September

Seven years ago today, crazy people hijacked my religion. They crashed aeroplanes into the Twin Towers in New York, killing thousands and did damage to the reputation of my religion. I teared when I saw the TV footage that morning.

Seven years ago today, I was 34 weeks pregnant with my second child, whom we've been calling Baby Lisa. I came down with fever and saw a GP. He examined me and my tummy and asked when was the last time I felt the baby kicked. I didn't have an answer for him. He said I should go see my gynae straightaway. I hurried to the gynae clinic alone. I got there and after many tests, the gynae pronounced my baby dead. The baby had no heartbeat.

September 12, we checked in to the hospital. I was induced at 8am and as the day progressed, we were surrounded by family and friends. They didn't know what to say or do. They knew whatever they said or did, would not have made it any better for me. I knew that, too. Baby Lisa was delivered at 8pm. The gynae ordered the nurse to clean the baby and clothed her in the clothes I brought. We carried and looked at her and said our hellos and goodbyes. She had a headful of curls and the pinkest of lips. I was willing to trade my life so she could have hers.

My parents and the husband brought her home and burial plans for the next day were made. I was to stay at the hospital, accompanied by a family member. I cried all night, in between dozing in and out, thanks to the sleeping pill.

September 13, I pleaded with the doctor to let me be at the funeral. The gynae released me with no hesitation. The hospital, too. I hadn't paid the bills when I left. But they had the compassion to let me go, took the risk that I might not come back to pay what we owe them. When I got home, I kissed her one final time. I had to let go. I knew Allah had His reasons for taking her away from us. But it hurt so bad. It still does.

We miss you, Baby Lisa. We know you are now at a better place. And we hope, with God's grace and mercy, we will be reunited. Ameen.