Dear Friend

My friend's husband passed away approximately 4 days ago after spending a few weeks in coma.  This letter is dedicated especially to her.

***

Dearest Dibah,

I don't know where to start as I don't know what to say.  As much, I don't want to sound cocky by saying, "I know how you feel", or "I understand", or "I've been there".  But I have.  I truly have.

I am sure, too, that you are perhaps almost tired of all the condolences received. All the cliches and all the words of advice. Because it happened to you, and not anyone else.  Not forgetting, those remarks that may have been meant well but only turned out to be a little inappropriate.

Forgive me for not visiting when I should have. Not when he was in the hospital.  Not even at his funeral. I was perhaps the most selfish and inconsiderate person to not be there. But I chose not to be there because it hurt too much.

I feel your sorrows, your frustrations and your anger.  I understand the feeling of emptiness that envelopes you every time you turn and see that space next to you.  I can hear loneliness echoing in that petite body of yours. I sense the sheer sadness that glooms over you when you realise that he is no longer physically here with you.

He is gone.

So, do cry, my dear - with the tears that will never stop streaming down your cheeks, day and night.  Let those tears wash away your sadness, fears and sorrows.  Let them trickle and drench yourself because that is the best medicine of all!

Yet all is not lost.

When my late husband was diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus at the advanced stage more than six years ago, my heart shattered into pieces.  The only thing that kept me intact on the days that followed was what my dad said to me: "Believe in the Divine Will and Decree" (Percaya kepada Qada' dan Qadar).  And that was what I repeatedly chanted to myself, as a reminder that would help me snap out of my hazy days.

Adibah,

I want you to grieve today.  And the day after. And the day after. You have 4 months and 10 days.   It is the time He has given to us so make the best out of it.  Feel sorry for yourself.  Sit down and spend your time looking at all the photos and videos you've taken of him and of yourselves, together.  Embrace it all. Absorb them.  You are in bereavement.

Use the time to think of tomorrow. Of whether the sun is going to shine, or the postman's going to come and bring you some good news.  Think of what you are going to do when you feel hopeless without your Gentle Giant to help reach out to the impossibly high shelves when you need someone to.  Yes, the days will no longer be the same.  From now on, you are forced to accept the change.  No matter how unpleasant it is.

But you know what, Dibah?  If you accept this change with great contentment (redha), then, He will ease it for you.  He will keep His eyes on you and help you sail through, lest the hiccups and the stumbling up the stairs.  For He has blessed you with great companions: your children, family and friends.  They may not be the same as your very own soul mate, but collectively, they make excellent remedies on dreadful days.  Well, at least that was what happened to me.

I know that you will actually be fine.  In time, perhaps.  InsyaAllah...

Make him proud by being the best of you because that's what made him love you so much.


Hugs, love and kisses,

Kak Dij

When a fighter leaves...

She is the epitome of hope, life and strength.  But now the flower has wilted and has returned to her Creator, Ar-Rahman Ar-Raheem.  Sis Dalilah Tamrin of http://onebreastbouncing.blogspot.com has fought her last battle and is now laid to rest.  Innalillahi wainna ilaihi rojiun...

I marvel at the fight that she put up with.  Her will to live is awed at and her outlook in life was simply marvelous.  A glance at her does not reveal that she's a cancer patient but she fought it so long; from breast cancer to metastatic cancer.  The smile she flashes were genuine and soothing.  The words she shared were  more than words of wisdom; they were words from a true survivor. 

Only the chosen one is tested with such pain, as it is believed that pain is a sign of forgiveness.  It is only through pain that we humans are reminded of our borrowed time on earth and of the more meaningful life of the hereafter...

When I started blogging in 2006, I stumbled into her somewhere in the blogosphere.  But I didn't make much of it.  Later, our paths crossed again when my late husband fell sick.  Apparently, she had known him before.  From then on, I followed her blog very closely and became good friends with her.

 

I had only met her three times during my short vacation home in 2008.  I remember meeting her for the first time at Amcorp Mall on a Sunday morning.  Warm and friendly, I instantly felt like I had known her forever.  The next meetings were unfortunately scheduled at hospitals.  I can't recall which one was first, but I visited her at HKL once and I once fetched her from her office to bring her to meet my sister in HUKM.  After I returned to the UK, we kept in contact through our blogs, text messages and also mail.  She never forgot my birthdays.  When she sent me a copy of her book, Kanser Payudaraku, I kept the book close to me even after I finished reading it.  It was as if I could feel her energy every time I touched the book.  Strange but true. Cancer connected us.

Life is short.  Dalilah has lived her life to the fullest, despite all the pain.  She met so many people and touched so many hearts.   My heart goes out to her family who has stayed close by her side.  They must be so proud of her though...  

May Allah bless her soul and place her in jannah. Al-fatihah.

Farewell, dear friend...

Her writings were poignant and witty. She's charming and courteous, elegant and respectful. Most of all, she's colourful.

It saddens me to learn about the passing of dear Ruby Ahmad, an extremely devoted and active old girl from TKC.

If anyone needs a boost in life, then Ruby Ahmad was the person to meet. She's very positive and vibrant, and very very warm.

I will miss the kind advice she never failed to offer and the nonsensical yet uplifting updates we exchanged with one another.

Apparently, she was admitted into Gleneagles Medical Centre for some coughing and passed away there. The story behind it goes that she actually had breast cancer and kept it unknown to the outside world.

Innalillahi wainna ilaihi rojiun....

I miss you already, Ruby!

Alfatihah...

Another loss...

My mobile phone rang when I was grabbing a box of tissue paper from the shelf at the supermarket yesterday afternoon. I grappled for the phone in my pocket, and glanced at the name on the screen: it was Bluewonder - what a surprise!

