She was tiny in her bed
A small brown face peeking out above the blankets
Her bald scabbed head covered by a crudely knitted hat
Eyes rolling in her head,
Coming back to say
“Can you please…”
And the rest lost in her consciousness
So we had to guess
What her last wishes were.

I massaged her legs
Fluid swelling around her knees
Giving way to the slightest touch.
Willing myself to stare at the discomfort her in face
My punishment to bear for not being able to bear it before now,
Now that it was too late.

The skin on her face was pulled too tightly,
Cheekbones still sharp
Lips somehow still full
But all the beauty gone now
Sucked out by the cancer that riddled her bones and
Spotted her brain on x-rays.

When I said goodbye for the night
Lucid for the first time that day,
She managed a smile and called my name
Always generous, she said was praying for me
As if I was the one in need of prayer
As if I was the one on my deathbed
And she said she loved me, slow, slightly slurred
But with every ounce of strength
She loved me.
In her health
And in her sickness.
I told her I’d be back in a few days
She said “Inshallah”

God-willing. 

But he wasn’t.

The sisters took turns washing her body
Purifying her for her white shroud
Anointing her with camphor oil for her pine box coffin.
My mother’s eyes were haunted, exhausted
After readying her baby sister’s body for burial.
Her only words were that everyone should perform
These last rites for a loved one once in their lives
To truly understand the finality of death
And the gift of life.
I will have to do it for her one day. 

The coffin was lowered into the ground
I wish I could say smoothly,
But instead, it was jerks and fits
Until it finally hit the damp frozen earth below.
I followed it with three fistfuls of dirt.
The cleric said to recite certain prayers for each
But instead, I said what I didn’t when she was alive
Hoping she could hear,
Hoping she already knew,
Hoping it brought her comfort. 

Inshallah.

For anyone with a uterus, navigating the medical system and finding professionals who will listen to your concerns without judgment or dismissal is pretty difficult. I’ve heard countless stories from friends on how doctors belittled them, prescribed treatments that didn’t address the issue, or even told them it was psychosomatic only to have very real complications down the line. Bolstering these first person stories, are articles upon articles about all the ways the medical community has failed women, especially when it comes to reproductive health. Women’s bodies are so politicized and policed that even openly discussing your reproductive health amongst friends can be radical.

A few years ago, I had my own disheartening encounter with how the medical community often fails women when I developed a large cyst on my left ovary. It would require surgery and the diagnosis ranged from “random” to endometriosis. No one had any answers for me and the more I pressed, the more conflicting information I received. The surgery itself had complications, taking twice the amount of time originally scheduled, and required an extra incision I wasn’t prepared to see. My surgeon stayed long enough to make sure I woke up and left without debriefing my OR recovery nurse who apologized over and over for not having answers to my questions like why I had stitches across my lower abdomen. Recovery took more than a month – not the “you’ll be in a bikini in a week” fantasy that I was promised.

I preface with this story because it gives you a sense of why it took me almost 2 years to finally take the leap and freeze my eggs. Despite having an ideal financial and work situation – my insurance covered elective egg freezing and I was given plenty of flexibility by my manager – I was still hesitant.  Much of what delayed my decision-making came down to lack of information and resources and the anxiety around possibly not receiving adequate care or counseling again. This is a reality for many women, especially women of color, and as I mentioned before, very well documented.

After my last relationship ended, I knew I had to take my body and reproductive future into my own hands. Still, I felt at a loss on where to start. I had put half-hearted asks to HR on the process and told myself that I would ask coworkers about their experiences but never actually followed through. Until my podcast co-host, Mehak, mentioned having a friend who had her eggs frozen and was much like me: brown, single, and in her 30s. She was willing to share her journey on the pod which helped demystify the process and it turned out to be one of our most popular episodes to date (and the title of this piece is a nod to this episode and the follow-up). I had new resolve to make it happen for myself but after receiving very little helpful information about my benefits coverage, I let that roadblock stall me once again.  It wasn’t until I met a very empathetic and competent medical professional through the podcast that I committed to seeing it through. My ability to go through the egg-freezing process really had more to do with luck and privilege. The luck of having a podcast that allowed me to meet people who provided resources and knowledge about the experience and the privilege of having my insurance cover a PROHIBITIVELY expensive procedure and a flexible workplace.

