It’s been a month since we made the big move to Toronto, leaving behind the bustling city of Karachi, Pakistan, where I spent the last 20 years of my life. I bid farewell to my family, friends, and the familiarity of home. But the hardest goodbye was to my son’s grave.
This year, Azlan would have turned 7. His entrance into the world was anything but easy, arriving after a grueling 22 hours of labor that ended in an emergency C-section. Exhausted beyond belief, I never got to cradle him in my arms, but I can still hear his first cries that jolted me awake after I had passed out. I remember the doctor urging me to see my beautiful baby boy, and I kissed his forehead one last time before they took him away for burial. It was a heart-wrenching moment, and I only got to see him three times in his brief 14 hours of life. By the third visit, he had already received his angel wings.
I desperately tried to reach him before he passed, but the logistics of my emergency C-section meant I was stuck waiting for a wheelchair. By the time it arrived, it was too late. That night, as I drifted in and out of sleep, I heard the doctor say, “His lungs have collapsed; brace yourself for the worst.” I didn’t grasp the weight of those words. I wish I had mustered the strength to visit him in the NICU, to hold his tiny hand and offer him comfort. Instead, I remained in bed, paralyzed by fear.
The next morning, I ventured to the bathroom, but when I returned, I thought just a few minutes of rest would suffice. Unfortunately, those few moments turned into an eternity.
Fast forward to today: I’m now the proud mother of a spirited 4-year-old daughter. She’s a handful, and her pregnancy was quite the challenge—a stark contrast to the smooth nine months I had with Azlan. It was for her sake that we decided to leave Pakistan; the country had become increasingly unstable, and I wanted her to have the opportunity to thrive in a safe environment, with access to museums, zoos, and playgrounds.
As we prepared for our new life in Canada, it came time to say goodbye to our son and his grave—a farewell that was heart-wrenching. In truth, I hadn’t visited often during my daughter’s early years. I justified my absence by telling myself she needed to see me strong and stable. The reality, however, was that every visit to his grave felt like being swept away by a tidal wave of grief and regret. For my husband, visiting Azlan was a source of solace; for me, it was a painful reminder of what could have been.
Just days before our departure, we visited his grave together, tears flowing silently as we shared our regrets and love. Standing there, side by side, I felt an unbreakable bond with my partner, forged in the fires of loss and acceptance. We entrusted the care of his resting place to two of our closest friends, tears still streaming as we left—those tears never really fade when it comes to the grave of your child.
Now, the sun shines brightly outside. My daughter has gone off to school, and I find myself counting the hours until she’s back. As we stroll to the library or hop on the subway, my mind occasionally drifts to a different life, one where Azlan is by my side. Instead of just holding one hand, I could be holding two—imagine how different life might have been!
So, while I said goodbye to his grave, I’ll never say farewell to him in my heart. No mother can ever truly let go of her child, no matter how long they were with us. Whether it’s 0 hours, 14, or a million, our children carve out a place in our hearts that’s more profound than the universe itself.
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Summary
In this heartfelt piece, Jenna shares her emotional journey of saying goodbye to her son Azlan’s grave as she moves to Canada with her daughter. The narrative reflects the complexities of grief and motherhood, emphasizing that while she has left the physical grave behind, her son will always hold a special place in her heart.