I read this and really felt. Must make the right choices.

"Time heals many people say.
It may.
It may help to dull your pain.
But the medicine of time,
taken by itself,
is not sure.
Time is neutral.
What helps is what you do with time."

I saw my mother in a bird.

When it comes to the paranormal, I tend to be a skeptic. But I am not sure of the unknown. I do believe in the energy of the universe and ethereal connection. 

A few days after she died, we were hanging out in the backyard. A bird came and sat at the end of the pool strangely close to all of us. For about 25 minutes she sat there watching us. My brother waded over just a few feet from the bird, the kids were being rowdy and we all approached and she still didn't fly away. About 45 minutes later at my sister's home a bird sat near the pool as my brother-in-law did laps, in a way strange enough that he noticed. This means something to me.

My mother had a connection with birds. She adored and respected them. They gave her a sense of comfort. Birds are lovely things - graceful creatures with colorful voices and a free energy. She was much like a bird actually. We once asked her how she would communicate with us, if possible, after she passed. She said in the form a bird. 

There are many stories I can recall. When she was diagnosed and around her surgeries an eagle started flying in our backyard. One time a tiny bird, half white half black, sat at the window at the sink watching straight at her as she did all the dishes. So many other noteable instances.

A bird will be engraved on her headstone. The bird will be a part of me forever. My mother had a connection with birds and now I have a connection with birds.

'You broke the cage and flew.' Rumi

This is how I'm doing...

I've been thinking a lot. I've been thinking about how I've dealt with everything, how it's changed me and how it's changed my relationship with the world. I've been trying to learn from it all and I'm constantly processing what has happened. I would have thought I'd deal with everything a lot worse than I did actually. I remind myself it is a place of darkness, but not a black hole. I've always been a worrier, prone to feeling anxious and not dealing gracefully with a lack of control. You don't choose grief but you can choose to try your best. This experience has forced me to understand myself better. I've had to accept that I can't plan or worry about things because things will happen as they happen. Sometimes it will break your heart and make you question your reality. Still you go on.  

From the beginning there has been a large part of my existence that has been completely consumed with this. Just because I don't talk about it, or be sad in a manner that's typically expected doesn't mean it isn't there. Every one of my moments during this experience has been through the lens of this illness and of an impending loss. At first I was sad for myself - that I was losing my mother. Then it turned into a pain I had never felt before. One that made me feel so helpless because I couldn't do anything to make it better for someone else. She will not get to see our lives unfold. She won't get to see her grandkids and they will not get to feel her love. My parents won't grow old together. This type of pain makes you feel so alive, but so empty. I couldn't get it out of my head. I started spending as much time as I could with my mother. I called her a lot (but not enough - regrets are heavy during grief). I was petrified at what would happen to her physically and emotionally. I imagined it a lot and educated myself, but still wasn't ready when it happened. And it all happened so fast. I did my best to align myself with her strength and positivity, because that's what she deserved. Her favorite verse was 'Which of your Lord's blessings would you deny?' She would constantly thank Allah, exclaim that life is good and repeat that verse until the very end. I am blown away by this woman's courage and positivity. I often think about how much strength she has always given all of us.

It's hard to describe how all of this can always be on your mind but then there are certain moments that really just dig into you. So many WTF moments. Moments where I would suddenly get hit with this reality and it felt so surreal. My heart would cry and my stomach would sink and I had to pull myself out of it. These moments are heavy and seem to sneak up on you. These moments still exist. These moments make me accept that she is gone... over and over and over.

When she died I watched the life leave her body, and I was so calm. That first week felt so collected. That threw me off a bit. The second week it began to set in more as one by one the house emptied and the quiet crept in. The sadness came in small waves upon big memories but I could push it aside. The third and fourth week (now) is when things really started to get heavy. I've been down. I've been missing her. I've been uninspired and it's been hard to shake. My WTF moments are more often. I realize she is gone, I will never speak to her again or be annoyed with her or excitedly call her and have her enjoy listening to my mundane stories. I see her things unmoved or I have a memory of the most trivial thing. The way she sat on that chair that one time. The tiny things that didn't even seem like memories before. I'll be doing nothing or I'll be doing everything and there she is. My mind somehow manages to race through it all, the regrets and joys from as far back through her death all in a matter of minutes. Some nights I'm scared to sleep because the good dreams eventually turn bad and there's a fear the night brings. 