Unfortunately, I should have guessed that the phonecall would bring me sad news - a much dreaded news for anyone! Our mentor in Edinburgh, Dr Haji Zainuddin Jaffar, had passed away in Brunei - fighting cancer of the lungs at a rate most admired! (he'd be delivering his lectures a day after his chemo session; believing that he was still able to serve the ummah!)

Dr Zainuddin, or Ustaz Din as we knew him, was an intelligent and friendly man who portrayed qualities of a true leader. Many of us will never be able to forget his bright smile and warm heart. Together with his wife, Kak Ni'mah (the daughter of the late Mufti Brunei), they were always warm to us and offered us invaluable advice about almost everything under the sun: from studentship to marriage!

Even after returning home from abroad, Ustaz Din and family still kept in touch with us, despite everyone being all over the place and busy with our own schedules.

Thank you Ustaz, for being there for us and for shaping us into what we are today.

For more details of this respectful man, check out his eldest daughter's blog.

Al-fatihah...

Two years ago

Asyhadu an laa ilaha Ilallaah... wa asyhadu anna Muhammadarrasulullah...

I incessantly whispered this in his left ear while his mother whispered in the right once his breathing pattern changed. They were slow and heavy. In a matter of minutes, he was already gone...

I can play this scene repeatedly in my mind. Or perhaps the scenes of the past few days or weeks. Two years ago, today - 18th Syawal, he returned to our Creator.

I have no regrets but the human in me can't help feeling the lost of a man so close. So with every pain or flashback that I have, I probe for lessons to be learnt. What did he do right that made it easy for him? What have I gained from the experience? What have I done to prepare for death?

Everything here is not ours to claim, but the ownership belongs to the Almighty.

(Apologies for a sombre post!)

Throwing messages of love and peace

My early memories of Michael Jackson's songs were probably Beat It and Billie Jean, from Thriller. Whenever his songs appeared on the music videos over the new TV channel at that time (TV3), I'd shout out for my late brother and we'd be glued to the box, mesmerised by his well-choreographed steps.

I also vividly recollect my first real Listening lesson, introduced by my Form 1 English teacher, Miss Koh. In our language lab, she brought Michael Jackson to us. She distributed us the lyrics of We are the World with words omitted for us to listen for. Being teenagers, we welcomed the lesson excitedly - being allowed to sing in the classroom was most definitely not an opportunity you get everyday!

In years that came after, I followed my teachers' footsteps and then brought Michael Jackson into my own classrooms. Heal the World and Earth Song were aptly introduced, with messages of peace, harmony and tolerance to one another emphasised.

Today, as I sat infront of the television watching the memorial service organised for the King of the Pop, tears escaped my eyes to hear the words of praises uttered by his friends and family. He was indeed a man with a big heart, even though his disturbed mind invited many controversial issues. When one manages to touch so many hearts, you know that he must have done something right, if not everything.

If you enter this world knowing you are loved

and you leave this world knowing the same,

then everything that happens in between can be dealt with.

Michael Jackson

What would be ideal to you?

On Friday, I drove to university deep in thoughts. A text received in the wee hours of the morning from a dear friend of my late husband's (those in Malaysia often forget the 8 hours' difference) just seeped deep into me, and made me ponder over a question I choose to write about here today.

What would be your ideal age... to die?

Most people pray for a long life (semoga panjang umur...), and a fulfilled one, that is. Yet how long would you want to live in this world? Some live to be 90, bed-ridden and nyanyuk. Is there then meaning to life anymore?

Close family members have appeared to have short lives: my only brother had 19 years of exploration, my late mother had 36 years of excitement, while my late husband had 38 years of adventure. My late friend, Jun, had 17 years of academic success - and I'd say everyone had high hopes for her. Surely, there was Hazmin, my mother-in-law's only daughter, who departed after a month of joy. Some are even stillborn - a better life promised in a different place.

Somehow, it disturbs me to think of the last moments my late kindergarten headmaster had - being trapped in a burnt car after a collision. Imagine your deathbed; where, when and how? Would you want someone by your side - to hold your hand, even if you can't really feel it? To whisper you the shahadah, even if you can barely lift an eyelid?

So, I wonder what is the ideal age to aim for? Is dying young always a tragedy? A misfortune? A defect to the lives of those left behind?

When I was a little girl, I found growing up without a mother was not something so bad. Well, it was difficult to miss something you never really had in the first place. I was four when I became an orphan - a tad younger than my Little D was when his dad passed away. The feelings I had was just empty and lonely. The lost I felt was similar to someone who was born blind - he never had vision, so he doesn't really know what he misses; as opposed to a person who loses his sight due to an accident where his sense is snatched away by the Almighty, for a reason, of course.

What is then the ideal age? 70? When you've passed your retirement age, travelled the world, brought up the children to have careers and families of their own (perhaps a dozen grandchildren or two), and had everything on the list ticked? How much of your good deeds in the world would be deemed enough, as preparation for the hereafter? Most importantly, if you think you'd live to be 70, do you have the right to say manyana? These phrases are so familiar that they are almost cliches: 'I'll repent tomorrow', 'I'll go for my Hajj when I'm in my 40s or 50s', 'I'll pay my debts later, i.e. qada' my fasts and my salahs'.

I wish to defer. I don't want to wait for tomorrow, when it might be too late.

Ergo, ideal is subjective, don't you think? Perhaps dying young has its appeal...

Al-fatihah

No tahlils.

Just a request for a piece of Al-fatihah for the prophet Muhammad (pbuh), his companions, all Muslims, including our family members and to add to that, also for my late husband, Hazlishah Abdul Hamid.

Today marks one hijrah year of the demise of my soul mate, my everything...

