Nine Months Without Sana: The Weight of Time

Nine Months Without Sana: The Weight of Time Nine months. Time passes, but it does not measure the intensity of grief. It does not soften the edges of loss or make memories any less haunting. Nine months ago today, Sana’s liver had failed due to complications from mono. We were clinging to hope—praying for a miracle, for a transplant, for something to change the course of what felt inevitable. She was barely coherent, but there was one night when she kept asking for me. The night nurse called, and I spoke to her, calming her down as best as I could. Even in her weakest moments, she was resilient, the strongest person I have ever known. These memories are etched into me, playing on repeat. How do I carry this for a lifetime, feeling it with every breath? The hospital corridors, the monitors beeping, the grim looks on the doctors' faces—these images are burned into my mind. And yet, despite everything, they still tried to offer hope. I don’t know if I even fully understood what was happening at the time. Maybe my brain was shielding me, allowing me to function, to fight for her. But now, the pieces are fitting together, and the weight of it all is crushing me.