments. Yet, the worst pain of all was the heartache that was beginning to build inside me. The weight of impending loss felt like it would drive me to madness.

The Final Moments

On the fifth evening, Ruhee started making strange gurgling sounds, and deep down, I knew her time was drawing near. The hospice was filled with visitors, and my husband was surrounded by a group of supportive friends, sharing prayers and words of comfort. Everyone wanted to hold her, and my husband's niece held her last, remarking that her colour seemed off. When I took Ruhee in my arms, she made a screaming noise. Someone told my husband to come and see her. He came over, and after I held her close in skin-to-skin contact, Ruhee seemed to settle. He then returned to join his friends.

Suddenly, she gave one last scream, and the colour drained from her face. When I saw the colour drain, I screamed! I knew she was gone. A nurse swiftly responded, checking her pulse and confirming her time of passing. It felt surreal, like an overwhelming wave of sorrow washing over me. The room was full of people, but I wanted everyone gone at that moment. I just wanted my husband and kids next to me so I could break down and cry. I clung tightly to her, hoping against hope that she would breathe again, that I could have more precious time with her. But the heartbreaking reality sank in, and I screamed in anguish, unable to comprehend the depth of pain and loss crashing over me in that moment. It felt as though the angel of death had come and taken Ruhee from my arms, leaving an unbearable void in her place.

My husband, back with his friends, heard my scream and came rushing back. Everyone was crying. Then someone said to give us space, so everyone left the room leaving us alone to grieve as a family. We were all crying inconsolably, and my younger son was so distressed that he needed his asthma pump.

The nurses wanted to transfer Ruhee to a cot with cold air, but I wasn't ready that night. I wanted more time, so they gave me ice packs, and she stayed with me all night. My husband wanted to arrange the funeral for the next day, as it is the Muslim tradition to bury quickly. However, I wanted to delay it to have more time with Ruhee. Thus, the funeral took place on the 12th of February, a day later. The whole day of February 11th, I had with her, holding her close and cherishing our final moments together.

My husband handled all the arrangements for the funeral and the death certificate. Though his stance was to bury quickly, respecting the tradition, he understood my need for just a little more time with our precious Ruhee.

As I prayed for strength and peace, the reality of our impending farewell became even more unbearable. The weight of impending loss felt like it would drive me to madness, and the heartache began to build inside me, growing heavier with each passing moment. The mural of butterflies seemed to echo this sorrow, the lone butterfly representing Ruhee's departure, capturing the deep ache in my heart as I faced the devastating loss of my precious child.

Saying Goodbye

The nurses gently moved her into a room with a cold cot the next day, where she lay peacefully. Eventually, summoning all the strength I had left, I gathered myself and went to see her. Entering the room, I couldn't hold back the tears. I picked her up and started wailing. My sister heard and then called my pillar, my friend, who rushed over and enveloped me in a tight hug. Even though she had her own struggles with her deaf daughter, she had helped me through the entire journey, from the day she learned of Ruhee's condition to this final, heart-wrenching moment. Her embrace was like a lifeline in that moment, holding me together as I felt like falling apart. She whispered comforting words, but it was the strength and love in her hug that truly spoke to my shattered heart. The overwhelming sorrow I felt began to ease just a little, knowing she was there for me, sharing in my grief and offering unwavering support during the darkest moment of my life.

Ruhee looked so serene lying there. Her features, no longer swollen, appeared delicate and beautiful. She had a small, sharp nose unlike my other children, red lips, big eyes that she had never fully opened, and long eyelashes like mine. She had long, slender fingers - I couldn't resist the urge to touch her, to feel her soft skin once more. I leaned in close and breathed in her scent, still faintly sweet like baby breath, even though her tiny body was now cold. Each moment with her felt precious and painful, a mix of longing and gratitude for having known such pure love.

I had all the afterbirth signs: the bleeding, contractions, breast milk, the lingering pain from the C-section, the water retention, and still needing the anti-clotting injections — yet Ruhee was no longer with us. And my C-section scar, one of the main reasons I had opted for a C-section, though I hadn't told anyone, was so that I'd have a permanent reminder of her. It was a stark reminder of life continuing in my body while hers had slipped away, leaving a profound emptiness that no physical discomfort could match.

