Inspiring...

I was talking with a woman I had recently met. As we were parting she looked at me with warm eyes and said, “I’ve read your blog. I couldn’t stop reading - your story is so inspiring.” Her words went straight to my heart. That is what I want our story to be – inspiring.

Oddly enough, I actually saw my last post a few weeks ago and had made a mental note to blog again. I had been extra vulnerable with that post sharing my pain and my feelings of insecurity; my need to run. Everyone thinks I am so strong and together but there are these moments, thank God they are just moments, where I am overwhelmed with loss; with the pain of Hamid’s death, what he went through, and how hard his death was in the end. It can literally bring me to my knees. It is scary to let others see that side of me, yet at the same time I find it empowering to acknowledge the tragedy of losing my husband so early. My blogging has been a source of healing as I embraced the grief as well as celebrated God’s surprising gifts amidst my pain.

My life is good. I am happy. I am blessed to see Ariyana and Afshin bounding with energy and excitement each day. They know their Baba and we often laugh at stories of him. But they also feel safe and love their new Daddy. There are moments when Afshin clings to Wayne snuggling up against him or vying for his attention in sword fighting where I feel a twinge of pain to know that was supposed to be Hamid. My heart breaks a little but I take a breath and remember the greater things in this life and beyond. I am blessed that my children have such a loving father. We are living here and now, and that is what God wants us to do; to live, to love, to give to others. God and Hamid gave me the gift to keep on living. Our children are living, too, and Hamid’s story lives on in them. I know that one day they will read our story and they will be proud, they will be inspired.

Just run

Just run.
There are moments, just moments when I want to run. Run.

I feel the anxiety growing inside of me, wanting to take over. A voice pleas in desperation, “just run.” I want to grab Ariyana and Afshin and run away to escape from the pain. I just want to be with them, to be safe, to be free of this pain.

As I write this I feel a little guilt. I am happy and I am so blessed in my life – in what I had and in what I have now. But the truth is, this isn’t the life that I had imagined. I miss Hamid and it hurts that he is not here to watch his children grow up. I remember the day it all began. I see him smiling in the ER. Fear suddenly flashes across his face as he tells me that something is terribly wrong. A few hours later I watch the ventilator mechanically raise his chest up and down. I hear myself telling the surgeon, “Yes, you have my permission to do emergency surgery.” Numbly, I hear “stage iv…3-6 months.” I am pregnant. Just run. I need to run.

Yes, every once in while this feeling of running hits me. It is like a fight or flight reaction and to survive I feel that I just need to protect Ariyana and Afshin and go. But I know that no matter how far I go, I cannot escape it. I guess it is normal, a part of grieving but I guess I feel that there is an expectation to be strong, to be happy. I am both. I found love again; I have two amazing children. I have someone who walks beside me on this journey, someone who loves my children, someone who knows what it means to lose a loved one. But even still, there are moments when I need to fall down and acknowledge the pain and then wipe my wounds and choose to stand again.

The curious faith of children

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. “Mommy, what does ‘soul to keep’ mean?” asked Ariyana.

I opened my eyes and looked at her. She is so curious. Just two weeks ago when I was helping her tie her sneakers she asked me, “Mommy, how did Baba die?” I told her that he had cancer and died and went to heaven. She said, “No, I mean, how did he die?” Taking a deep breath and smiling at her I told her about that morning. I told her how we were there in our home and that when Baba was getting ready, she and Afshin came in and kissed him goodbye. I told her that he knew she loved him. Then she went downstairs with Tia Desy and Tia Alma and played in the pool. “No, how did he die?” She asked again persistently. Looking into those blue eyes of hers; those eyes shaped just like Hamid’s, I told her that Baba's heart stopped. I had my hand on Baba’s chest feeling it go up and down. And then he took his last breath like this, and I took a breath. His heart stopped and God took his spirit up to heaven. She hopped off of the wooden chest and we hugged each other tightly, and then she said, “Ok” and ran off to play. Oh the curious faith of children.

The other morning we were snuggling and talking. She told me that my eye looked a little red and that “When you go to heaven you should talk to God about that.” I laughed and told her I would but I thought God wanted me to stay and take care of her and Afshin for a while. She looked at me so matter of factly and said, “Well, when God calls you have to go right then.” She is wise beyond her years. Why do we sometimes resist that? "Yes, my dear, when God calls us we go but I will always be in your heart no matter where I am."

