A month ago, my family and I made a significant transition from Karachi, Pakistan, to Toronto. Leaving behind my home of 20 years meant saying farewell to my family, friends, and familiar comforts. Yet, the most heart-wrenching goodbye was to my son’s grave.
My son, Asher, would have turned 7 this year. His arrival was marked by an intense 22-hour labor that concluded with an emergency C-section. Exhausted, I never had the chance to hold him. However, I vividly recall his first cry – the sound that pulled me from unconsciousness. When the doctor urged me to see my beautiful baby boy, I remember the gentle kiss I placed on his forehead before he was taken away for burial. I only got to see him three times during his brief 14 hours of life, and by the final visit, he had already gained his angel wings.
I attempted to see him before he passed, but the delay in getting a wheelchair meant I arrived too late. Throughout the night, I struggled to stay awake. A doctor’s warning about my son’s collapsing lungs echoed in my mind, but the gravity of that moment felt foreign to me. I should have been there for him, holding his tiny hand, offering comfort, instead of remaining in bed.
The next morning, as I prepared to visit the bathroom, I told my family to give me a moment. I needed just a few minutes to gather myself before seeing him. Those precious minutes turned into a lifetime of regret.
Fast forward to today: I have a lively 4-year-old daughter named Lily. She’s a handful, and her pregnancy was anything but easy. Unlike Asher’s smooth gestation, Lily’s was filled with challenges. With her in mind, my husband and I decided to leave Pakistan behind. The environment had become increasingly tumultuous, and we wanted her to experience the joys of childhood in a safer, developed nation, where trips to museums and parks are part of everyday life.
As we prepared for our move, we faced the most challenging farewell. Saying goodbye to our son, and to his grave, was overwhelming. I hadn’t visited his resting place often; in truth, for the first years of Lily’s life, I made excuses, believing she needed to see me stable and composed. Each visit to Asher’s grave felt like a flood of anguish and regret. For my husband, it was a place of solace; for me, it was a reminder of what could have been.
A few days before our departure, we visited Asher’s grave together, tears flowing as we shared our silent goodbyes. Standing there, side by side, brought a unique understanding between us – a profound connection forged through shared grief. We entrusted the care of his resting place to two close friends, with tears still streaming. The tears never truly cease when it comes to the loss of a child.
Now, as the sun shines brightly, Lily is off to school, and I eagerly await her return. Sometimes, during our walks to the library or the subway, my mind wanders to an alternate reality where my son is still with us. In that imagined life, I would hold one hand in each of mine, and everything would be different.
So, while I’ve said goodbye to his grave, I will never say goodbye to him in my heart. No mother can. Whether it’s been hours or years, the love we harbor for our children transcends time. Their impact on our lives creates a permanent imprint that is deeper than the universe itself. For more on navigating the complexities of motherhood after loss, check out this moving piece on Cervical Insemination.
In conclusion, letting go of physical reminders doesn’t mean relinquishing the love we hold. It’s a journey filled with both heartache and hope, where we learn to embrace our new lives while carrying our loved ones forever in our hearts.
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