To dwell in forlorn I shall not, but to be reminded of how fragile and temporary life is - I shall continue, as it is what keeps me prepared for the hereafter. Every single experience, be it black, white, or shades of grey, will be compiled and loosely kept safely in the attic of my mind. The back-up (my memory may probably not exceed 4GB - *chuckle!) will be of photos, letters, cards, memorabilia, and of course, the most obvious of all - the evidence of his DNA in the progeny that I have been blessed with!

As I sit reminiscing the wonderful things he did to me, and with me, I know that these are the tales I have to share with my children, because I would surely love them to grow up embracing the good qualities and traits of their dad. Already, I can see Abang Z very much like his father - responsible and a clean-freak (does a great job vacuuming!) while Abang H: the handyman in the house. Even when their daddy was still around, Princess has always associated herself with her daddy: "I am daddy's child because I have his blood(B+), while the rest of you have mommy's blood (O) - you're all mommy's children!" (she had to undergo a blood transfusion procedure on her third day alive as her blood was incompatible to mine). And yes, it was as simple as that. There are other insignificant yet ironically eminent features each of us still hold on to, such as daddy's likes and dislikes ( "I love eating bananas and so did daddy" ). They bicker and challenge one another to see who is more similar to their dad. And I think it is a brilliant way of remembering their dad's character.

At times, Little D does find himself a bit lost as he didn't quite have his dad around as long as the others did. More so, his young memory often fails him. Hence, you'd often more than not get him cajoling, "Did daddy use to like this, like me?"

If I should pray and seek His guidance,

"Give me O the Lord who generously gives, of Knowledge and Hikmah,

bless me the rezki O the Lord who is generous with His rezki, ease it for me",

then I will use the knowledge He has bestowed me with, to endeavour a life as a Muslimah, following the true Deen.

Yup, we are catapulting into the future by using the wonderful and blessful life we once shared together. There used to be 6 but now we're one short (yet we're still walking tall), as the Malay rhyme/song of Sepuluh Budak Hitam (Ten black boys -err, and we're not being racist here!) goes:

Enam budak hitam makan buah delima,
Satu tertelan biji, tinggal lagi lima.

(Six black boys ate some pomegranates,

One choked on the seed, and then five were left.)

Ponder upon the message behind the song: no matter how many we start off with, each of us will return to our Creator one day (Oh, Little D asked me earlier today why he had only 3 siblings. I asked him how many he wanted there to be and he said: A HUNDRED! Impossible mate, sheer impossible!!).

As I was saying, Al-fatihah...

The results are out...

The special someone I wrote about some time ago, has been diagnosed with cancer: lymphoma of the eye. I am devastated. Suddenly, I am going through what I similarly went through approximately seven months ago - of keeping strong while everything felt like crumbling. Tears have been streaming down the cheeks for unexplained reasons, and beyond control. For this, I'm labelled too emotional?

Hence, I try putting myself in her shoes and wonder what it is like, contemplating the days ahead and the fact that death may perhaps be closer than we thought (I know that there are many cancer survivors out there, but surely one can never avoid thinking that cancer is such a big and scary thing...)

The first I'd think about is how painful it would be. The journey with a terminal disease.

The second I'd think about is how death would feel like; when the Angels come, and when life is choked out of me. The experience in the life in-between, awaiting for the day of judgement - when all will be called to rise from the graves. And of course, then the whole procession leading to the final judgement: right or left; heaven or hell? Have I done enough?

The third would be the concern of my children's well-being, although I know that they will always be under Allah's protection. Have I equipped them enough to go on independently?

*****

I may be morbid, I may sound fatalistic and pessimistic. However, I am just thinking of how I'd take it if I were her. I have not lost hope and I have not lost faith. Our days are filled with tests after tests, all His way of checking on the levels of Imaan we have. How would you take such a news if you were given one? Frankly, I think that we do not know our strength until the time comes.

Sis, you are in my prayers every day and every night. The greatest quality in you is that you always put others first - without fail. I know that you are among the blessed. In Allah we trust, and in Him we surrender... You will fight this and you will make it, InsyaAllah.

Just another day..

I've turned 36. No longer half-past thirty, like the Cookie Monstah of Kaypo Klub would say. It's already tilting toward the big four-oh. Hence, it's the late thirties. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy...

36 has always been a pretty scary number for me. My late mom passed away when she was 36. So did Lady Diana.

What an introduction. Forgive me. Let's do this again.

I extend my appreciation to the Almighty for awarding me 36 years of life - to breathe in the oxygen He supplies us with, to walk and run all over the planet He creates, to eat and drink His produce, to experience the wonderful pleasures of life He plots, and most of all, to be blessed with His rahmah every day.

My day was not fantastic, but Alhamdulillah, I'm still here to share my tale.

If I could nominate the best day in Coventry for the month of April this year, it would definitely have to be today, the 26th. The sun put on his brightest smile and cast the warmest spell on us all! I started the day with the intention of baking a cake but discovered I've run out of castor sugar (&^%$#$&!!). It's tradition - every birthday MUST have a cake, or cakes, in the case of cupcakes. Although those cakes in the shops look beautiful, they don't really taste that way. Most of them are way too sweet. So, no castor sugar meant no cake for breakfast this morning. I fixed some pasta for them kiddies instead.

The first phone call I received today was from Kak Teh - a little bit concerned about me (re last post), but I reassured her that I was fine. Really, InsyaAllah I am. Felt nice to know that I had a concerned friend somewhere though I didn't tell her that I probably felt the way I did because it was my birthday today. HeHe...

In the afternoon, after the kids' Fardhu Ain classes, brought them out to the city centre - stopping by at the park to say hello to the swans and ducks. Got some errands done, and grabbed some roses off the stand. Me being the romantic fool, had thought the night before of getting some roses on my birthday, just as a reminder of that bouquet that was delivered to me on the first birthday I celebrated in love with the late Mr D. And from the bunch I bought, I'd take one stalk (not all...) to put on Mr D's grave. And that was where we went next.

