The last few days have been so insane. 

I’ve been preparing for this embryo transfer for weeks now…months. Today it finally happened. 

Now the waiting begins.

I wont lie, I cried as it happened. Finally seeing some umeed after years of disappointment. 

The progesterone shots are no joke. They told me I wouldn’t be able to walk. They weren’t lying. 

Tiny little anxious needle phobic me, who used to cry watching anyone else taking shots, now taking a three inch needle in my side everyday… for the next 57 more days.

Yes I’m counting. Ofcourse.

Regardless of the outcome, and I’m trying to prepare myself for any eventuality… I’m very very proud of myself. The discipline and side effects and patience and resilience needed for something like this cannot be underestimated. And I’ve tried to be graceful through it despite the (surprise!) Sasural drama. But then again, what else is new?

InshAllah. To finding conviction and solace in whatever He desires. Ameen.

e

Grief

 The doctor walked in to the acupuncture appointment today, for a change. Her sour faced side-kick followed suit, but atleast it wasn’t just her.

'When's the transfer?'

'Week of Dec 18'

Some other details later, she tells me they'll be putting the needles in my back today.

I feel my heart skip a beat on the inside. At this point my back might be one of the few places I haven't been stabbed with a needle.

You would think the phobia would've dissipated by now. It's gotten worse.

As I turn to lie face down my hands are sweaty. I am starting to shake.

The first needle pierces my skin, along the spin. I yelp. I start to hyperventilate.Breathe, eeda, breathe.

Poke. Poke. Poke. 10 along my spine. One in each wrist. One in each ankle. One by each foot.

They leave a caller in my hand I can press if I'm in pain. I'm in pain. I move half an inch and the needle in my foot pushes against the mattress, going deeper in my foot. 

I'm crying. I started crying when they put the first needle in. I cry the next next ten minutes. Tears falling down to the floor. I'm laying spread eagled on my belly. I cannot move.

.........

Nothing about this is easy. No part. The tests. The medication. The shots. The blood work. The supplements. The hope. The call "you're not pregnant". 7 Iui's. 7! Most women give up after 3. I'm a hopeless optimist.

And now IVF. My first round. 

As a child I used to pray that God not test me with looks (I had been bullied for being scrawny and dark) and with children. I ended up growing up to be somewhat beautiful (or atleast that's what they tell me though I remain somewhat in denial). I assumed God wouldn't test me with the children bit. At least not for long anyways. 

It's been 12 long years. 12 years of longing. 12 years of feeling like a failure. My body which couldn't provide the one main duty it was built to do. Test after test after home remedies, medications, supplements. You have no fibroids. No cysts. No PCOS. No Endometriosis. Never missed a period. Never been late. No blocked tubes. No ovulation issues. Nothing. They can't find a thing.

I remember when I got my results I had cried. Everyone said no problems was a good thing. I said if I knew what it was, I could fix it. How do I fix when nothing is wrong?

I would long for children from the pits of my soul, as early as 12/13 years of age. Someone to love more than myself, more than I loved anyone else. Someone to care for, serve, nurture. I was motherly as a child, younger cousins always drawn to me. I still have plenty who reach out for marriage advice, school advice, career advice, boy advice, parent advice...

But I wanted someone my own. My flesh and blood.

When I was 14 and diagnosed with scoliosis, the first thing I asked the doctor was if it would affect my ability have children. He laughed. My nani stared at me horrified at my lack of sharam. The doctor reassured me that it was a valid question, and no, it wouldn't affect anything at all.

Why me then.

Why is it that I, who fought to get married at 19 (and got married at 23) just so I could have kids young, had to wait 12 years? Why am I the one who has gone to countless baby showers, gender reveals, kids birthday parties, am still the only one sitting alone, still having to tell people, no, I don't have kids. Yes I've been married a long time. Yes we do want children. Yes we have seen the doctor. No we didn't use birth control ( and piss God off which apparently is why you can't have kids) etc etc.

I'm tired. I'm tired of the longing. Of the sense of failure that consumes my being. Of the lack of understanding from anyone around me. Of feeling so so alone. Of not being invited to birthdays or play dates because my worth in society is measured my ability to reproduce. Of.

