One Year Ago: The Miracle and the Questions That Remain

One year ago, on this very day, we were in the hospital in New York City, holding on to hope as Sana underwent a liver transplant. It was a day that tested every ounce of faith I had. My dear friends Fatema and Afisa stood by my side, offering quiet strength as we waited through the long, grueling hours of surgery — eight to ten hours that felt like a lifetime. All I did was pray, clinging to every whispered plea to God. And my prayers were answered — or so I thought. The surgery was successful, and Sana was stable. I remember the overwhelming relief when the doctors gave us the news. We saw her briefly in the ICU, her fragile body wrapped in machines and tubes, but she was alive. That night, for the first time in weeks, we went home and slept. I thought the hardest part was behind us. Getting a liver in just one day itself felt like a miracle — a sign that things were meant to get better. But what I didn't fully understand then was that a liver transplant isn't a simple surgery. The challenges that followed were relentless. Sana's heart had weakened, and though the doctors reassured us they could fix it, there were complications at every step. Her gallbladder had to be removed, and she was placed on the highest doses of immunosuppressants to prevent rejection. Idris and I took each challenge in our stride, never questioning, never allowing doubt to creep in. We were determined to fight alongside her. Idris took charge of her medications — nearly 30 pills every day — carefully organizing them, making sure she took each one on time. I watched him care for her with unwavering patience and devotion. Sana never complained. Even with the pain, the endless procedures, and the uncertainty, she fought with a quiet resilience that still leaves me in awe. What I can't understand — what I don't think I ever will — is why God gave her a liver only to take her away. Why give us that glimmer of hope if it was only going to be snatched away? It's a question that haunts me every day. Yet, in the depths of my grief, there is one small comfort — that with the transplant, she came home to us. We had those precious months where we were by her side, caring for her every moment, holding her close. In those months, she was surrounded by love, and I know she felt it. Losing Sana was never something I allowed myself to think about. Even in those final weeks, I believed she would be fine. I believed she would pull through — because how could the world take away someone so full of life, someone who had so much left to give? Now, I find myself unable to think too far ahead. I've stopped planning, stopped imagining happiness in the future. The future feels like a distant, empty space. Instead, I let life unfold one day at a time. If a happy moment comes, I will embrace it when it arrives — but I no longer wait for it or expect it. Sana's absence is a constant ache, but her spirit teaches me to find beauty in small moments. Maybe that's the only way forward — not by chasing joy but by holding on to whatever flickers of light come my way.