Story 6: The end

Story #6 - The End

I had a 4:30 squash game scheduled with Billal.  I was waiting in the apartment in Hamilton, Ontario that I shared with my wife, Hadeel.  It was February 4th, 2004.
My world was about to collapse into itself.

I received that fated call from my father:   He asked if I’m sitting- never a good indicator- then said simply;  your mother and I;  we’re in Bangkok, Thailand.   You’d better come here soon.

My first reaction was shock!  I cant leave everything?!   I’ve got a squash game;   I’m halfway through articling for a law firm to earn my own credentials to be home a lawyer.

 “What happened?”  I inquired.   Abba said, “your mother was in an accident;   If you want to see her alive, come soon”.

I had a thousand questions…. I must have had a thousand questions.   But I can’t recall anything except my sister Sabrina and I arranged to travel together- arranging a couple of bereavement tickets from Toronto to Bangkok within the span of hours and leaving my new wife to wait while I faced the beginning of insanity.

My mother had completed her long path to suicide and committed her body to ruination.   She was known for her extreme beauty,  her exuberance.  But also known for histrionics and extreme depression and most likely undiagnosed hupolar disorder.   If she had only received help.

 Since that day I heard only silence - she had a breathing tube when I arrived at Bumrungrad Hospital.  I couldn’t do anything else anymore.   It was all over when I arrived.   There seemed no hope, but my father proved to be stalwart as he’s been my entire life.


My mother had first degree burns over 90% of her body.   My father, in an effort to put her flames out, sustained first degree burns on both his hands, trying to extinguish the flames.

When I arrived in Bangkok, my father pulled me aside and said one thing I remember vividly,  “ask your mother ….  Somehow communicate with her….  Know the truth… I did not do this….  She did it to herself.

Over four weeks, I spent at the Bumrungrad hospital intensive care unit.   We became permanent fixtures with all the staff and nursing care.   Over a month,  family came from bangladesh to visit.  Some thought there was some way Ma was going to make it.   My mom’s sister was one who prayed and dared to hope.  Her husband, my Khalu was not as optimistic , more a realist.   My mothers’ brothers both seemed to recede into their own lives and our relationship since then developed into a pot bellied pig, do to speak symbolically.

Rubina, my other sister was just ten years old when I hugged her in the AiCU waittoom.   She asked,  “when is Ma going to get better?”,
I had to reply, “Rubu, Ma is not going to get better” and her heart broke as I held her in a tenuous embrace.

Nothing prepares you for the moment.  I heard the klanging of alarms on March 4th, 2004, as my mother passed from this word into the hereafter, God bless her soul.