At the grave yard, I couldn't retain the emotions. Thank god for the invention of sunglasses, at least the kids didn't notice that I was crying only till much later! We had a small tahlil together, and as usual, had a session of short speeches to dear Abah. Everyone said how they missed and loved their daddy. Little D 'told' his daddy about his trip to Dublin - the deers he saw, the kite he flew, and the swans he fed. My Princess whispered to me that she wanted to say it was her birthday next. Abang Z didn't have much to say, unlike Abang H, who immediately said, 'I love you'. I reminded the kids that we had to try very hard to make ends meet and to be the best at what we did, as that would have been what their daddy wanted. And we pray on...

We left, and headed home. I recalled the castor sugar I had to get, so made a quick stop at Sainsbury's. But lo and behold, as I was leaving the parking lot, my troubled mind (yes, I can distinctively remember what I was thinking about at that time!) distracted me - BANG! - I hit a car!

I parked the car at a more strategic location, and the other car pulled over next to mine. A lady came out. And boy, was she a wonderful woman indeed! The first thing she asked was, How are you? Are you okay? The accident was entirely my fault - no contest to it. I had looked right, looked left - waited a while, then, without looking back to my right, went straight ahead to turn right! The front (left) part of the car was pretty much smashed. I apologized profusely to the lady, and gave my details. I also told her I didn't know what to do or where to start because it was usually my husband who helped me in issues pertaining to cars. And that was when the tears rolled down my cheeks. Embarrassed, I told her that my husband had passed away and I then apologized for crying in front of her! I could feel my hands trembling and my heart shuddering. She saw how shook up I was, and offered to sit down for some tea but I had put this woman to too much trouble already. I didn't want to trouble her more. Hence I politely turned down the offer, and told her that I'd sit down in the car for a while, till my nerves were a little bit better.

In the car, I broke down. The kids sat quietly, not knowing what to do. After a good 5-10 minutes, I wiped the tears off and drove back home - it was only a few minutes away.

Got home, all still quite shaken up, went to the kitchen to prepare the kids some tea. The day was warm and sunny, so I suggested that they sat in the backyard to chill. I had to go and lie down. I excused myself, and went to perform my prayers - thanking Allah that despite what happened, we were all fine. Little D then came up to me, "Mummy, are you finished? Come down with me..." I did not have the heart to tell him that I didn't feel too well and needed a lie down. So, I followed him out into the backyard - for their wonderful surprise for me! There were 4 cards laid out - 3 handmade and 1 bought (of course, that's from Princess). A nicely wrapped gift was thrusted into my hands. I was impressed! Yeah, a few days ago, Princess requested that I brought her to Tesco because she had something to buy (for me). I had to go through the same thing I went through during Mother's Day.

Anyway, the wonderfully wrapped gift actually came with a small bundle of matching ribbons. "Mama, I actually don't know how to tie the ribbon on the gift - can you pleaaaassssseeeee do it for me?" exclaimed Abang Z. Oh, wasn't that cute? So, I fiddled with the ribbon and managed to make a simple tie-up. Then, I took them apart - to be surprised (was indeed really!) with a spiral notebook. HeHeHe... Yes, I'm a sucker for notebooks (just like Princess), but surely... Aren't my chidren just sooo wonderful?

Then, Dina called, saying she was on her way over with her new boyfriend (new because I hadn't met him). Suddenly, I realised I didn't have anything to serve and was NOT in the mood to prepare anything! So, I went on with the initial plan to bake a cake. While it was still in the oven, Dina arrived. Surprise, surprise!! She brought a cake for me! Woo hoo... And I was lucky enough to have some great company to share not only one cake, but TWO cakes with us.

Ergo, by the end of the day, I feel blessed with the life I have now. It may not be perfect, it may not be all wonderful, and it may not be even close to brilliant. BUT, the day could have turned out worse. I am fortunate to have beautiful children who are just the best at surprises and making others feel special. They really made me feel special. Thank you my darlings...

I received calls from my Dad and sis, wishing me Happy Birthday. A very thoughtful birthday email from my other sis, and tens of wishes via the net (FB, emails and chats) and mobile (texts). There were also a few who actually remembered my birthday simply from the post I wrote regarding my birthday last year!! Fantastic or what?

If one asked me to comment how I feel being 36, I must say that 36 years is quite a significant amount of time. Enough to experience a little of everything (not really), and enough to enjoy so much too. In the 36 years, I have lost so many loved ones, but also gained so many others. With me now, I am blessed with 4 wonderful children who will be the essence of my life.

What lies ahead is a road forking out at each possible junction. I am carrying the torch Allah has entrusted me with, and I will carry it with me on this journey.

A birthday is just another day - a milestone that you've gone through a year successfully (or not). No big deal at all. Not even if you miss some people so much, that you hope they were next to you...

More tomorrow: the big hearts those kids of mine have

I so miss him!

It's not as easy as it sounds. I promised myself never to fall into the pit. But since after my 'Iddah, this is the second time I've been in this darkness.

Perhaps it's the weather. Or maybe it's that certain something that's been lingering and pounding in my head? Or maybe it's just the hormones? Better still, it's perhaps because I feel sooooo lonely? I personally think it's because of tomorrow. (Watch this space for development!)

Of late, I've been spending some time reading translations of the Quran and some religious books and websites (I've also been listening to Kaer's "Biarkanku pergi" and watching the tribute to him on YouTube). The issue most appealing in my readings is death; the importance of always keeping death in the mind, and just being physically close to whatever that reminds you of it,is ibadah itself. It may sound morbid and pathetic, but this is so that we remember life is temporary, hence we should work hard in our ibadah to ensure that we'd be prepared for it. I know I should be moving on to greener pastures, and move on with only good and positive memories of the late Mr D. However, it's the good memories I miss that's been pulling me down.