Somewhere in the middle of all of this I decided to share with the world. I didn't know how it would be received or how it would make me feel, I just knew that I wanted to feel like I was being real. I didn't want to only share the smiles in my life. It ended up feeling right. It made me more confident and opened me up in a new way. I didn't even imagine that my words might help give others ease and support. Hearing that sharing my story has made someone feel like they weren't alone in some sort of sadness, that I helped them to be more honest or I moved them to be closer with or more appreciative of their loved ones, is absolutely amazing.

I will never be the same again. I vow to appreciate more, take risks and to do what I can to have no regrets. I vow to be open-hearted and kind. I want to change the world. I've never before felt so much desire for every moment of my life.

The process of grieving is unique but it is always powerful. Instead of letting it frustrate you, let it strengthen you. It teaches you a lot about yourself. I think it really defines you.

Ami would always sign off 'wuv and peace'. Sometimes she would even leave me voicemails saying only 'wuv you!'. Somehow it wasn't corny - maybe because she so genuinely emanated both those things. These are the types of memories and lessons that I try to keep on my mind. I got the word 'wuv' engraved because it reminds me of her energy, makes me smile and moves me to love more. 

The kids have been a source of light through a time of darkness, especially for my parents.

Aziz brings the joy of seeing a new life discovered with many smiles. In his tiny high-pitched voice he still says 'Hi' with a big grin and waves whenever approaching Nani's room where she spent much of her last weeks.

Zoya amazes us with her compassion and understanding. She is 4 years old but we have been honest with her about the illness and death. While my mother was alive, Zoya would tell her stories and speak to her with a surprising gentleness - even when my mother was unable to speak back. She would help with her shoes and hold her hand. She'd say "Nani you must stay hydrated and take your meds" then report a status back to my father. She always wanted to help. She understands that Nani is no longer physically with us but continues to show her love. She waters the flowers at the grave and asks Nani, buried underneath, how much water is okay. She wears yellow to school because "it is Nani's favorite color". She looks up at the sky and talks to Nani "somewhere in the universe". She paints pictures for Nani. She tells my father it will be okay. I hope her heart continues to grow.

Don't underestimate children - give them the respect and love they deserve and see them thrive.

There are two books I want to share with you. I think both of them have something for everyone, whether you were the intended audience or not.

The first is 'Living When A Loved One Has Died'. A somber topic but relevant to us all, whether we have experienced it or not yet. I liked that it read like a long, casual poem - not the typical "self-help" book. The concepts and approach to loss really resonated with me. And I actually think it advocates processing your emotions in a way that can and should be applied in general. It's a quick read. It'll take you like 30 minutes and you'll remember that we are human, death is real, and we will feel many ways. It's all natural and it's all okay.

Follow that up with a more cheerful read. 'The Crossroads of Should and Must: Find and Follow Your Passion' is inspiring, quick and cute. I loved this one and felt so invigorated since this is the journey I am currently on. This one is also easy and actually fun to read with lots of visuals. I used to talk to my mother a lot about this book's message - how I struggled to find direction and many times did things that worked against myself. She really encouraged me to listen to myself, take risks and go for it. After her diagnosis she shared her own stories and told me that all we have is now.

Don't let yourself be your biggest obstacle.

People always wanna tell you what to do or how to feel. Be confident in your decisions, be good with yourself and make waves. Also, redefine yourself. As many times as you want. I strongly believe this, yet I still have to remind myself.

Losing someone close to you really forces you to face the reality of things. All the platitudes you constantly hear ring intimately true. I wish we, as humans, could find a way to simply be happy and to respect one another. I wish we could truly be okay with our own beliefs as well those of others. Challenging each other to be mindful and to introspect is good. Forcing ourselves on others is bad. Good vs bad - it's very simple.

I've been thinking a lot about who I am and what I stand for. It's time to shake the world.

My mother left this world exactly a week ago. It was completely surreal. It was the day I've been fearing since she was given her diagnosis. That's 18 months of knowing the end was near and what it usually looks like, just not knowing exactly when or how it would actually take her. The uncertainty was difficult. Not having any control was difficult. The day it finally happened was difficult.