God, the dawai. The back and forth with insurance. Of paperwork. Of ultrasounds. Of having my privacy invaded repeatedly ( no it doesn't get easier). Of needles. In my arm. In it belly. In my feet. My hairline. My calves. My wrists. Of the side effects. Nausea. Upset stomach. Dizziness. Anger. Water weight gain. Acne. Of the black and blues when S accidentally struck a nerve in my belly injecting me and having blood everywhere. Of the sheer trauma of having to go through it again. Shots EVERY SINGLE DAY for THREE months. Three! I want to scream. 

This isn't fair. But then, what is? Is it fair my sister has epilepsy? Is it fair my brother has ADHD? Is it fair Nani died, getting burnt from a fire in her own home? Is any of this fair? 

We don't get to be judge jury victim. I try to remind myself of having faith in Allah swt. Of the rewards of patience. Of not  complaining. But it's so so hard.

So I talk about it. As much as I can. As much I'm misunderstood. As much as I'm called Besharam and don't have Haya. Why don't we talk about it? Why isn't it acceptable? We talk about the grief that comes with the loss of life, the absence of someone you love, but isn't infertility just that? The absence of someone I have loved before I even knew what it was I was feeling. Of a longing that comes from so deep within my soul, so guttural, so raw, so human, it has no cure. 

So I grieve. The reality I wanted to be mine but isn't. The fact that I'll be 36 when I have my first, when I should've been long done. 

I have waited a lifetime for my life to start.

.................

My siblings are suffering and I don't know how to help them. I feel so guilty at my privilege. I'm living the life they deserve. They had a home in Canada. Friends. Family. A future. Until abbu changed his mind and forcefully (atleast for Dj) took them back. They're trapped in a place they don't recognize. With people they don't understand. Locked up in their bedrooms all day. Depression consuming their being. Refusing to leave the room. Refusing to study, work, meet with anyone, thrive. Ammi calls me crying every day. Every single day for the last, teo/three years? I can't remember the last time I heard her happy. 

And I don't know what to do. Sometimes I just want to drop everything and go home. Talk to them. Convince them. Look at yourself through my eyes. You don't deserve this. Fight for your life. You only have one. 

But they won't listen. I've tried texting. Calling. No reply. They refuse. Even when I was in Pakistan I tried all 30 days to try to coax him out of his room so I could talk to him, and he wouldnt.

So I scream into the void. In my dreams I'm chasing after the. Trying to get to them. Protect them. Pull them out. I stay awake half the night chest beating. When I wake my tshirt is soaked in sweat, my heart is pounding, and I am afraid.

............

When I asked the doctor what I should do to prepare for the egg retrieval and now the embryo transfer, he said only one thing. Don't worry about the supplements. Don't worry about what you eat. Don't worry about the exercise. Just do not get stressed out.

.

.

.

L.O.L

...........

Sigh. To another sleepless.heart.thudding.night.

e

Kya haal hai tumhara, yeh sawal keye baithay ho

Jantay nahee ke tum hi mera yeh haal keye baithay ho

Chiragh bujh ne ko hain, par hans rahay ho

Saray diye khud bhuja ke, kya kamal keye baithay ho

 first - to the one nameless reader of this blog, I have tried to comment unsuccessfully several times on yours but it errors out. I am truly sorry for the loss of your mother. May Allah swt raise her ranks in Jannat ul Firdous and give you and your family the courage to bear this loss, Ameen. I know all pain pales in comparison to the loss of a parent, but I hope you find respite in that one day you will be reunited in the most beautiful of places inshAllah, and have eternity to fill each other in with all the missed events, milestones, and meaningless nothings of your lives.

_______________________________

i thought things were going well. 

S had been sober 3 months. longest ever, in 12 years. that's crazy, isn't it? I had never before known what 90 days of sobriety looked like.

normal. i would catch myself wondering, is this how normal couples live? they go out for dinner with friends and come back unafraid of another drunken disaster? they trust each other. they laugh together. there's no fear of impending doom every 48 hours. they dont hold their breath because they KNOW nothing bad is awaiting them just around the corner? no rummaging through the corners of the house finding bottles, empty or full, no secretly planning to empty and toss them out without being caught.

a whole being of existing, a whole way of being lifted from me like a burden I didnt know I had been carrying.

I went for umra. I cried in sujood. I stood in front of the kaaba and cried. i didn't deserve this happiness, this peace. The pieces falling together. 