I can close my eyes and picture him laughing in front of the telly, watching American Idol (I have only seen bits of two episodes of American Idol this season..). Or, I can close my eyes and see him staring at me with a smile on his face. Everything is still very clearly sketched in my mind.

I am not drowning in sorrow (okay, maybe I am a little), but I'm just saying that I miss him. I used to have my best friend with me when I was feeling low. But this time, the schedule's tight and there are deadlines to meet. So, without my best friend, I sob my eyes out (in phases since this morning) remembering the man I shared so many years and things together with. Have no fear, Allah is always here!!

Al-Fatihah

My close friend's father in law passed away early this morning - Rustam A. Sani (author, blogger - http://www.suara-rostam.blogspot.com/, scholar, and former politician). I know that at such trying times like this, Salha will definitely be the pillar of strength in the family. My sincerest condolences to Azrani and family. Al-Fatihah... Allah knows best.

A beautiful poem the late Rustam wrote for his son can be found here.

I'm back...

...from nowhere. Just been chilling around, enjoying the (hopefully last) wintry spells of hailstorms, rain and snow. It's now the second week of Easter school holidays (thank God its only two weeks' break) and I am already exhausted with the kids. We've been going to the movies, ice-rink, shops, Transport museum, parks, and also visiting some friends. At the ice-rink, I fell and hurt my knee (yes, KK girls, D fell!). Ouch! It just goes to say that the globe has been spinning on its axis, and I am not as young as I used to be. Boo Hoo!!! Major trauma.

Anyway, the weather has been very promising these past few days. Bright and sunny, all day long. Alhamdulillah. I dare say that Spring is finally here, as we sprung forwards an hour yesterday, the last Sunday of March.

************

On a different note, I was saddened by a text from my dear ex-school mates back home. A senior in school, Roslina Baghawi, has lost her battle with cervical cancer and returned to our Creator at 20:25 Malaysian time today. Sister Roslina was diagnosed with cancer at stage 4 some time last year, slightly earlier than the late Mr D. She had fought the battle with sessions of chemotherapy and other similar therapies.

When I received the news, I was at the shops alone. I couldn't help shedding some tears, attracting stares from the people around me. I had known sister Roslina during school days, sharing a dorm with her, with my upper bunk bed next to her during my first year at boarding school. Many years later, our paths crossed several times as she too was an English teacher.

This year, sister Roslina should be 38, the same age as Mr D when he went. Again, we are all brought closer to death, a reminder that it is just around the corner; yet we live our lives forgetting our mission on planet earth.

Alfatihah...

Lessons of Life: Part Three - Life and Death

The goal of all life is death ~ Sigmund Freud

When a life ends, the reaction is often devastating. People sob and cry, and suddenly everyone becomes so religious. This is merely my observation. When I was younger, I recall thinking how pretentious people were with death - only mourning, grieving and turning to God when death comes, and then to move on without much thought of the lessons learnt through it. After decades, my views have somewhat altered, though in reality, I do ponder how easily one can forget about the reminder sent by Him.

Thinking about death is actually in line with the teachings of Islam as it prepares each individual for the day after. After all, a lifetime on earth can never compare to life in the hereafter which is eternal! The Quran teaches us to believe that the present life is a trial in preparation for the next realm of existence.

"O my People! This life of the present is nothing but (temporary) convenience. It is the Hereafter that is the Home that will last. " Surah Al Mu'min -The Believer: (40 39)

Death, therefore, should always be in everyone's minds to the extent that each think more of their deathbeds and work on the preparations. It should serve as enough reminder for each individual to strive to be a better person each day. Hence, since our own death has not yet arrived (we are still breathing and well), life should be lived to the fullest.

I recall reading a story (or hadeeth) regarding a man who withdrew himself from the world after the death of his wife. He had felt that his world was closing on him upon the demise of his soul mate. This concerned many, including one woman who later asked to meet this miserable man in person. She insisted that he met her so that she could ask him of his opinion on a problem she had. When he finally agreed to see her, she told him her story.

She had borrowed a piece of jewellery from her neighbour, and had been keeping and using it for a long time. After a while, the neighbour came to ask it back but she wasn't sure whether she should return it. Hearing this, the man advised the woman to return the jewellery to them (the owners), since it had been lent out to her for such a long time.

The woman was obviously sad to part with the jewellery. Nonetheless, she then thanked the man and said, 'May Allah have mercy on you. Do you then grieve over what Allah has lent you and then taken from you, when He has a greater right to it than you?' The man soon realised the situation he was in, and believed that Allah was helping him out through the woman. That is probably why (as mentioned in passing before) the Almighty has given clear guidelines regarding the period of grieve for each person.

Thus, my aim in life is to use change to improve. The deaths in my family, including my dearest late husband, has taught me to:

• live and love like today is your last - do more good deeds and avoid the wrong for we never know whether we'd have time to repent later, and cherish the moments with those who mean the world to you...
  As quoted by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross:
  It is only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up that we will begin to live each day to the fullest, as if it were the only one we had.

• always look ahead; the past should be reflected upon to make you better
  Quoting Charles Darwin: It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.

So which do you think more of - life or death? Pause and reflect please...

Lessons of Life - Part Two: 'Iddah

Since I've only got approximately one week left of mourning ('Iddah), I think it is apt to write a little about my journey throughout the period of confinement: 4 months and 10 days.

Please note that the period of my confinement, due to the lost of a husband through death, is 4 months and 10 days, unlike those who have undergone divorce: 3 months or 3 cycles of menses.

Spend a moment to pause and reflect on why there is this difference in time period. Surely, there must be a valid reason behind each proclamation.