###Seeking Comfort in Memories

That night, I drifted in and out of sleep, restless and aching with loss. Amidst the sorrow, I found a small comfort in the time Ruhee had given us. We had managed to do everything: visitors came to see her, we created a complete memory box with her prints and moulds, and we had professional pictures taken. These precious moments were now all we had left. And then, in the blink of an eye, she left the world so suddenly, leaving an unbearable emptiness in her wake. Over the short five days of Ruhee's life, we had over 150 visitors, all coming together to share in our love for her. The hospice offered 24-hour visiting, providing a perfect setting for us to host so many guests. Ruhee had touched the hearts of everyone who met her; she was truly a special guest in our lives. I couldn't have accommodated that many visitors at home, so the hospice was a blessing. Allah's mercy was evident in every step; even the midwife who extended her shift for me and Ruhee showed such kindness. In these memories, I saw the grace of Allah, who had granted us the strength and support to cherish Ruhee's short life. Every visitor, every act of kindness, and every moment spent with her was a manifestation of His compassion.

### A Family in Mourning

Her funeral was arranged for the next day. At 10am, I accompanied my husband to wash and shroud her. Originally, it was planned for him to perform this duty, but due to Islamic guidelines requiring a female worker for females, the lady who washes bodies suggested that I take on this role as my family members were with my children, so no one other than me was available. I hesitated at first, but my husband reminded me of my earlier feelings when I expressed regret over not having even bathed her. Now, Allah had answered my prayer and given me this opportunity.

### Shrouding Ruhee

I entered to perform the ghusl, the ritual bath, and suddenly heard a familiar voice — it was my friend, who had flown over from Abu Dhabi and come straight to the mosque. She had been messaging me, asking where I was, and in my heart, I hoped she might have come. Seeing her there was a profound comfort. She stood by my side while I performed the ghusl, and two other sisters also appeared to help me. From feeling alone to suddenly having so much support, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and comfort. The ghusl was particularly daunting when it came to washing Ruhee's head, exposed and fragile. It was scary to handle that part, knowing how delicate she was, yet it was a necessary and tender act of care. Together with the sisters, I washed and shrouded my precious Ruhee. Afterwards, I retreated to my car and sat there with another friend while everyone else prayed Ruhee's funeral prayer. The mix of sorrow and solace surrounded me, knowing she was now at peace, yet feeling the weight of her absence deeply.

### After the Janazah (funeral prayer)

After the janazah prayer, my husband brought Ruhee to me one last time in the car. I looked at her tiny, peaceful face, alone for a brief moment, and tried to etch her image into my memory. The finality of it all was overwhelming, crushing me with an intensity I could barely endure.

A friend held Ruhee's coffin tenderly while the driver drove my husband to the burial site. The journey was filled with a mix of silence and tears, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on my husband's heart. On the journey, he felt the enormity of our loss, the reality that this was his final journey with Ruhee. The silence in the car was deafening, each moment stretching out as my husband grappled with the profound grief and the finality of saying goodbye to our beloved daughter.

"I will never forget my last gaze upon your angelic face, peaceful and radiant as if you were asleep. My darling you are free now, free from all pain and constraint.
My love for you is strong enough to let you So, Go to your heavenly home. You have touched our lives with a gentle glow of beauty that will always remain and a bond that no time or space can sever. You will always be in my heart.
It is reported that the deceased children will be in the blessed company of the Prophet Abraham (upon him be peace)"

### The Burial

They were driven to the burial site in a convoy of cars, the atmosphere inside heavy with grief. As they arrived, the solemnity of the occasion weighed heavily on my husband. My husband joined the others around the grave, feeling the profound stillness that hung in the air. He felt at a loss, unsure of what to do. When it was time to lower Ruhee into her final resting place, he froze, the enormity of the moment paralysing him. Her small, tiny body appeared so fragile against the dark earth, and the reality of our loss struck with an overwhelming force.

My friend's son, took a video of the burial — him and Ruhee shared the same birth date, a poignant connection that made the moment even more heart-wrenching. Tears flowed freely as they whispered their final goodbyes, the reality of never seeing her again settling painfully in our hearts. The world, with all its trials and tribulations, was not meant for her. Her brief presence among us was like a fleeting whisper, a reminder of innocence and purity. Now, she rests in the embrace of Paradise, a place where pain and suffering cannot reach her. Though our hearts ache with her absence, we find solace in the belief that she is now in a place of eternal peace and joy.