We did ivf. i had 8 frozen embryo's, one of which (or hopefully more) would have one day called me mama.

i have waited 12 years to hear a tiny little voice call out that name. a scrawny pink fist reaching for me in the dark.

it's been too long. the waiting has destroyed me. so much time lost. so much life.

______________________________

we came back. it hasn't been a month. he relapsed 24 hours after arrival. again 5 days ago.

the berating has gotten worse. the cursing. this time, it's personal. it's not just me anymore. it's abbu, its all the things abbus says. you are your father's daughter.

i am. all his good and bad. yes i am. i stare him down defiantly. i will not be embarrassed of my lineage. however crazy they are, they are me and i am them.

you are controlling. you belittle me. humiliate me. disrespect me. that's why i don't talk to you anymore.

12 years of waiting later.

12 years of silence and sacrifice and keeping his respect and nights spent wandering the streets to escape the abuse, locking myself up in spare bedrooms to get away from his anger and aggression.

I am the problem? I was the problem all along?

my mind feel like it's slowly broken. my reality seems like a figment of my imagination. i go to a buzurg in Madinah, one I have always respected.

he tells me, when you play with the dark it plays with you. 

I have been played alright.

he tells me, what khaloo did to me was my own fault. i approached him because of an unfulfilled first love (?!?!?!) everything bad that has ever happened to me, was my own fault.

i am in shock. my insides churn. molestation? the addiction? everything that came after?

how was any of this my fault?

and hearing it in front of S has only emboldened him to believe he the victor, the innocent, the pure. I am the problem. 

no one in this world says to him point blank, YOU messed up. no one. no one dares. even our therapist skirts around it. it has made him a monster, because then he feels entirely justified in all his anger and language towards me.

i am so so tired.

there's nothing left in my marriage, for me. it feels like a scam I have been playing for so long just to pretend I am happy. to pretend i have a companion that fulfilled me.

i am tired. i can no longer play this game, anymore.

___________________________

e

 I want to write but i dont know where to begin.

I didnt realize it had been 3 years since I last actively wrote. So much happened. and yet nothing at all.

I guess the most important of all things was S's DUI. It was devastating when it happened, but this is the longest he has been sober now. In the last 6 months he's relapsed 5 or 6 times, as opposed to relapsing 5 times in a week.

I guess you could say I'm counting that as a blessing. 

But things aren't the way they used to be. And I need to be accountable for that. 

I am tired. I have been tired for a very long time for all the shit he put me through. The strip clubs. The 'massages'. Gambling. Lying. The accidents, finding him facedown at a parking lot with a banged up eye. The yelling screaming and the cursing. 

Yesterday, he cursed at me again. I slapped him. There was a lot of screaming that followed, including pushing me into a corner, spitting on my face, throwing things around, cursing in front of abbu. 

I was numb. 

I don't recognize who I've become. 

When the times are great they're really great. He's respectful, kind, helps with everything around the house, shows me love in his own weird way. He doesn't look at me look at me anymore that's true, rarely approaches me or acknowledges my existence, calls me beautiful etc. It is a lonely existence but I make do with it, mostly because sobriety alone has been such a big blessing. 

I was just telling him the other day that we are finally in a good place after so so long. 

Ha. 

Spoke too soon.

There's too much trauma. Too much has happened. I was always afraid of that. Always told him that by the time you are ready for me, I may not be around, or may not be the same anymore.

I am not the same.

I am not the girl who wouldn't dream of hurting a fly. 

I actually slapped a grown man. My husband.

Why?

I didn't want to be cursed at. I didn't want to be pushed or shoved away. I didn't want violence to be the answer and yet I responded with violence. Why?

Because I have seen my mother been slapped, punched, cursed at, screaming, shoving, shouting, all of it. I didn't want any man to think I would be ok with it. 

But you're damned either way aren't you? As a woman?

If I can't stand being cursed, what do I do? Where do I go? Who will marry a 35 year old childless reject?

If I stand up for myself, well. I was being shoved into a corner 2 minutes later and spat on. And cursed more. He would've punched me if I hadn't screamed for his dad to intervene.

What options do you have as a woman to escape mistreatment? injustice? violence?

Why is our bar for men so low?

People see all the fake pretense, the nice clothes and the car and the house and think, what a lovely couple. Such great people.

It's not real.

But he's not having an affair? He hasn't hit you? He hasn't slapped your face? He doesn't stop you from meeting your parents? 

