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.