"Farewell my child
Oh my beautiful child! My love for you is eternal. I know that you are no longer with me. I cannot hold you or see you, yet I feel your presence, sometimes my eyes frantically search for you. I see you in the smile of a child, I hear your soft voice, and I smell your sweetness. I turn around expecting you to be there. How I hope that this has all been a bad dream, that I will wake up and find you in my arms smiling."

### Returning Home

As I sat at home, surrounded by family and friends, I felt a mix of sorrow and comfort. Sorrow for the loss of my precious Ruhee and comfort in knowing she is free from the struggles of this world.

The house was filled with guests, their presence a constant distraction that kept my mind busy. They were kind and supportive, but they left me no space to think or truly process the death. My heart ached to cry, to release the torrent of emotions building inside me, but I couldn't allow myself to break down in front of so many people.

My friend's son had recorded the burial, knowing that I would want to watch that moment later on. In the quietness of solitude, with only my husband by my side, we would together face the raw reality of our loss and begin to process the deep grief that had enveloped our hearts. We turned to Allah for comfort and guidance, seeking solace in His words and the strength to bear this immense sorrow. It was through our faith and the support of each other that we started to navigate the overwhelming grief, trusting in Allah's plan and finding peace in the belief that Ruhee was now in His care.

"Three days have passed since I said my last goodbye and the official period of mourning comes to a close, As some expectations of normality begin to set in, I feel a quiet panic. Must I face a new reality now? How can I live in a world without you?
The day had passed as if it had been a dream and I was watching it happening to someone else. Now I begin to feel the rawness, as if a limb had been torn from me. I busy myself afraid to stop and think. My mouth feels so dry that no amount of water seems to quench my thirst, I feel exhausted. I seem to be living with you, yet without you.
My mind urges me to forbearance, tells me that Allah is the Best of Planners. I am struggling, The inner battle for calm goes on, yet I put on a brave face."

"O Allah, I pray for strength. Your Love and Mercy for me is greater than mine for my child. I know You will not leave me helpless. You will be with me even as I lie awake in the darkness of the night. I place my trust in You Lord, for indeed You are the Writer of Destinies"

###A Father's Grief

My husband does counselling and has met many couples who have lost children. During one session, he met a doctor couple from Pakistan. The husband would always let his wife talk about her grief, staying silent himself. My husband noticed this and decided to ask him about his own feelings, pointing out that people often forget what the man goes through in such situations. The husband's eyes lit up, and he said, "No one ever asked me, so I kept quiet. You're the first person to mention the father's side." This moment highlighted the often-overlooked grief that fathers experience, reminding us of the importance of acknowledging and supporting everyone affected by such a profound loss.

### Annual Remembrance

Each year, as the date of her passing draws near, all the memories, emotions, and grief resurface. The ache in my heart becomes fresh again, as if no time has passed. My youngest daughter never fails to remember Ruhee at every special moment and event, her innocent words keeping Ruhee's memory alive in ways both beautiful and heart-wrenching. She mentions her every day, never failing to look at her picture and speak about her, ensuring that Ruhee remains a part of our daily lives.

We go to visit Richard House every year during the time of her birth. I stay in the graveyard, finding a quiet solace in being close to Ruhee, reflecting and making dua. We seek solace in our faith, knowing that Allah's wisdom and mercy are beyond our understanding.

### Six Years Later

Six years have passed, and it has taken all my strength to find the courage to write this journey of mine. Each word is a testament to the love and loss that have shaped our lives. The pain of losing Ruhee is a constant companion, but writing these memories helps me honour the precious, fleeting moments we had with her.

We will meet again in Jannah, my sweet Ruhee. Until that day comes, I carry her in my heart, cherishing the hope that one day, I will hold her in my arms once more. My journey is far from over, but I take comfort in knowing that she is waiting for me in a place where we will be reunited in eternal peace and joy. I find solace in the promise of Allah's mercy and the certainty that in Jannah, our family will be complete once again.

It took me six years to finally put my thoughts into writing, and I owe it all to my friend. Her unwavering support and love helped me navigate my feelings and stay on track. I would have probably procrastinated for another six years if it wasn't for her. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for walking this journey with me, reliving those heart-wrenching memories every step of the way.

Last updated February 4, 2025