Where do we draw the line? When do I say, even this is not ok?

I don't know where to begin taking stock of my hurt and my pain. And frankly, my anger.

Exhausted.

e

Nani

it had been a beautiful dholki. 

the kind where all my behnon walay armaan poore ho gaye thay. 

I didn't look at cost. I splurged. Fresh flowers, jhoola, photobooth, backdrop. 

Deej and I had gone to saddar the day before and grabbed strands upon strands of paper flowers, fabric, fairy lights, now interwoven in the iron staircase. 

everyone was happy. 

Nani was...etheral. radiant. her hair done, left to hang in loose curls on her back. 

her ears shimmering with the gold amethyst studs mama had given me. 

in a moment of pure joy amidst the dancing, i had held her hands and lifted her up. we held hands and swung them up and down..

finally a moment of happiness for our family. 

we stayed awake late into the night, finally falling asleep at 5 am from sheer exhaustion. 

'farida api, nani ko aag lag gayee' 

words i will never forget. 

i sprang out of bed, raced downstairs. 

oh god. oh god. oh god. 

the strewn clothes on the floor, black, simmering. 

the smell. 

i ran towards her room. she seemed exhausted, but alive. 

ya Allah, she was unharmed, alive, breathing. 

 my brain on autopilot, we got her to the car. to the wheel chair. to aga khan er. then to patel. 

three days of begging Allah swt for rehem. 

saturday, 4:30am. 

mama woke me up. i was sleeping next to nana. 

'farida utho, nani ke paas jana hai' 

my heart knew. it was time. 

i sprang out of bed. barely pulled on my shawl, chappals, and ran out. 

 

in the car, a text. 

 'inna lilahi wa inna ilaihi rajeeyoun' 

'im so sorry' 

 i sat stunned. 

ammi didn't know. did abbu? 

he was tearing through karachi streets at full speed. 

i couldn't scream. i couldn't cry. 

i sat stunned in disbelief. 

 i still can't recall the next few days. i don't want to remember. 

i remember a few things. 

i remember her smile. 

it lit up her face, whatever room she was in, everyone around her, and our hearts. 

 always that innocent mischievious twinkle in her eye. 

her dainty dainty fingers and perfectly shaped nails. 

the scaly palm of her hands, recovering from decades long psoriosis. 

 'nani, dard nahee hota?' 

'aray beti - ab to kuch nahee' 

we shared the same foot size. narrow long feet. 

we loved swapping sandals. 

i had bought her a pair of warm, fuzzy slippers for her, to keep her cosy in the winter. 

i loved her saris. i loved rummaging in her drawers because all her knick-knacks were....her. meticulously arranged. preserved. 

it always astounded me how carefully she held onto things. 

zaya nahee hona chaheye. kuch bhi. 

her long silver brown hair. she had used too much mehendi, we laughed it was bright orange like dadis. shaadi se pehle kala kerlejeye ga nani. 

what do i even say. how do i explain how i felt when i entered the house and saw her, after my flight. the hug. 

how do i put into words that memory of sitting in hideous plastic chairs in sunny medico, while they gathered the items on our list, in cosy comfortable silence. just 2 days before.

how do i put in words how she fought for me. took me to the dentist. the back doctors. physiotherapy. she was always, always, always, watching out for me. medical, emotional...

dua...tahajjud. 

mere sar pe se saya uth geya hai. 

how i put into this feeling of feeling so exposed? 

how do i put into words this feeling.... 

i will never see her again. hold her again. 

hug her again. 

bury my nose in her shoulder. 

recite salam with her after namaz. 

recite naats with her. 

sing nani teri morni ko. 

do groceries, play antakshari, play sequence, 

learn the right quanity of jafel javetri in garam masala, 

learn how to cut a gharara, 

finally write down every relative and their birth dates.. 

this ache in my heart. 

how do i quantify what your loss means to me Nani? 

i was not prepared. 

we were not prepared. 

the lights were still in the staircase when we got back home, ready to tell nana the news. 

the flowers were still taped to the walls. 

the agony with which i took everything down, spread out the chandni on the floor for your final departure from your home. 

 

nani, mein ne to abhi kuch seekha hi nahee tha. abhi to kuch waqt hua hi nahee tha. 

achi nani pyari nani rootha roothi chordh de 

come back

dil abhi bhara nahee. 

-nawasi