And so the three of us were lying there in bed and she asked me about our souls. That was a hard one. I told her and Afshin about our souls and how they go up to be with God. She sat up quickly and said, “Yeah, I know, I know, your body stays here but your soul goes up to God so that He knows your name? Right? Yes, that way He knows your name."

Tonight I am thankful for my amazing children and for their curious faith. I know Hamid would be so proud of them. May God Bless them.

Remembering

Two years ago Hamid died as I lay nestled beside him dreading the moment, yet somehow anxious for it to come so that Hamid could finally be at peace like he wanted. Two years seems like an eternity.

As a mother now, I sit here remembering him, and I think about how much his mother must have loved him. Forty eight years ago he was born in Tehran, Iran. I wonder if his mother knew how much she would love that little boy that she held in her arms. Did she know as she looked into his big brown eyes with those eyelashes that she would later go out of her way to make him special meals while the others ate the dish she had originally prepared for their dinner, and give in to his requests for a motorcycle? Hamid always told me that he was her favorite. I was not surprised; he had that way about him, yes, he did.

Hamid’s mother and father must have realized that he was strong; that he was a survivor. They sent him along with his younger sister to the United States on their own. I can’t imagine the feelings that must have coursed through their hearts as they waved good-bye. Excitement and relief knowing they were giving their children a chance for a better life in the US, yet fear, anxiety and sadness to know they would not see their children for a long time. As I write this, it reminds me of some of the feelings I felt that morning two years ago.

A lot has happened this past year. I am grateful to have found peace in what God has given me. There are still hard days and precious moments with Ariyana and Afshin where I find my heart breaking as I wish Hamid was here to see them. He would be so proud of them. Both of them have many of his characteristics; that worries me as I think of their teenage years. Oh, he was such a charmer. Their sensitivity and maturity always amazes me. I know they are still understanding his death in their own way and it will continue to evolve as they get older and want to know more. Bless his heart, but even Afshin picks up on moments when I miss Hamid. Father’s day morning when the kids and I had a little time alone while Wayne was running I was thinking of Hamid. I made a comment to Afshin as he strummed Hamid’s guitar that “Your Baba loved to play guitar.” He finished his “song” and came over to me nodding as he said, “You’re sad Baba’s not here, yes? Yes? Don’t worry, I love you.” And then he wrapped his little arms around me. I call Afshin my “angel boy.” He truly is. I think God gave him, a little boy, as a gift to me knowing that we would have a special bond for what we went through together from the moment he was in my womb to the moment he joined us and renewed our hope.

So, today I toast to a great man, to a man who opened his heart to love, to a man who was incredibly brave. I toast our memories of laughter and fun. I toast the gifts he gave me during his life. I toast our children who will carry on his legacy. You are always in our hearts, Hamid.

Open your eyes and open your heart for the miracles are all around you.

We all want that miracle or that sign from God, from a loved one. We pray, we ask; but do we just listen and watch? Do we sometimes look too hard or look for something too big? Maybe we keep ourselves so busy that we miss our chance. Or are miracles found in the simplest of gifts that drift into our day? Either way, I believe, you must keep an open heart and give yourself time to just be, to just experience.

Last Sunday evening I wasn’t feeling well so I took a vitamin C and when I talked to Wayne that night asked him if there was anything else he would recommend for a sore throat. He said drink lots of water and get extra sleep. I told him I was heading to bed with my glass of water. The next morning my alarm went off at 5:15 am. I had been up with Afshin a few times and felt so tired. I remembered what Wayne had said and hit snooze. I slept until 6:30 am. It was during that time, when I listened to my body rather than worrying about all that I needed to do for work that I had a dream…

I came home to mine and Wayne’s house. As I walked into the living room Wayne was there with 4 of his residents. They had just finished some discussions or a lecture. There was a pool table behind Wayne, when I asked where it was from he said he found it in the other room and thought the residents and medical students would enjoy playing it. I smiled and started walking around to check on the students. More and more medical students came into the house. They were having a great time. As I walked into another room, Hamid was standing there. He was wearing his khakis and that orange flannel shirt. He had a goatee and was smiling that smile of his that filled the room. I remember feeling so happy to see him. As I walked toward him, he said, “Heather, I never had this when I was in medical school. It’s great.” I came over to him and hugged him tightly saying, “Hamid, I miss you. But I am really happy.” Hugging me back, he said, “I know, it’s ok,” and was gone.

