32. 𝑾𝒆'𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔, 𝑰 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝑨𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒉

Hassan's Pov

It's been days. Days without my Nur Ayn.

We haven't spent this much time apart since we got married, and it's taking a serious toll on me. The days without her stretch endlessly, and every moment feels like an eternity. The only things keeping me grounded are my faith in Allah and my desperate need to see her wake up. Without these, I don't know how I would manage to hold on.

I miss her so badly. I miss her shy smiles when I compliment her, those little moments that always made my heart swell with love. I miss her poor imitation of my accent, a playful quirk that never fails to bring laughter into our home. I miss her laughter itself, a sound so full of life and joy. I miss the way her nose scrunches up when she's thinking hard about something. I miss her. I miss her so much.

Now she lies on this hospital bed, pale and still. Seeing her like this breaks my heart into pieces. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the slow rise and fall of her chest are my only solace in this turmoil. These sounds are a lifeline, reminding me that she's still here, still fighting, even if it seems like she's so far away.

I've been in this hospital for days, leaving only to pray and shower. My appetite is nonexistent , but I force myself to eat granola bars for energy. I need to stay awake, to be present when she opens her eyes and brings light back into my life. Though she is pale, she still looks so beautiful to me. Our baby is cocooned in her belly, a symbol of our love and the future we planned together.

The doctors have assured me that our baby is alright and wasn't affected by the fall. But Halimah was. They tell me she needs immense rest so the medications can work, so they induced her into a coma to allow her body to recuperate uninterrupted. I don't care what they do, I just want her to come back to me.

Never in a million years would I have thought this was how we would spend her last month of pregnancy. I knew she would be in the hospital soon for the birth of our baby, but never like this. This was supposed to be a time of joy and anticipation, not fear and uncertainty.

I can't erase the image of her almost lifeless body splayed on the wet floor.

It haunts me in my dreams, and I always wake up frightened and desperate for her presence in my life. The nights are the hardest; I toss and turn, tormented by images of her lying still, her eyes closed, unreachable. When I finally do manage to sleep, it's not restful. I dream of her, and in my dreams, she's slipping further away. I wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, the terror of losing her still fresh in my mind.

Now as I sit by her side, holding her hand, I whisper prayers and words of love, hoping she can hear me. I will not leave her. I will be here when she wakes up, ready to welcome her back and start our life anew. The thought of seeing her smile again, hearing her laugh, and watching her hold our baby for the first time is what keeps me going. I cling to that hope with all my heart.

"Nur Ayn, please come back to me," I whisper into the silent room, my voice choked with emotion. The words hang in the air.

What makes me feel even worse is the memory of that day. She was trying to make my favorite dish. The shrimp lay in the frying pan, already cooked, and the packet of pasta was still on the counter when I found her. She was trying to do something special for me, something thoughtful and kind, and look where it got her. The guilt gnaws at me, adding to the overwhelming sense of helplessness. If only I had been there, if only I had come home sooner, maybe things would be different.

These thoughts plague me as I sit by her bedside, holding her hand and praying for her recovery. The weight of what happened and the uncertainty of what's to come press down on me, but I have to stay strong. For her. For our baby. For the life we're supposed to share.

The door to the room opened up and the doctor walked in and I stood up, my heart pounding with fear.

"Doctor, please, tell me, are there any new updates?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. I think I ask him this everyday but I can't help it.

Dr. Ahmed, a kind but serious man, looked at me with a calm, steady gaze. "Hassan, we've been monitoring Halimah closely. Her vitals are stable, but she's still in the induced coma to help her body heal."

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure. "And the baby?"

"The baby's heartbeat is strong," Dr. Ahmed reassured me. "We're doing everything we can to ensure both Halimah and the baby are safe. However, the next few days are critical."

I nodded, gripping the edge of the bed, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. "Will she wake up soon?"

"It's hard to say for certain," he replied gently. "Every case is different. The fall was severe, but she's young and healthy. We're hopeful, but we need to be patient and let her body recover."

I looked at Halimah, her face peaceful despite the tubes and wires. "Is there anything more I can do for her?"