I had a false start with my journey. Originally, I had planned to kick things off in March of this year but life got in the way and I didn’t want to begin this very intense process anxious and stressed out from other factors so I made the decision to hold off another month. This decision was one of many that made me feel in control and responsible.  

Below is what I learned and share with folks whenever they ask what they should expect or prepare for when considering or embarking on egg freezing. This is an intense process for many so make sure you do your own research and get as much information as you can beforehand and also give yourself grace for the things you don’t know ahead of time.

Time Commitment:

• With a week of estrogen priming, 2 weeks of the actual cycle, and about 2 weeks of recovery, the entire experience was about 5 weeks for me. This can vary person by person but I would allot about a month from start to finish.

• It’s at least two weeks of traveling to the doctor’s office every other day. As someone who’s not a morning person, this was a big adjustment especially since I wasn’t sleeping well during the process. Due to the meds and early mornings, by mid afternoon, I’d usually have a headache and needed a lie-down. If you’re good about getting up in the morning, then you wont have to worry about it but do build in breaks and make sure you’re giving yourself time to rest and recuperate. Your body is being pumped full of hormones and working overtime to mature those eggs so be kind to it.

• You’ll also have to plan around your injections in the evening. I usually scheduled my injections at the tail-end of the window the nurse suggested. The pandemic was settling down around this time so there were more opportunities to hang out with friends which I did to a degree and would adjust my schedule accordingly.

• Try to avoid travel during this time as well – the meds need to be refrigerated so I stayed put for those two weeks even though the day before my procedure fell on Eid. I would have preferred spending time with my family in NJ during the holidays but also knew they probably wouldn’t appreciate my company if I was anxious about my taking my meds or dealing with the side effects.

• This is a HIGHLY time sensitive process. The cycle of injections and monitoring can last anywhere from 8 to up to 16 days (mine was about 14). Your monitoring visits have to happen at certain intervals at certain times, your meds have to be taken within a given timeframe, and you only have about a 36 hour heads up before your procedure. So do not make any firm plans towards the tail end of that timeframe and have someone on call to pick you up after the procedure.

Injections:

I’m generally not squeamish and unafraid of shots or needles. I was, however, anxious about mixing my own medications and ensuring I got the dosage right. I was also irrationally fearful of air bubbles in my syringe. And I certainly wasn’t expecting to take my first set of injections on an IG Live with the clinic I was doing the procedure with but the timing worked out.  But it’s all doable! I’m not a medical professional by any means and I’ve heard from many women that the injections is a real barrier for them but I promise you can do it. My clinic also provided videos to guide you and there are also a ton of YouTube videos that take you step-by-step. To be honest, doing the injections myself made me feel like such a badass. There was such a sense of accomplishment with each passing night and it reaffirmed that I was a competent, fully functioning, and independent woman.

• Keep an ice pack handy during this time. Place it on your injection site while you’re getting your meds mixed so that it’s nice and numb in time for the shots.

• It’s suggested to use the fatty part of your lower abdomen for the shots. I went around my belly button just so I could keep better track of where I was injecting so I didn’t inject the same site over and over. Pick a place on your abdomen for the injection site that you can see and easily hold as you take the shots.

• Get ready for soreness and bruising – it’s totally normal. By the time my procedure came around, I had a halo of red dots around my belly button. This is where the ice pack definitely comes in handy. Avoid tight high-waisted pants during this time to avoid exacerbating any sensitivity.

• Most of the medications are painless when injected except for Menopur. One of the medicines usually prescribed, Menopur burns when injected – make sure to really pinch the injection site and hold onto it for a few seconds after the medicine goes in to help alleviate some of that unpleasant sensation.

Ancillary costs:

• Again, I can’t stress enough how lucky I was that my insurance covered the procedure. However, there were costs I hadn’t anticipated. I was charged a co-pay every time I went in for a monitoring visit, I had to pay out of pocket for one of my trigger shots (only $100 which in the grand scheme of all the expenses is a drop in the bucket), and some costs that weren’t covered after the fact – in total, I’d say I spent around ~$500 out of pocket.  So make sure you have a clear outline of what you’re expected to pay out of pocket and factor in unanticipated costs into your budget.

