There were times when I used to pray that Allah would take me first.
I would whisper the same desperate du'a over and over: "Ya Rabb, let me go before my mom and grandma”. I couldn't imagine surviving the heartbreak of losing them. I didn't think I was strong enough. I couldn't picture a world where they no longer existed. The thought of a world without their voice, without her presence, felt like a reality too cruel to bear. I convinced myself I was too weak, too fragile, too dependent on their love to exist in a world where they no longer did.
And then, that prayer was answered. But not in the way I had imagined. Not in the way that spares you. In the way that breaks you open. In a way I never wanted it to.
In 2021, I lost my grandmother.
She had just come home from the hospital after weeks of fighting Covid19. The relief of bringing her back through our front door was indescribable. We had prayed so hard for that moment. But when I saw her, my heart cracked. Seeing how fragile she had become broke something deep inside me. Every evening after work, I went straight to her room. I'd lie beside her, talk to her, hold her hand, hug her, wrap my arms around her as gently as I could. I was trying to pour all the love I had into those moments, trying to make up for every moment the hospital walls had kept us apart.
Then came the night that altered my reality forever. We had just finished feeding her, she seemed... okay. Peaceful, even. I walked into the living room, but my heart wouldn't settle. It was restless, pounding against my ribs with a warning I couldn't yet understand. So I went back to check on her, calling her name. She wasn't responding. I rushed to get my aunt, and we called an ambulance.
But deep down, I knew.
I stayed by my grandmother’s side, until the very last second. I watched her take her final breath. A part of my own soul left the room with her that night.
Just a year later, in 2022, the storm hit again. My mother was diagnosed with cancer.
It happened so fast. In the middle of January, we went to the hospital hoping for a treatable answer. By the end of January, we heard the word that shatters every family, cancer. A word that feels like a door slamming shut. She started treatment immediately. We had hope, we had faith, we had each other. But before she could even receive her second round of chemo, she returned to Allah in early March.
Those weeks from January until that devastating day in March are still a blur of hospital rooms and whispered prayers and sleepless nights. But some memories are burned into my soul with unbearable clarity. I was there. I watched the heart monitor. I watched the line go flat. I watched my mother, the woman who gave me life, who held me when I cried, who prayed for me before I even knew how to pray, take her final breath. My mind fiercely refusing to believe what my eyes were seeing. My heart stayed trapped in denial long after the rest of the room had accepted the reality. I kept waiting for her to wake up. I kept waiting for someone to tell me it was a mistake.
Then, in 2024, the nightmare repeated itself. I stood beside another hospital bed. This time, it was my aunt. My mother's sister. Once again, I became the witness to a final breath. Once again, I watched a soul I loved depart this world.
Three people. Three final goodbyes. Three moments that permanently fractured who I used to be.
For so many years, I genuinely believed that to die before the people I loved is a blessing I really want. I thought being spared this unbearable grief was the ultimate mercy. But walking through this fire has taught me a profound truth I never understood before.
If Allah gave me the choice today, if He asked me whether I should have left first, or if things should have happened exactly as they did, I would choose this pain. I would choose to stay behind. Without hesitation. Without a single doubt. Because as much as this pain has shattered me, as much as I have cried until I couldn't breathe, as much as I still reach for my phone to call her and remember she's not there, I would never, ever want my mother to experience the pain of burying her child.
Let me carry this heartbreak. Not her. Let me bear this weight. Let me live with this ache every single day for the rest of my life. I would rather be the one broken into a million pieces than let her feel even a fraction of this grief.
I miss them with a weight that words cannot capture. Not a single day passes where I don't ache to hear their voices just one more time, to hold them, or to tell them how deeply they are loved. But amid the tears, I find a quiet, beautiful comfort that this world was never meant to be forever anyway. This dunya is not our home. It's a bridge, a test, a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of eternity.
I pray that Allah has forgiven them completely, showered them with His endless, boundless mercy, expanded their graves with divine light, and granted them the highest, most beautiful stations in Jannah. And I pray that one day, by Allah’s mercy alone, I will see them again. This life didn't end our story. This life separated us only for a little while. A few decades, at most. A blink in the eyes of eternity.
InshaAllah, Jannah will bring us back together. And on that day, there will be no more goodbyes. No more hospital beds. No more heart monitors. No more final breaths.
Until then, I hold onto the du'a that never leaves my lips,
Ya Allah, forgive them, have mercy on them, and grant them peace. And unite us in Jannah, in the company of the righteous. Aamiin.
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