"Being here is the best thing you can do, Hassan. Talk to her. Sometimes patients in comas can hear what's going on around them. Your voice might be a comfort to her."

I nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope. "Thank you, Doctor."

Dr. Ahmed gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaving the room. I sat back down, taking Halimah's hand in mine.

I let out a strained chuckle as I gently pressed down on her hand, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over.

"I miss you so much, baby. I miss you so—" I broke off, my voice catching in my throat as I choked up.

"This is so painful for me. For all of us. We're a wreck. Is this payback for when I was here? If so, you made your point. You won. Please come back to me. You're my other half; I'm incomplete without you. Please."

I picked up her hand and kissed it softly, repeatedly, each kiss a silent plea for her to wake up.

"You're not allowed to leave our bed for the rest of your life, you hear me? You won't do anything again. You're gonna be so annoyed with me when you wake up. Which will be soon, In shaa Allah. Right, baby?" I asked shakily, my voice filled with hope and desperation, but I was met with silence once again.

I bowed my head down in anguish, the weight of the thought that my wife might not wake up gripping me once more. The fear was overwhelming, a suffocating presence that threatened to crush the hope I clung to. I held her hand tighter, my tears falling freely now, each one a testament to my love and despair.

I watched her face for any sign of recognition, any flicker of response. For a long moment, there was nothing. I felt a pang of despair, my eyes burning with unshed tears. Then, just as I was about to lose hope, I felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible squeeze of her hand.

"Halimah?" I whispered, my heart racing. "Did you just squeeze my hand?"

I stared at her face, willing her to move again. Her eyelids fluttered, and a soft sigh escaped her lips. I could hardly believe it. I leaned in closer, my voice urgent. "Halimah, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand again."

There it was—a definite squeeze. My heart leapt with joy and relief. Subhana'Allah.

"Doctor! Nurse!" I shouted, not wanting to let go of her hand even for a second. "She's responding! She squeezed my hand!"

A nurse rushed in, followed closely by Dr. Ahmed. They quickly moved to Halimah's side, checking her vitals and assessing her condition. I stepped back, my eyes never leaving Halimah's face.

Dr. Ahmed looked at me, a smile breaking through his usual serious demeanor. "This is a very good sign, Hassan. She's starting to respond. It means she's fighting her way back to us."

"Keep talking to her," Dr. Ahmed advised. "It seems to be helping."

I nodded, moving back to Halimah's side and taking her hand again.

My focus was entirely on her. Her hand lay in mine, small and warm, a fragile link to the world we shared. I held it gently, afraid to squeeze too hard, as if she might break. The beeping of the monitors and the sterile scent of the hospital faded into the background.

I leaned forward, my elbows resting on the edge of the bed, our hands cradled between them. My thumb traced slow, soothing circles on the back of her hand, a repetitive motion meant to convey my presence, my hope. I watched her face intently, searching for any sign of movement, any flutter of her eyelids or twitch of her lips.

I glanced at her rounded belly, feeling a mix of worry and wonder at the life growing inside her. My other hand occasionally drifting to her stomach, feeling for our baby's kicks, seeking reassurance in its steady movements.

"Daddy is here, little one. Stay strong with mommy okay? I can't wait to finally meet you habibi"

The hours blended together as I sat there, refusing to let go. Her hand was my anchor, grounding me in the hope that she would wake up, that she would come back to us.

~

I was jolted awake by violent shaking.

I must have dozed off, slumped in the uncomfortable chair, my head resting on the edge of Halimah's bed. And the first thing to jolt me awake was the rapid, erratic beeping of the heart monitor. My eyes flew open, and I sat up straight, heart pounding in my chest.

Halimah was shaking, her body convulsing slightly, her hand twitching in mine. Panic surged through me, and I called out, "Doctor! Nurse! Help!"

I held onto her hand, trying to stay calm, but fear gripped me. Her eyelids fluttered, and she let out a low, strained moan. The beeping of the monitor grew louder and faster, echoing the frantic beating of my heart.

I quickly pressed on the call button repeatedly as I continued calling out for help.

Within seconds, the room filled with medical staff. Dr. Ahmed and several nurses rushed to Halimah's side, quickly assessing the situation. They adjusted the IVs and checked the monitors, their movements precise and efficient.