Support Network:

• Surround yourself with people who do NOT have a vested interest in whether or not you have a baby on a timeline they deem appropriate. Meaning, make sure you have friends who want you to make the best choices for yourself not based on their value judgments but what’s best for your lifestyle. Having a strong support network is how I got through some of the most traumatic moments of my life and this is no exception. Egg freezing should be a no-brainer for anyone who has the means to pursue it. But unfortunately, as I mentioned above, women’s bodies are seen as vessels for culture, honor, social litmus tests, politics, and of course, men’s desires. The people that inhabit those bodies are often the last on the list if not left off entirely. So surround yourself with people who will encourage, support, and celebrate your decision to take control of your body and exercise autonomy.

• I had my brother and sister in my corner and after some cajoling, my mother. I had friends I could FaceTime while I did my injections (some really enjoyed the Fear Factor-ness of it all) and others I could complain and cry to when I felt overwhelmed by the schedule, the symptoms, the anxiety around underperforming. This is an intense, stressful process and your hormones WILL get the best of you. Make sure you have people who are reliable and empathetic.

Results:

• Something that I wish was explained to me upfront and something I drill into the heads of folks who ask me for advice about this is that the numbers can change wildly throughout the process. The number of follicles you see on day 1 of your cycle will change by the time your procedure rolls around. And that number doesn’t necessarily guarantee the number of eggs that are retrieved. Further, the number of eggs retrieved doesn’t mean they’re all mature (meaning they can be fertilized later). An analysis is done after the procedure to see which ones are viable. So don’t get caught up with numbers! I shared my results with only a few family members and friends and mainly to illustrate how drastically the numbers can change.

• Everyone’s body is different and everyone’s body will react differently to the meds. It’s natural to be want the best possible outcome and even be competitive about it. But make sure you’re competing against yourself and not others. Your body really is doing the best it can do in that moment and you’re asking a lot of it as well. Be gentle with yourself.

Recovery:

• The next three days after the procedure required a lot of rest and a decent amount of pain meds. Nothing unbearable – more like moderately bad PMS. But it did take until my next period for me to feel back up to 100% physically and emotionally. It almost felt like a switch went off on the first day of my new cycle.

• Women have reported falling into a deep depression due to the hormone withdrawal after the procedure so please make sure you have folks who are checking in with you especially if you don’t have a therapist or mental health professional you trust. Don’t rush your recovery because it will only take that much longer to get back on track.

There are so many things that happen in our bodies way before the egg ever meets the sperm and it’s important to understand that. It gives you a different kind of appreciation for your body. It can also drudge up a lot of feelings and sentiments.

At the start of the process, I felt separated from body –  it was a machine whose sole function at that time was to produce as much as possible and my only relation to it was to provide the logistics and fuel. It was strange and a little disheartening at first. Suddenly, I became aware of the mechanics behind everything making me tick. But slowly, as I processed all the things that I had learned about my body and the reproductive system, I couldn’t help but marvel at how finely-tuned it was; how much of a goddamn miracle it is that anyone gets pregnant given all of the things that need to go right at the exact right time; how complex, complicated, and intricate our bodies are and the sheer genius of our structure and functionality. Evolution is a crazy thing.

Taking control of your fertility isn’t the only way to own your body – knowing how it works, trusting your instincts, and appreciating it for all that it does for you even when you hate it, gives you control too. There is still so much misinformation, disinformation, and lack of information about women’s bodies that it can only be willful. So regardless of whether you set the intention to freeze your eggs, be willful right back.

I wonder, when I cupped my hands to pray
did it bounce off up into God’s ear?
Or did it get caught in the lines of my palms?
I must have missed the day
the teacher went over believing.

And I wonder what secrets are hidden
in the corners of the mosque?
In the folds of the hijab?
What secrets are revealed
when a prayer mat is unfolded?
In between the verses of the azaan?
What secrets are inside
the prayer beads brought back from Mecca?
The four walls of the Kaaba?

And I wonder, when I cupped my hands to pray
did it bounce off up into God’s ear?
Or did it get caught in the lines of my palms?
Maybe my prayers weren’t loud enough.
Maybe my intentions weren’t pure enough.

And I wonder isn’t this religion enough
That I see Grace in my mother’s aching movements
as she moves about in the predawn light to fast, alone?
The same woman who worked four jobs
one for each of her children
while her husband ruled with an iron fist
that he sometimes used to beat her.
And all she asks is that we say one of His 99 names
once in a while.
But out of the 99, I don’t think “Mother” is one.

And I wonder isn’t this religion enough
That I see Divinity in the golden flecks of my sister’s eyes
The same ones that burned but never shed a tear
The night she was choked, punched, and kicked out of our house?