When I woke up I felt so refreshed – I had needed that sleep. And then suddenly I remembered the dream. Hamid had come to me! I felt a rush of excitement and peace; he had come. He knows; they are watching over us. As I drove to work that morning, I felt re-energized and thanked God for that gift.

It was Thursday morning. I was at work and Desy was putting Afshin down for his nap. She sent me the following text:

Afshin just made me cry. I put him in bed and went to the laundry room and he started saying loudly, “Bye, Baba. Bye, Baba. Are you ok? Do you want my binky?” She said Afshin seemed to settle down and then quietly said, “Bye, Baba. Bye, Baba. You are ok.” And then a few minutes later he drifted to sleep.

It hit me as I drove to Loma Linda. What a beautiful gift. Afshin is just 2 years old and was only 6 months old when Hamid died; yet, here he was clearly talking to Hamid. He knows who is Baba is and somehow they were connecting. I cried hard, grateful for the gift, yet feeling the pain of how unfair it is to Ariyana and Afshin to have lost their dad. That is the hardest part for me – I can’t protect them from this. I can’t stop their questions and their pain as they grow older and understand more. I called my mom – I needed to just be her daughter who was hurting, whose heart had been broken. I cried as soon as she answered and I could her behind the strength in her voice the pain of what it must be like to have to watch your child go through this. She listened and then helped me to focus on the gifts. That it is amazing that Afshin knows his Baba and talked to him. We talked about how blessed we were to have Wayne in our lives. He loves me and the kids with his entire heart and understands loss. He will be the one they know as their Dad. But Wayne will also tell them about their Baba and about their other brother who are out there watching from above. I told mom that I knew I would be calling her many more times having a similar conversation as the Ariyana and Afshin grow older. Yet, in my heart, I don’t think it will be that hard for them. They are going to grow up knowing their Baba and knowing that he loved them.

I felt better after talking to mom though I was surprised out how tired I felt from the shear emotion of it all. I finished my work day and then on the way home I called Christine to tell her about the dream and about Afshin. After I finished the story she was amazed and started talking about how I felt and how amazing it was. I was sitting at the red light on the top of Barton Road looking out at the blue sky as I listened to her. Suddenly, a single red balloon lifted up into the sky in front of me. It must have come from one of the shops in the plaza. I felt a smile stretch across my face as I shook my head in somewhat disbelief. I interrupted Christine to tell her, “You’ll never believe this, but a balloon is floating up to the sky right here!” I think we both kind of laughed and were in awe of the miracles around us. I thought back to that bouquet of balloons that landed in the back yard in front of the picture window. As I started driving and took one last glance at the balloon rising towards the heavens, I thanked God. I know God was trying to speak to me and I was listening.

I watched a woman say good-bye...

I watched a woman say good-bye to her husband. It was quiet as the music played and they walked down the aisle. I wonder if she felt all of our eyes on her? She looked so elegant yet there was a sense of fragility surrounding her as she walked toward the casket and took her seat in the pew with her two children. As the service started I couldn't help but watch her. She was dressed in black, dark sunglasses hid her eyes that had cried many tears; she was stoic yet heartbroken. It all came back so clearly.

I was standing next to Hamid where he lay in the casket at the front of the chapel. I had felt alone. I shouldn't have been alone. He was leaving much too soon. I could imagine me there with white hair, Ariyana and Afshin beside me, giving me strength as they looked at their own loved ones. But to be there alone, knowing that Ariyana and Afshin didn't understand all that had happened...it wasn't supposed to be like that.

My heart ached for her and what she has to go through. No one can really help her; she has to do it herself. She has to find her own way. I remember being there will all of those feelings and questions, and then letting the numbness wash over me, protecting me from that unbearable pain. I remember facing that pain and crying at the realization of life and that I had to go on without him. I hope and pray that she finds strength in her children as I did in Ariyana and Afshin.

There was music and speakers. Someone shared an email from a friend who talked about this as being a time that another woman would wake in the night and reach for her husband only to find an empty space. That moment is an opportunity to call to God. In the midnight hours when she cries filled with pain and fear, it too, is an opportunity to reach out to God. It is so hard to understand why things happen and how we will ever be complete again. Days without your loved one feel like years. There are so many ups and downs on the journey and there is no one way to get through it.

Just the other day I talked to another friend whose huband died one year ago. She said she is doing alright and as she looks back on the year she doesn't know how she made it. I told her it was God. She misses her husband but has found a way to start lving again; to have hope. It reminded me of something I read tonight about how hard life is when we lose someone too soon.

