Two weeks ago, we lost a close family member. Not COVID-19, but an affliction that took his breath away. He was our dear daughter-in-law’s beloved father, our son’s father-in-law. It’s sad when death wrenches away a loved one—one moment he was there, the next moment he was gone—but it’s sadder still when one cannot grieve with the family.
My husband is immuno-compromised, a consequence of being a cancer patient. We avoid crowds, enclosed spaces, wear masks, and observe strict social distancing. While we live only a two-hour drive from our son’s home in New Jersey, we have not visited him since March, for the same reason.
Under normal circumstances—it seems like a lifetime ago—in the moments he was pronounced, we would have quickly packed a bag, taken the subway to Penn Station, got on the New Jersey Transit, and made our way to our son’s home. I would have held my daughter-in-law, hugged her, consoled her, and just been there. My husband would have helped our son with the arrangements, made calls, and done whatever is done when there is a death in the family. He would have felt comfort in having his parents with him in those painful hours. I would have sat with the grieving widow—a woman I love and respect—wiping her tears, bringing her tea, letting her rest, or doing whatever it takes to grieve with her. As our grandchildren walked around dazed, not knowing how to cope with the somber mood in the home, I would have taken them out for a walk, talked, or just given them a grandma bear hug. We would have sat together and read the Quran, recited verses over the tasbeeh, and prayed for his soul. Or we would have just talked about him, telling stories.
We did none of that. We chose not to go, and just stayed home, wept, and prayed. Alone.
Our younger son rented a car and was there with his brother in two hours. We stayed home alone. “Please offer our condolences to the family,” I told him. They are a big family, her mom, siblings, their spouses, cousins. “Do explain why we cannot be there.”
I was restless; I felt unmoored; disconnected, isolated. I picked up the Quran and started reciting Surah Yaseen. God forgive me, but my mind kept wandering. She just lost her Dad. Her mom lost her husband of over 45 years. Anxious, I called our son. He was still at the hospital, in his father-in-law’s hospital room, by his bedside, waiting for the staff from the morgue. The rest of the family had just left.
Not a good time to call her. Let her get home and get her bearings.
There must be something we could do! The grandchildren were home. Do they know that Naana has passed away? Should we prepare them before their mother gets home? And what about our 18-year old grandson Omar? Omar is on the autism spectrum. How will he process this? How is he going to react when he sees everyone in a somber mood, crying? There is going to be a lot of comings and goings. He will sense something sad has happened. We decided to call our 16-year old granddaughter. If she didn’t know, we would tell her; if she knew, we would try to comfort her; and then urge her to talk to Omar. Seeing her face on Facetime, we knew that she knew. We talked. I don’t recall what we said, but it helped to talk. Her little sister came on the line and although she too knew, I could tell from her dazed look that she couldn’t grasp the enormity of it. Together, we recited Fatiha, the opening chapter of the Quran, the girls raising their cupped hands in prayer, my husband leading, beseeching Allah to grant him the highest place in heaven.
“Someone should tell Omar—tell him in whatever way you think it best,” I said to her.
“I have spoken to him,” she said.
“Does he understand?”
“I don’t think so.”
Poor dear Omar. And his little sister in the big sister role.
“Do you recall where your parents get their halal food catered from?”
“Baba Grill.”
“We will order dinner,” explaining to her the tradition, that when someone dies, we bring food.
At least we can send food for the family.
We hung up, and then sat there feeling helpless.
I did speak to my daughter-in-law that night. She was subdued and somber. Her mother, she said, was in shock.
“How is Omar?” I asked.
“Sad.”
How much does he comprehend? Does he know what death means? Does he realize that he won’t see Naana again? Or is he sad because he is absorbing the energy?
That evening we received an email about the funeral arrangements. The janaza funeral prayer would be held outdoors in the cemetery. He was laid to rest the next day. Never in our most remote imagination could we have envisioned not being present.
It’s been over two weeks now. His widow is grieving deeply. We are close; and I feel an emptiness in not being physically with her. That disconnect has left me feeling distant, isolated, and guilty. For us, there has been no closure.
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