True to her nature, she fought hard with positivity and love despite it all. I am in awe of her determination, resilience and fortitude. I spent a lot of time with my mother in her last few months and was with her in the last days. I'm lucky I was able to do that. In the days since, I have realized my regret is not appreciating truly how good-hearted she was while she was here. All the memories keep flooding in. Things I thought I’d never remember. Things that didn’t seem to mean much to me at the time.

I am blown away by some of the messages we have received from people who knew her a little bit and a lot. A common thread in these messages is the gentleness of her soul, the warmth of her being and her ability to make others feel at ease. I wish I had appreciated all of this more, and I hope she knew how much she meant to so many people. She was always so humble. She always did good things silently, wanting nothing in return but the joy of others.

The weeks leading up to her passing were terrible. I will never forget them. I didn't realize I could feel so much and nothing at all. My mind was a whirlwind. Two weeks out she began to decline rapidly. I had just gone back to NY thinking I'd be there for some time but flew back when she began to show end-stage symptoms – it happened to be the last Mother’s Day I would spend with her.

The next day, on Monday May 9, we used her wheelchair for the first time to take her to an oncologist appointment in which it became clear that there was nothing left we could do. That was a tough day. It felt like we finally had to let her go. We didn't anticipate that she would leave us so quickly though.

Uncertainty gives you fear but also hope. This disease takes everyone a little bit differently – I’m not sure what I hoped would happen. It ended up being her last days. In that week she lost her appetite, began to have trouble swallowing, stopped talking and lost all mobility and movement. She had already been incontinent for some time. All of the physical decline was hard to see, but something changed in her that was even more painful to stomach. She is hands down the strongest woman I will ever know, but in those last days I sensed a sadness I had never felt in her before. I can only imagine how lonely and helpless she felt. She knew what was happening. This was the part that really made me hurt. I would have done anything so that she didn’t feel it. Still, she never let on - it was just something I felt. Those warm eyes still sparkled, but started to become worn.

The last week was full of many sad milestones. She had her first caregiver visit to assist with showering and other things. One evening she fell - simply standing stationary she fell. She just couldn’t hold herself up anymore. We began to administer morphine. She was never one to admit pain or take medicine and she tried her best to hide it until the end but she could no longer mask it. The hospital bed arrived. My father visited the mortuary and cemetery, just so that we could be prepared for the next month or so. Planning ahead, he bought 2 spots. We looked into Muslim burials. We did all this thinking we had time.

By Saturday, May 14, it became clear that things were changing quickly. That night we discussed our inability to care for her, despite our best efforts, in a way she needed and in a way that would make her the most comfortable and pain free. All our love wasn't enough anymore. My father and I could no longer carry her out of bed or do many of the other things she needed. We considered moving her to a hospice facility. 

The next morning, on Sunday May 15, a nurse came over to assess my mother. She put the transfer in. She administered a high dose of morphine and some other medicine to ensure the Ambulette ride over would not cause discomfort.

Before they took her away, my sister had a moment alone with her. Nadia asked her if she was ready to go - not ready to go to hospice, but ready to move on from this journey. Laying there, my mother stared at her and nodded yes. Nadia told her we love her, we will miss her and we will take care of Abu. At the part about my father, my mother nodded aggressively and moaned in a way she had not communicated in days. That was the last time she was awake.

She arrived at the hospice and was in a deep sleep for the next 36 hours. I don't think it hit me until about a day had passed that she wasn't going to wake up again. On Monday, May 16, we began to hear respiratory changes. Her breathing became labored and she started making an occasional sound as if clearing her throat. Throughout the day it worsened and the rattle began. The ‘death rattle’ is what they call the gurgling sound a dying person begins to make with each breath. It's liquids like saliva settling in the lungs and the chest. It sounded like she was drowning. Her oxygen was low and her heart rate was rapid. Her body was shutting down and it was killing me. There are a number of things that happen in the last days and hours and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. All we could do was sit by her bed, talk to her and comfort her and ourselves. I'd like to think she could hear us and feel our love.