And I wonder isn’t this religion enough
That I see Heaven in the men my brothers have become?
Beating the odds,
because 70% of broken boys
become abusers themselves.

And I wonder, when I cupped my hands to pray
did it bounce off up into God’s ear?
Or did it get caught in the lines of my palms?
Maybe my tears washed them out.

Search for meaning
in calligraphy written on fragile paper hundreds of years ago
While I find it etched in the scars on my mother’s arm
that my father left behind.

Search for Beneficence
in sujood, touching your forehead to the ground
While I find it in the open arms
of a Muslim woman welcoming
her daughter’s Hindu fiancé home.
Search for Mercy
in the anointed words of the Imam’s khutbah,
While I find it in the light of friends
and on my lover’s lips.

Say I’m not Muslim enough
That I don’t have faith,
That I should find hidayat, the enlightened path
That I need a man to make me whole.

Say there is reward waiting in heaven,
punishment in hell,
and this plane is a test
I’m failing with flying colors.
My short skirts and late nights,
hair flowing behind me,
the curses I use freely
marking every answer wrong.

Say I am twisted
and wicked
and lost.
Kaafir.

And I wonder, when you cupped your hands to pray
did it bounce off up into God’s ear?
Or did it get caught in the lines of your palms
and slide off?

Did you leave it behind on the prayer mat?
Get lost in translation?
What Sunday school lesson did you miss?
What secrets elude you?

And I wonder, when I cupped my hands to pray
did it bounce off up into God’s ear?
Or did it get caught in the lines of my palms?
And dissolve into my skin
travel through my veins
making the colors run a little brighter
the sun a little warmer
water a little sweeter.

And I wonder isn’t this religion enough
putting myself on pieces of paper for you?
Purity in the blank spaces on the page
Every letter carrying the wisdom of hundreds of years,
Salvation in the words I’ve written.

There are secrets here too.

The school district in Norwood Heights, the last stop on the D train heading into The Bronx, wasn’t the most diverse but there was a sense of community and togetherness. My siblings and I were the first Pakistanis to enroll in school there - I felt something of a celebrity as a kindergartener, getting approving little pats on the head from the vice principal as I walked down the hall or a booming “How are doing today?” from the principal, a good-natured attempt to make sure we didn’t feel alienated in a predominantly Irish-Catholic neighborhood.

Our family of 6 lived in a 2-bedroom apartment that never felt cramped or left us wanting. But I was very young and I’m sure my parents knew that the adventures we designed to keep ourselves occupied would start to lose its magic eventually. Shortly before 5th grade, they did what many upwardly mobile immigrants did at the time and moved to New Jersey.

We didn’t end up in the suburbs right away. First we made a two-year pit-stop in northern New Jersey. This little blip feels like fever dream now but I can pinpoint that time to when I started feeling unmoored and displaced, depressed even. The town we moved to had the outward appearance and some of the convenience of the city — the housing was tight and cramped and most things were accessible by foot — but none of its charm. It was like the life had been sucked out of the neighborhood and it didn’t help that our apartment was right next to a cemetery. It also the first place I had experienced racism. That’s not to say it didn’t exist back in Norwood Heights, but I had never had encountered it directly and compounding this was the fact that I was entering my adolescence. I really hated it there. Unlike when we left The Bronx, I was excited when my parents announced we’d be moving again.

Right before 7th grade, my parents found a beautiful Victorian house in a small town with an average school district. I’d have my own room for the first time, a precious space located in the octagonal turret, under what used to be the maid’s quarters in the attic. Much of the original features remained — a 1900s version of an intercom system; a phone box that used to be dumbwaiter; a two-story carriage house in the backyard; and in the basement, a huge unmovable safe with papers left behind by the owner whose body was found in the foyer days after he died — artifacts that would fascinate children for hours. It also had things that are interesting to adults like high ceilings, original hard wood floors and trimming, and a grand staircase. It was impressive and big, especially for a kid who was usually within spitting distance of a sleeping sibling.

Living in cramped apartments with 4 children had, among other things, taken its toll on my parents and they looked at this move as a fresh start. But instead of the space offering cover to their failing marriage, it only served to expose the problems even more. The cavernous rooms echoed their fights, the spacious bedrooms allowed us to retreat and withdraw even more, and every flaw was now bathed in light from the bay windows. I got involved in every extracurricular activity my school offered. By the end of high school, I was not only a member but an officer in basically every club offered. I also did two abysmal years in track. Anything to keep out of our beautiful, miserable house.