It is life that surrounds me. Life. Life that is meant to be lived, its riches to be extracted. No the Lord's promise is not for those who give up, but for those who forge ahead...

-Leonora Wood

I send a prayer out tonight for those who have lost loved ones much too soon. May they find peace and the gift to love and live again.

A few months ago at church, Desiree took my hand and told me that she wanted to get baptized again and wanted me to join her. I was touched but I wasn't sure. It had been such a hard two years. It stuck in my mind and then a few weeks ago, she brought it up again and taking my hand, she said it was a new year, a new start for us, a new commitment to God. Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought about her words. I learned so much these past two years and I have grown in my faith. Every experience became part of this unshakable belief that God is there watching over us and that He has a plan that is so much bigger than we can understand. So, this is my testimony that I want to share with you as I re-commit my life to God this Sunday.

My parents gave me a strong Christian foundation. As kids, I remember we sat around the kitchen table taking turns reading the Upper Room during breakfast. It gave us a few quiet minutes in the busy rush of school mornings. There was youth group, church camp, and memories of my mom tucking us into bed and saying our prayers. These experiences were a foundation for me as I grew up, went off to college, traveled and experienced life. The strength of my faith ebbed and flowed during the years, but it was always there; a constant glow in my life. But I had no understanding of how important my faith would be one day.

That day was June 15, 2007 when my husband, Hamid, was lying in the hospital on a ventilator, swollen from extensive emergency surgery, and receiving multiple blood transfusions. They told me that it might be cancer and that they had removed 2/3s of his stomach. I had waited 10 years to marry Hamid, and our 2 years of marriage had been wonderful. And there I was, wondering if he was going to live. I was 8 weeks pregnant with Afshin, and Ariyana was just 14 months old.

I turned to God and was blessed with the people He surrounded us with. Hamid did come home, and we had a new perspective on life. We enjoyed every moment, and our relationship grew even stronger as we faced the realization that he was going to die within months. We had many beautiful moments that year, but many heartbreaking ones as well. On December 6, 2007 Hamid had surgery in San Diego to try to alleviate a bowel obstruction. Due to complications he was in the hospital for 3 ½ months. During that time he had several close calls with death but he somehow always pulled through. I think God was giving Hamid time to finish things and come home to Him.

From December through April, I left my children with my parents and stayed by his side. As I look back on that time I don’t know how I survived. It broke my heart to watch mom and dad drive away with the kids as I waved good bye and slowly walked back into the hospital trying to keep up a strong front for Hamid. I was so torn. I was supposed to be home caring for Afshin and watching Ariyana hold her little brother, but I also knew I belonged by Hamid’s side. He needed me there. At times I could feel the Hamid I knew and loved slipping away with the pain, the tubes, and the gray walls of the hospital room. Eating dinner in the cafeteria for nearly 3 months, I saw many families come and go. I envied them. I often cried myself to sleep listening to the buzz of the IVs, the ding of Hamid’s pain pump, and the soft chatter from the nurses station. Somehow, I always found a way to smile the next morning as I walked over to Hamid’s bed, ready to face the day. I think about the poem, Footprints in the Sand by Carolyn Joyce Carty. My mom loved this poem and I even memorized it for school when I was young. I know these words are true…"My precious, precious child. I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering when you saw only one set of footprints...That was when I carried you.” I know that God carried me during that time; I could not have endured that alone.

In April, Hamid came home on hospice. He believed in God and recognized Jesus as a great man. He actually liked to talk about religion and beliefs but he wasn’t a Christian. Hamid came to church with me occasionally and we prayed during meals. After his diagnosis he tried to come to church more, but it was hard as the cancer progressed. I struggled with where he was in his beliefs. Would he go to meet God? One day my friend Mara asked Hamid if she could read the Bible to him as she prayed and anointed him with oil. He let her do it and the experience really touched him. Later I told Hamid about the stories I had read about the tree of life in Heaven. I asked him if he would meet me there. Crying, he promised to meet me there. Hamid died on July 9, 2008. I lay beside him, with my hand on his chest, and felt his heart beat for the last time. My entire being ached for him and for our children who didn’t get the chance to really know what an incredible man he was. But I also knew Hamid had moved on to a much better place, a place where I will meet him one day. I miss Hamid everyday but have been blessed with signs and gifts that reaffirm God’s presence and plan for my life. So, with this baptism I start a new day, and I recommit my life to God and will continue to trust in Him.