I believe she passed in as peaceful of a state as possible. My brother and father were sleeping in her hospice room. Omar said he slept around 3am, at which time she seemed in a stable state.  Around 3:45am on May 17, my father noticed my mother not breathing. The nurse pronounced her dead.

When I saw my mother about 20 minutes later she was still warm. Seeing the life drain from your loved one’s body is terrifying. The color had begun to leave her, her lips looked glossy and her extremities were beginning to cool. I held her hand, caressed her cheeks and gave her kisses. This was my first experience with death and the first dead body I’d ever seen. I looked at her and my mind just saw her sleeping. I tricked myself into seeing her chest move up and down with the breaths she wasn’t taking. We sat with her and tried to come to some peace for a few hours before the mortuary came to take her body. We watched them lay her on a stretcher, cover her body and face and take her away.

Later that day, Nadia and I performed the ghusl at the masjid. My mother had once asked me to ensure she had a Muslim burial and that she would like if my sister and I would do the ceremonial washing if we were up to it. It was intense, but I felt like I was able to give back to her in some way. It’s the least I could do for her - she never asked for anything. Her body was ice cold but it was as if she was smiling at me. She looked so at peace with her gentle expression. It still seemed like she was just sleeping. As is the ritual, we wrapped her in 5 layers of white cloth and covered her hair. That was the last time I saw her face and the last time I kissed her. I whispered in her ear many times how much I loved her, how I hope she is happy and that everything will be ok. They covered her face, performed a prayer and took her away until burial.

The next day, Wednesday May 18, was her burial. It was simple and modest, as I imagine she would have wanted. Muslims don’t bury in a casket, but law here requires it so we used a natural wooden casket with a simple flower spray. The Imam spoke, recited some verses and guided us in laying her to rest. We each symbolically threw a bit of dirt on her casket once she was lowered in the ground. I'm still not sure everything has set in. It all feels like an alternate reality.

We have visited her grave every day since. The cemetery we choose is well kept and has a good feeling to it, for being a cemetery. You don’t feel more sad than you need to there.

We are not a family of hysterics – I guess some would call us stoic. Of course we cried, and of course we feel immense pain. There is a void in our lives now. But we choose not to fall into shambles. We must keep full hearts and carry on. How can we not celebrate her beautiful, be it too short, life? She would want us to keep our heads up.

Still, there are moments of turmoil and moments of calm. Sometimes I am within myself and other times I am looking in from outside. It's very strange and I try to wrap my head around it. I don't want to be sad or angry or lost. In many ways I am not, but in some ways I am. I’ve said before that I think that all of this has changed me for the better. I do believe that. I feel an urgency in my spirit. I need to be a better person and to do something great with my life. I am who I am much because of my mother and I hope I can continue to honor her. I want to leave a legacy like she did. I want to affect people in a positive way. The seeds have been planted and my tears are watering them.

I read this the other day and it resonated with me: "A friend once told me that there are moments in life where all meaning seems to be lost, moments that remind us of the chaos that we live in."

I’ve never felt such a multi-faceted and complex pain like this before. What I have shared with you is just a sliver of everything I've felt and everything we've experienced. I've always felt that it's silly to stop yourself from feeling things. The 'bad' emotions are normal. It's just a matter of what we do with them.

In that light, we must grieve and allow ourselves to feel it all. In the end we must remember that death is part of life. Let us take all this fear and pain and use it to grow. 

And we must remember as my mother would often say... wuv and peace.

I’ve spent the majority of the last two months in Phoenix. I arrived in NYC last week thinking I’d be back to normal for a while. When I say this, I realize that all of this is my normal. Coming back to NYC isn’t an escape, it’s just different. She will forever be on my mind. All of this is always on my mind. Every single minute.

I booked a flight yesterday and flew out this morning, because things change quickly. Symptoms appear and they indicate that what you have been preparing yourself for is arriving.

I know I will never be ready, on so many different levels, for what is coming. I accept that. I also accept uncertainty. I hope this acceptance and thoughtfulness will help me maintain clarity and bigger picture perspective throughout.

Constantly cherish your loved ones. Be easy and really understand that one day it could be too late. We all know this.

I share this photo of my mother from a few weeks ago because it moves me. One day she began stopping right in front of this mirror with an urgency, losing herself in her reflection where none of us exist. She always smiles, mumbles something to herself and seems content. There are glimmers of sadness but she seems at peace. She does not falter. I hope I can be that brave.  

