Afroze

Afroze's Passing

Afroze fell ill in 2008. While in the hospital, a doctor noticed her enlarged liver, and suggested she should get it checked out. When she did, it was discovered that it was due to amyloidosis, a serious blood disease that is usually fatal. One possible cure is stem cell replacement, a very drastic and dangerous procedure. However, brave as always, she decided to try it, but, unfortunately, it failed to work for her. She gave up teaching and moved to Toronto, living in the same condominium building as we did. When her kidneys failed, she used to dialyze every night. When she could no longer eat solid food, her daily nutrition was given to her in her nightly dialysis.

For as long as she could, she kept up her daily activities, though much restricted. She knew she was going to die soon, and so did things she had obviously enjoyed. One evening she went to a classical music concert, alone. She also took a day trip on the train through the Agawa Canyon. Finally, she could no longer walk, and had to use a wheelchair (in which I used to take her for her doctors' appointments). I used to visit her in her apartment every day, and spend at least a couple of hours with her.

When she went to the hospital for the last time, I used to again visit her every day and spend some time with her, usually in the evenings. On her last day, both Jamila and I visited her in the hospital. On top of her other issues she had caught a viral infection that was endemic in hospitals (among patients with their damaged immune systems), and had been moved to an isolation room in the ward. At around 9 PM the porters came to take her for her daily dialysis. We waited for a couple of hours for her to return. When she came back she was very restless, saying she was very cold. I scrounged all the blankets I could find in the ward and piled them on her. After a while she calmed down, and said we should go home.

As we were leaving, I kissed her on the forehead. She was lying quietly with her eyes closed. I don't know why I did that; I'd never done it before.

It was past midnight by the time we went to bed. The call from the hospital came at around 2:30 in the morning; they asked us to come right away. When I enquired about her, they said her condition had worsened. We quickly dressed and went down to the car in the garage. On the way, in the corridor we met Iftikhar coming to our apartment (later on, when I remarked that she had probably wanted Iftikhar to be informed as well; Omar heard me and said it was probably for our sake. He may well be right).

When we got to the hospital ward, we found that she was gone. We all sat with her for a few hours; she lay peacefully with her eyes partly open. Yawar and Tazeen also joined us. Finally it was morning, and time for us to go. Once again, I kissed her cold forehead in farewell, and we left. I looked back at her from the doorway; she seemed at last at peace. That was the last time I saw her.

After that, it was just her casket. At the 'remembrance gathering' that weekend. And, in the vehicle carrying it to the cremation hall in the Mount Pleasant cemetery, which we and other close family followed. It stopped outside for a short while, to let us mourn her one last time -- and then turned into the gate.

It was my friend, Colonel Anwar Ahmad, who told us about a friend of his who had arranged to be cremated and his ashes scattered in his favourite rose garden. After Afroze's cremation, her ashes were kept by Yawar for a while. Then we took them to Sunnybrook Park, to the area where she and the family used to often picnic in the summer, and Yawar scattered them in the bushes below where we used to sit. (I hope my ashes will also be scattered in the same place).

Her Farewell

She had gone to the hospital for the last time (I think she knew that). She couldn’t eat anything, and was subsisting on liquid nutrients. I used to visit her every day, and sit with her for a few hours. She would always greet me with a big, wide grin. One day she asked me to take her in a wheelchair to a (large but almost empty) rec room for patients. It was on the second floor, and had these large glass windows on one side (extending along its full length, and from floor to ceiling). There were a few patients there with their visitors, scattered about the room.

She asked me to wheel her right up to an empty spot near the window. She sat there for a few minutes, just taking in the sight of the world outside, going about its business. Then she asked me to wheel her back from the window, and turn her wheelchair around so that its back was to the window. We sat there for a few minutes, talking, and then she asked me to take her back to her room.

I realized that she had, deliberately, just taken her last look at the world outside. That was her farewell to it.

Remembering Afroze

I had come across this quotation (by Charles Baxter) in some article I was reading:

"To remember is to triumph over loss and death; to forget is to form a partnership with oblivion.”

It brought to mind my remembrance of Afroze. I seem to remember her every day; at odd times during the day, some particular memory of her arises in my mind. One that comes to mind often is the one above of her farewell to the world. She died a few weeks after this incident.

Another aspect of Afroze's loss is that I also 'lost' my music. Ever since I first heard Western classical music at an early age, I was hooked. The symphonies, principally, of the great 'masters' (Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn) seemed to speak to my soul, and gave me great pleasure. From an early time I had the records, and later, the CDs of this music, and listened to it often. Later on, in Canada, both while working and when I had retired and spent most of my time on my computer in my smallish 'office', I would have this music playing on the radio (there was a station which just played classical music) or on DVDs on my player.

When Afroze went to the hospital, and I would spend all my spare time with her, listening to my music ended. After she died, I never went back to it. I don't think I made a specific decision to this effect, it just happened at some deeper level. Finally, I got rid of my DVD player and radio (though I think I still have quite a few of my CDs and DVDs lying around somewhere).

I suppose it is a way of continuing to mourn her loss!

[ I am grateful (as on so many other occasions) to my friend Ingolf for enabling me to put the above two items back here -- after they were inadvertently 'lost' ].