As I have mentioned in one of my earlier posts, there are five main elements that I have to abide to while in 'Iddah:

• I cannot marry another.
• I cannot leave the house to pursue unimportant matters, including social visits.
• I can only accept male visitors in the house while my muhrim is around.
• I cannot go back home (Malaysia) during this confinement period.
• I cannot don any attractive clothing or apply make-up as to avoid fitnah (Al-Ehdad).

Let me also make myself clear that in interpreting what has been passed on by our Lord and apostle, there are many different opinions that may differ from what I practice. I have received various comments and viewpoints about what 'Iddah entails through liberal modern eyes, yet I choose to conform to what I have been taught and what I feel comfortable doing. Although I admit I may not have strictly followed everything I had initially highlighted, I did try as best I could to keep to them.

A woman in 'Iddah is sought to confine herself to her home, limiting social interaction and unnecessary mingling, simply to protect herself against censure. Abstaining from social functions is one point I find most complicated because not everyone agrees or understands this. On numerous occasions, despite my casual explanation, I was invited over to friends' for social visits. I was even cynically leered once for not visiting. I actually did visit others, but only close friends and not when there is a crowd. Why was I expected to be there? More interestingly, let me explain why I shouldn't.

Having gone through 4 months of my 'Iddah period now, I understand why the period of grieve was necessary. A woman is made so feminine; emotional and sensitive that a devastating news such as a death of a spouse would definitely shake her down to the roots. Thus, the period Allah has set for her to grieve (note: grieving period for other family members is limited to 3 days - nothing more!) is a long enough period for her to adjust her life and get back on her feet.

For instance, take me - a person most people consider very strong (??!). I still cry thinking of the lost of my dear husband. I do not cry of regret, but I cry of sadness and disbelief; to actually think that he has left me - for real! Every time I bump into an ex-student, colleague, friend or acquaintance while I'm out running an errand, and they extend their condolences, I'd be spending the next hour or two feeling nostalgic and sad.

This morning, as I crossed the street after exiting the library, I met my ex-landlord - Mr. Majeed. I told him of my late husband's departure and immediately, his eyes became misty. We only lived nextdoor to him for three months, but he sort of had a bonding with my late husband. It was difficult to find people who could not get along with the late Mr. D, I must say. After bidding farewell to Mr. Majeed, I turned and walked in the opposite direction with my cheeks streaked with tears.

Being totally independent in this foreign land, without close relatives or chummies, I run my confinement days with minimal contact with the outside world. Yes, I go out shopping when the need arises, to work, and to some friends' houses for discussions or friendly goodbyes. But I do not accept invitations with crowds around. That would be categorised as unnecessary.

To some, I have been like a recluse - hiding in my house when the outside world is blooming away (well, not so much during winter though...). I know most people mean well but my situation does not permit me to accept such invitations. My apologies... Please understand that I still find it difficult meeting people - because I no longer have my late husband next to me. If people cannot agree with my stand, then perhaps just try to understand me - try fitting into my shoes, even though our sizes may vary.

Upon saying all these, I am now making plans for next week (and the week after, and the week after - Easter hols: hurrah!!). Once the 'Iddah period is lifted, I need to embrace myself and march straight ahead. I have my children's well-being and future to think of. Although a little anxious at times, I am confident that the Almighty has got it all planned out for us - all for the best. Hence, with constant prayers, including those from family and friends, our passage will InsyaAllah be clearly paved out.

So, hold your horses - give me some space. I am not making any serious decisions just yet. Come April - when the weather's all sunny, who knows what new ideas and possibilities will come, and which doors will open... It will then be a new episode altogether, InsyaAllah.

Lessons of life - Part One: Surrendering to the Almighty

It is an understatement to say that my life has changed since last October - it has turned 360 degrees! The loss of a spouse is something too big to be swept under the carpet, or to be brushed off with a statement, "Life goes on...". Nonetheless, that is what I often get. I guess what people are trying to say is that I've got to look ahead and plan out the future that is spread out in the horizon, instead of making the episode a handicap.

Throughout these past few months, I have searched for as many reading materials as possible on death and how others handle it. What I have realised is that in the Malay society, death is a topic so sombre and taboo, that most drown in their emotions and sentiments. Although the Malays are almost synonymous with Muslims, their practice is often more cultural than religious (perhaps an entry on this will be coming soon). On the contrary, the westerns are often more open and questionable when dealing with the issue. To me, they're all worth pausing and reflecting on. This entry is about two lessons I have learnt in the most significant episode of my life, of which I have either mentioned in passing in my previous entries, or in great detail with a few chosen close friends.

I consider myself very fortunate (Alhamdulillah) that the death of my late husband happened while we are in a foreign land, thousands of miles away from home. I know that if it had happened back home, the impact would not be as much as it is now. To me, it is not only a lesson worth pondering for me, but it should be worth a reflection for others too. For me, it is a test of my independence and capability to use my judgements; juggling my faith (Imaan) and emotions in handling with issues pertaining loyalty to spouse, love to family, trust to friends and relatives, and many more.

How can I not consider that the incident tested on my loyalty, love and devotion to my late husband? At times when he had restless and sleepless nights, I could not ignore him by falling into deep slumber; though that's what I sometimes did. At times when he could not eat and was throwing up the contents of all that was in his stomach, I could not turn my head away in disgust but to keep on encouraging him. At times when he made visits to the doctor and was sent away only to come back another day, I could not leave the health of my beloved to be decided by those who claimed to be experts in the field of medicine (hence my persistent queries and questioning).