It’s felt like an eternity since my last update. I get overwhelmed trying to document it all, but I do want to share with you. I’ll try to be better.

I last outlined two options: chemo or no treatment. Location and growth of tumor limited our options - no radiation or surgery.

As a family we decided, against our instinctual desires, to ultimately honor what we know to be her wishes. No more interventional treatments with negative side effects. With one last ditch effort, though, we started her on a chemo pill about a month ago. It’s not working.

I’ve heard it described as a ‘feeling of giving up’. I can completely understand that, but I don’t feel like we are giving up. We have tried everything and she has fought so hard. Knowing that our one focus is her comfort and happiness is what softens the blow. 

For my whole life, I can remember her saying that what is happening to her now is her only fear. That she never wants to live this way and that we must make the hard decision to let her go. Painful how things have panned out. 

It’s so hard to describe to you how she is. When you ask me “How is your mother doing?”, my mind goes wild trying to explain. There are no words to make you understand. Even my own mind cannot grasp what is transpiring. She looks ok, sometimes acts ok, but is not ok. How does someone go from being what they were, to this.

She tried radiation, chemo twice, a clinical trial, and alternative medicines. Maybe all of that bought her some time, and all of us the chance to show her more love. When the tumor returned in January, it came back fiercer than before as these typically do. The tumor and the seizure changed her. She has required around-the-clock care since. She slips away a little bit every day.

She eats insane amounts of food, but somehow keeps losing weight - 10 pounds in the last 10 days. She has no muscle. The fat is steroid swelling. She sleeps a lot or is lethargic. She now has regular in-home nurse visits. I hope and plead to the stars that she is not in pain. She doesn’t indicate any pain but I can’t be sure. 

Those are the big things. There are more nuanced, intangible changes that are harder to explain and harder to understand. There’s a way a person’s aura changes. You can still sense them somewhere, but they become a shell of who they once were.

I’ve spent a lot of my life being sad or angry or searching for something else. It’s a mystery how I got that way - that’s not how I was raised. But we are fluid and sometimes things happen and we are affected to the core of our being. This experience is that. This experience has put my existence into perspective. 

I’ve always known my mother to be a fearless, independent and selfless individual. We didn’t often vocalize our love, but we loved. Watching the cancer take her and how it’s affected my father has been the most difficult thing in my life. There have been the beginning of many terrible moments. But there have also been beautiful ones.

We have expressed gratitude. We spent even more time together. Conversations, laughs, loves. It never feels like enough but it's something.

There is no space for the bad in my life anymore. I won’t surround myself with negativity, insecurity or the likes. I want love the most. And there is so much to be had and to be given. 

Be soft, be gentle, be kind. It’s what Ami would want.

Sometimes I find her looking at me. When our eyes meet she smiles as if to make me feel better. She remembers all my nicknames and tells me, "Meri Jaan, meri behthi. Humailee tailee, Humi meri.' I can't find words to describe it all. 

I find that writing these things down gives me some sort of clarity. I have started documenting through photos and words all the nice moments and all the terrible moments. My feelings, my thoughts.

There are so many things I am thankful for. I am thankful that I have my siblings to lean on. I am thankful for my wonderful, supportive and loving husband who pushes me to be a better, more compassionate person every day. I am thankful that the company I work for and all my colleagues are so supportive and understanding. My job has allowed me to work remotely and they have shown nothing but concern and love for me and my family. I am just thankful that I can find some good from this situation. 

I truly believe that since my mother's diagnosis, in Sept 2014, that I have become a better person. I am not the best person, but I am better. All I want to do is to love. There is an urgency in my spirit. I want to do something meaningful with my life. I want to help others. There will be highs and there will be lows but we must take responsibility for what we do with those. Yes, we know life is short. Yes, we know the cliches. Fight against the bad human instincts and faults and try your hardest to be happy with who you are. Figure out what really matters. I'm not religious, but I do believe in soul. Do good, be gentle and show compassion. 

The road ahead may be long. It may short. But I know it will be hard. I am ready to do what I can for the people I love.

Remember: We must be brave, have an open mind and keep things in perspective.