I did the same thing in college - the first two years, I commuted but made sure to join every on-campus activity I could. The last two years, I dormed and fully embraced campus life - rolling into class late in sweats, splitting my fat sandwiches in half (one half for a midnight snack, the other for a nutritious breakfast), and taking my friend’s Adderall to power through all-nighters. In my senior year, I fell into a deep depression and tanked my GPA. At first, I attributed it to being away from home but it was really because I was afraid to go back to it. I didn’t have any job prospects and grad school seemed like a pipe dream. I only graduated because I managed to convince the registrar to count my South Asian studies class as part of a core requirement after I hadn’t received a qualifying grade for the one I had taken in my last semester.

Home hadn’t been a safe space for me for so long but I wanted it so badly. Other people’s homes, after-school activities, my dorm, all temporarily filled the void, but as an adult, I yearned for a refuge I could call home. I carried this sense of displacement and disappointment into every living space after I moved out. And then a couple of years ago, my partner and I were looking for an apartment together and were short on time but thankfully, a co-worker came through with a place out in Queens. Something about it felt homey and stable, something that I hadn’t felt since my family left The Bronx over 20 years ago.

As I’ve mentioned in previously, I like my distractions. The cracks that would ultimately break the foundation of my relationship had appeared early on but they started to deepen at the end of last year and the worry of displacement began to grow in the spaces. I tried to stay busy. I had a new job, I started a writing group, I went to my mother’s often, and said yes to every invitation out. 

And then 2020 happened. My apartment was now the only safe space I had with a pandemic raging outside. As an introvert, this wasn’t a huge blow but there was no outlet anymore. No means of physical escape. I am grateful that my ex and I were mature enough to recognize the situation we were in and worked to make decisions responsibly and amicably. At the end of it, there was no question that I’d stay in the apartment.

It was hard at first. I would get so bored in the evenings after logging off of work, had trouble falling asleep, and I didn’t know how to cook for one or when to eat without another person around. So, I set out to create a sanctuary out of what felt, mentally, like a bombed out shelter. I started playing music on a speaker to get myself hyped for the end of the work day. I created a  nighttime ritual that included a mindful meditation before bed to ease my anxiety. I cooked whatever the hell and however much I wanted and whenever I felt like it. I filled up the picture frames that had lain empty for over a year and placed them on shelves I had my ex put up before he left.

With all of this, I’ve realized what home really means to me. It’s no longer this mirage - this elusive thing that only happy people with stable childhoods get to have. It’s also not with other people or even outside of myself. I like to joke that I love this apartment so much it will serve as my tomb, but in truth, I don’t know how long I’ll be here. That doesn’t scare me anymore though. I can make a home wherever I go, because home is wherever I am.

There are a lot of things from the night Sameer died that are seared into my brain.

I remember not feeling well that day and my boss sending me home early. I remember taking NyQuil and crawling into bed well before my usual bedtime. I remember that I had forgotten to silence my phone like I usually did before going to sleep – either fate intervening or a fortuitous coincidence. I remember jolting out of bed and grabbing it with my eyes still closed when it rang past midnight. I remember hearing my mother’s screams behind the state trooper telling me Sameer had been in an accident and that I should come home to be with her. I remember the hesitancy in his voice when I asked what had happened to Sameer. I remember moving through my apartment in shock –  I had to be the one to call my siblings and tell them. I remember my sister was on a trip to Europe to celebrate her husband’s birthday. I remember I imagined her in her darkened Parisian hotel room, picking up the phone on the first ring in her sleep like I had. I remember not being able to get in touch with my older brother for hours because he, like me on most nights, had set his phone on silent. I remember having to call my mother’s eldest sister and her incredulity, her disbelief, the pleading note when she asked “What are you saying, Faiza?’ like I was playing a bad prank and that the nightmare of the last three years of dealing with Sameer’s illness didn’t just end in unimaginable tragedy.  

Trauma etches these minute details with painstaking precision, it carves particulars like scent and sound, chisels the sensation of your emotions in that moment into your body, and then lacquers over them. Rough, hardened barriers. Triggers push you up against these walls and make you relive the past like you never left. Trauma takes up so much space in you that other memories are blurred against the sharp relief of your worst moments.