Yet, I remained baffled and helpless; unable to put his ailment and woes to an end. Somehow, I do not regret all those. My only (slight) regret was not being able to spend more time with him in his last 24 hours because I was too busy attending to others. However, I had managed to spend solid hours minding and caring for him in the hospital from Friday to Sunday afternoon(26th - 28th Oct 2007), giving him all the attention I could. He was given a single room all to himself and we were together all the time. I remember him looking up at me and smiling, and us holding hands together. I remember walking him to the attached bathroom, waiting by his side when he sat crouched at the sink, vomitting his heart out. When he slept on the bed, I slept on the chair; when he slept on the chair (he was always very uncomfortable and restless), I slept on the bed.

But I also remember the amount of tears that wet my cheeks that weekend, as I realised that his health was deteriorating, instead of improving. It saddened me to bits to see the man I loved so much withering and becoming very frail. At that moment of hopelessness, only faith to the Almighty helped me to move on.

I am emphasising here again that ever since my late husband was diagnosed with cancer, I never failed to perform my tahajjud prayers (take note: I never did much of this previously), repetitiously reading in the last sujud:

"O my Lord! let my entry be by the Gate of Truth and Honor and likewise my exit by the Gate of Truth and Honor; and grant me from Thy Presence an authority to aid (me)." Surah Isra (17) verse 80

Yes, I sought for the presence of 'an authority to aid me', and Allah gave me just that. In no time, thanks to the existence of this blog, ex-school mates, ex-colleagues of mine and late husbands', friends, relatives, fellow-bloggers and total strangers were all knocking on our door, offering assistance. How does one explain meeting a relative, unknown to be in the country, in the Emergency unit at the hospital? How does one explain the financial support which flowed into my account totaling to a generous amount, that would only make you gape and gawk in disbelief? How does one explain the offers of alternative treatment from far-away countries and even as far as China? I received unbelievable support from family back home, the local Muslim community and the local Malay community - physically, mentally and spiritually. Not to mention the prayers made in the holy month of Ramadhan by the ummah worldwide. They were all 'sent' by the Almighty as authorities to aid me. Alhamdulillah.

It is well to give when asked but it is better to give unasked, through understanding
Kahlil Gibran, 'On Giving,' The Prophet, 1923

Lebanese artist & poet in US (1883 - 1931)

Every time I think of this, I cannot stop feeling so small and weak. There was nothing I could really do, other than to turn to the Creator of all creations, and to surrender in the truest sense. Only then did I understand the meaning of tawakkal. Life can not always be planned. Unfortunately, we (especially Malaysians) are often so cautious about every step we make, often ensuring that every decision into the future must be backed up with a strong lay-out; a five-year plan or a ten-year plan (talk about visions!). I was one who succumbed to that sort of living. There's nothing wrong with planning, but once it limits your trust in the Almighty, it's a total No! No! No!

Through hardship, I believe that Allah is simply trying to make us better humans. I must also mention that in battling through the wild waves, not all who approached to help managed to do just that. Some had 'good intentions' but were overshadowed with doubts and negative vibes that actually made a very troubled me more confused and restless. With 'good intentions', sometimes people forget the main objective of living and the concept of surrendering to the Almighty. Unkind words were thrown to my face, scribbled in my comment section (in the blog), and whispered behind my backs! Whose life was it anyway?

Some accused me of being the controller - not wanting to bring my late husband back to the land called home. Some persistently offered ways and methods of travelling back home. Some became pessimists who thought of all the horrible things that could possibly happen in a foreign land - differences in mazhabs, availability of Muslim cemetery (duh??), etc. I don't mind people sharing viewpoints and concerns because it always means that there are people who care (?!), but not respecting our decisions was a bit far-fetching, don't you think?

My late husband and I shared a life full of love and respect for one another that we openly discussed and decided our lives based on rational factors that were according to the religion. So, why couldn't people accept that BOTH of us had decided to fight the battle where we were at the present time. He was unfit to travel (whatmore on a flight of 13 hours, when he could hardly bear 3 - 4 hours' car journey to Durham a month earlier) and did not even get the doctor's approval to do so. He did not want to put himself into such agony and distress. The only thing he told me was, once the doctor says I can travel, I want to go to Mecca to repent and perform my ibadah there. And on the issue of death and burial, Don't you ever transport me home - have me buried as soon as possible; let me rest in peace.

In retrospect, the main lessons I have learnt and wish to share here are:

1) To understand the concept of totally surrendering to the Almighty, without any reservations

2) To offer the sincerest help to those who may possibly be in need, without hesitation

For the umpteenth time, I extend my gratitudes to the Almighty for choosing me as the one to be tested upon, and to all who have helped in any possible way - only Allah will be able to return your kindness and good deeds in the hereafter.

This entry is just my reflection - it does not intend to belittle, mock or ridicule anyone (my apologies if it has). My intention is clear: we learn from life and should always attempt to improve it and make it better. I am still in my journey through life and I'm trying to make the best out of it by pausing and reflecting...

My children and bereavement

On Monday, my children had their last session of bereavement counselling in school. I must say that in the UK, a lot of support is available for the public. This is something worth taking note of. Bereavement describes the sense of grief and loss one experiences when someone close dies. Often, when this happens, one goes through a process of mourning which involves a sense of numbness, confusion and sadness. With children, it is sometimes difficult to identify what goes through their minds. I remember as a child, I was not specifically overwhelmed by the notion of death, but to an extent, it did lure me into a degree of self-pity and low self-esteem.

Ergo, when the teacher suggested the idea of counselling for the children, I pounced on the opportunity because I felt that they could do with whatever that was available. Here, thousands of miles away from home, we are alone without much emotional support. My children are rather reserved (hmm... I wonder who they follow after..) and very shy. I prepared them for the sessions and reminded them that they had to express their emotions and let everything out.

Basically, it comprised of 5 sessions, and each conducted on a weekly basis. A counsellor from elsewhere came in to conduct the hour-long sessions, with various forms of exciting and intriguing activities for the children. They were allowed to express themselves, and most of the time, it didn't even specifically have to do with their deceased dad.