"What's happening to her?" I asked, my voice shaking.

Dr. Ahmed glanced at me, his expression serious but controlled. "Hassan, it looks like she's having a seizure. It can happen in cases like this. We need to stabilize her."

I watched helplessly as they worked, feeling the distance between us grow with every passing second. One of the nurses gently guided me away from the bed and out the room but I couldn't take my eyes off Halimah.

"Please, do something," I pleaded, my voice barely audible over the commotion.

The nurse gave me a reassuring look. "We're doing everything we can. Just stay calm." Stay calm when my whole life is about go dark?

Then she closed the door and I was shut out from the atmosphere. The silence was deafening.

I could barely keep my composure as I stood outside Halimah's room.

The events of the past few minutes have shaken me deeply, and I need a moment to gather myself. I remembered the prayer room down the hall—l need to speak to Allah.

I walked quickly, almost running, my mind racing with worry and fear. My footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, and I barely noticed the other people passing by. All I could think about was Halimah and our baby, and the overwhelming need to seek some form of solace.

I first entered the bathroom beside it and took ablution quickly and walked into the prayer room.

As I pushed the door open and stepped inside, quietness and soft murmuring enveloped me instantly, a stark contrast to the beeping monitors and frantic activity of the hospital ward.

I barely noticed the other people in the room as I stood for prayer and raised my shaking hands to my head and started my prayer.

Allahu Akbar.

I recited my prayer, my body shaking with tremors, each word trembling on my lips. As I reached the final sujood, everything spilled out. In this position of complete submission to my Lord, I found a semblance of solace. The intimacy of the slave to his Master was profound, a connection so deep it transcended the physical realm.

Here, in the closest link between us and Allah, our whispers are said on the ground but heard in the heavens. Where else could I turn but to Allah? Who else could help me if not Him? He is As-Shafi, The Healer.

I sobbed into the ground, letting my tears speak of my pain and desperation. In the silence of that sacred moment, I begged Allah to save the coolness of my eyes, to bring Halimah back to me. The intensity of my plea was all-consuming, a raw outpouring of the anguish and fear that had been building inside me. My tears fell freely, each one a testament to my love for her and my reliance on Allah's mercy.

In the depth of my sujood, I felt a flicker of hope, a reminder of the strength of my faith. I silently begged for His intervention, trusting in His infinite wisdom and compassion. The weight of my grief and longing was immense, but so too was my faith in Allah's power to heal and restore.

Ya Rabb, please.

O Shāfi, you see my pains and know of my situation. Heal my wife and bring my child safely to me.

Minutes felt like hours as I stayed in that position, pouring out my heart and soul to Allah. Eventually, I got up and ended my salah, feeling a heavy but necessary release from the depth of my prayers.

As I finished, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a young boy holding onto the hand of a man. The boy looked up at the man, who I assumed was his father. The father silently nodded, and the little boy wrapped his small arms around me, saying softly, "It will be okay, sir."

I tried to keep my composure, but a tear escaped as I hugged him back. The innocent gesture of comfort from a child, so pure and sincere, touched me deeply.

We pulled away, and I gave him a small, grateful smile. Then I stood up, gave my salams to his guardian, and left the prayer room.

I walked with heavy steps back to Halimah's room, the weight of my emotions pressing down on me. As I approached, I saw Dr. Ahmed closing the door. My heart skipped a beat, and I quickened my pace, anxiety surging through me.

"Dr. Ahmed," I called out, my voice strained. "Is everything alright?"

Dr. Ahmed met me halfway, his face softened. "She's stabilized now, Hassan. Seizures can be a part of the recovery process. We'll keep a close eye on her."

I nodded, feeling a mix of relief and lingering fear. "Thank you, Doctor."

He placed a hand on my shoulder and walked away.

I opened the door and returned to Halimah's side, taking her hand in mine once more. It felt different now, more fragile, but I held on tightly.

"Halimah, I'm still here," I whispered, my voice trembling with emotion. "We're going to get through this. I spoke to Allah"

There is no healing except by His and no removing of harm except by Him. And so in him I put my trust.

~

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