In the first session, they were each given a box known as a memory box. They were allowed to decorate the box in whatever way they wanted, and also keep memoirs of their dad in it. I helped them out with it - putting in their dad's spectacles, driving license, postcards (written to them), Swiss knife, perfume, and photos.

During one of the other sessions, they made sand jars where they used chalks to colour salt, which were then put in jars in layers. The activity evoked more memories of their dad as it reminded them of similar jars/bottles we had bought on our trip to Egypt years earlier.

But in the last session, they were each given a balloon filled with helium. They wrote a message each for their dad, later attached to the balloons. Lastly, they released the balloons, letting them go... up into the air. The activity symbolised an act of letting go of all the sad feelings they had of their dad, and to move on with their lives.

When I fetched them from school that evening, Little D was all excited and cried, Mommy, we let the balloons go and it will reach daddy. I drew a picture of him on the balloon!

Princess said it a little differently, I think the balloon has probably flown to another planet. Or maybe to daddy's grave.

I couldn't help being teary-eyed. However, I took the opportunity to try and explain to them, what it actually meant in the Islamic context. Do you really think the balloons have reached daddy? (and I got exclaims of 'No' and headshakes). No, my children, those balloons will not reach your daddy because that is only material. It's like putting flowers on his grave, it won't reach your dad. But what it actually means when you let the balloons go is that you are letting go of the sadness in you. It is time to move on. It is okay to keep all the memories of daddy and always remember him. We remember him by reciting words from the Holy Quran because that is the only gift we are able to give him now.

So far, I think my kids are coping well with the loss of their father. When friends and relative ask, I tell them the truth, the kids are fine, Alhamdulillah. It's their mommy who isn't.

Life is a journey full of lessons. Little D still does not understand the concept of the Almighty inventing humans only to take them back later. Last night he asked me yet again, Mommy, why does Allah make us and then make us die?

Regardless of how many times I have explained this, he is unable to grasp the concept. Perhaps, one day he will, when his mommy can get a better explanation than the one she gives him at present. I tell him that God is the Almighty and He can do whatever He wants. With humans, He creates them and then tests them by sending them to earth. Their level of faith is put to trial and only rewarded in the hereafter. I even tried to make Little D understand by comparing it with his toys; how he gets to decide what happens to his army of soldiers - to bomb them or to become saviours to those wee helpless 'creatures'. Humans are only mere creations or 'counters' on the 'board' called earth.

I have another month of grieving period to go. Then, I too will get myself a balloon and release it into the air.

the day I almost lost everything

One sport I can rely on nowadays is swimming. It is not only a good form of exercise, but it is truly enjoyed by the whole family. What more, unlike tennis or badminton, you don't really need a partner for this sport.

I only learnt to swim properly when I was pregnant with my forth child. Mr D had learnt to swim much earlier. We also sent our twins for classes and finished them off at the advanced level. We were keen to send them for talent classes and coach them for competitions but the classes were too demanding on us - 2 hours on Saturdays and Sundays. It would mean such a commitment and restriction on our weekend activities. Furthermore, Twin H felt a little uneasy going for competitions. So, we have since frequented the pools as much as we could that we're almost labelled the water-lovers. Yeah, there was the snorkelling trip in Phuket and numerous beach trips all along the Malaysian coasts. Not forgetting, we even swam in the cold Mediterranean sea in Alexandria (in March) when no one else dared.

As both my husband and I love travelling, naturally, we have made trips to Taman Negara. The first time we went, Little D (my youngest) was still a toddler. It was a horrible experience going on the Canopy Walk with a toddler like such! Just imagine, ropes tied across trees resembling a tight rope, up high on the canopy. If you're afraid of heights, forget it! If you're not, you might as well be! Not forgetting, the jungle trekking was made rather strenuous with a baby to carry when he was tired. We had our maid along at that time but it would be unfair for her to carry the Little D all the time. So, we shared the responsibility and it was a load one can never forget!

I vowed that our next visit had to be at least 4 years after so that all the kids were big and old enough for such an expedition. However, we went back about a year later. We skipped the Canopy Walk this time. Furthermore, this time we were more familiar with the sites and opted for a swim at the river. The journey trekking down the river was a bit too tiring for Little D that he fell asleep in my arms. Trust him to do such thing! When we reached the site, MrD volunteered to look after Little D while I plunged into the cold water with the kids. The water was cold. My heroes were not too adventurous and stayed close to the bank. I held my Princess and we played in the water. I called to my boys and moved a little bit further. Suddenly, I lost my footing and fell into a deep pit or abyss. That was how it felt like - an abyss! Obviously, I panicked. I was falling in the water and it was dark all around. My Princess was in my hands. I lifted her up for air and tried to tread in the water. All my swimming lessons were gone in a flash. I couldn't swim with a child in my hands and I couldn't let her go. I somehow couldn't seem to tread in the water! All I could think of at that time was to swim and save my daughter. O Allah, I had to make sure she lived. I can't let her die with me, Allah. Let her have some air. I recalled what my husband used to say, "don't panic. When you panic, you lose a lot of energy and that's what drowns a person." There I was, trying to be as calm as possible, but nothing worked. My treading was not keeping us up. I pushed all my might up to the surface and tried to signal a wave. Then, there was darkness. Pitch darkness. Gravity was pulling me down and we had lost our energy.

Suddenly, someone grabbed me and brought me ashore. I held on to the person until I felt the land under my feet. A young Chinese couple nearby had helped us.

I trembled and shivered. I cried and wept. I performed my Sujud Syukur as we got back to our chalet. The experience was very bitter and scary for me. I was almost gone and I don't know how things would turn out today if it were my last day.