The thing that stands out the most that night is the second phone call I received. It was another state trooper calling to get more information about Sameer. He asked for his birthdate. A date I always had to take a second to think about. Was it the 30th or the 31st? Did March have a 31st? What’s the rhyme again? He shared a birthday with my great aunt – when was her birthday?

I stuttered, halted. I couldn’t grab on to anything.

The state trooper interrupted me, “You don’t know your brother’s birthday?” The tone was jarring; insensitive and almost suspicious, as if I was trying to hide something.

“No, I do,” I snapped back, a flash of anger giving me clarity: “March 30th, 1992.”

. . .

I don’t have to think about his birthday anymore. It’s on his grave now right before his date of death – another date I won’t forget.

That moment fills me with rage and guilt – rage at that police officer’s lack of empathy and guilt that I had to think about Sameer’s birthday. Eventually though, I knew I would have to forgive myself because I couldn’t have this memory be the thing that I associated most with this date. It’s hard enough to pass this milestone each year without that voice in my head, You don’t know your brother’s birthday?  

. . .

Sameer loved the stars. He loved the Planet Earth series and Carl Sagan and at one point, thought about minoring in Astronomy. He knew his constellations and space missions and trivia about black holes and supernovas. Maybe that’s why when I think about him, he has an otherworldly quality to him. In my dreams, his smile is knowing, his bright hazel eyes twinkle with mischief, he’s there but so far.

For almost two years now, I’ve thought about that question and what I could do to release me from this memory.

. . .

A few weeks ago, I was sitting with my sister on the couch watching a documentary, her 5-week old firstborn sleeping between us.  A date in the early 90s flashed on the screen, my sister turned to me and asked “What year was Sameer born? Was it ’92?” 

The tape that plays in my head every time his birthday is mentioned skipped.  

She didn’t remember exactly either. And she didn’t seem tortured by it. All these years later, I realized, the state trooper’s voice had turned into mine, dripping with guilt and shame and ridicule. What was I punishing myself for?

I nodded yes, “1992.”

I felt a little lighter.

 . . .

I didn’t take off this year like I had in previous years. I told myself I needed the distraction and besides, if I did, I’d be anxious about all the work I was missing. I promised myself I’d log off early and enjoy the sunshine in Sameer’s honor. It wasn’t until my roommate stood in my doorway and asked when I’d be done because she thought we could order some takeout and have a drink to commemorate the day that I realized it was 6pm.   

The sun hung low but it was still bright enough to warm my face when I walked towards the park. I played a song that we used to listen to together. It reminded me of when my first boyfriend and I broke up, Sameer said he was sad because my ex had good taste in music. I remembered his untidy scrawl on the mixed CDs he’d make for us to listen to in the car. I remembered how every time “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World came on, I’d ask him who the artist was – he thought it was a bit but I really couldn’t remember. Even now, I googled it to make sure. I rediscovered all of the music we used to listen to together. I felt him near, listening in, choosing the next song.

. . .

Last week, I went home to visit my mother in New Jersey. I was nervous. Unsure of how she would react. She was happy to see me, of course, and right away, started listing off all of the things I needed to help her with while I was there. I took my jacket off carefully and washed my hands in the bathroom off to the side of the kitchen. Normally, I’d wash them in the kitchen sink but I couldn’t risk it. She had busied herself with something on the stove when I walked back in.

“Ammie, don’t get mad but I have something to show you,” I felt 16 again. I always feel 16 when I come home.

She turned around. “You got a tattoo,” she said without hesitation. Right on the mark. “Show me.”

The Aries constellation, I explained. Because Sameer loved astronomy and that was his sign. My sister’s idea. Ammie pulled the sleeve back on my left arm and held my wrist up to the sunlight streaming in from the kitchen window. She squinted without her glasses.

“It’s beautiful.”

. . .

Trauma had etched something awful into my memories. I etched myself with something beautiful from it. I feel released from that night now – I broke through the hardened walls of those unforgiving moments and found all of the memories that were hidden from view.  Now when I think about his birthday, I remember my mother’s eyes deep with emotion looking at my tattoo.  I remember the music we used to listened to together. But most of all, I remember that he’s among the stars he loved so much.  

I love my first name. It’s not really unique – every Pakistani-American I know has a cousin named Faiza – but I love the meaning of it: successful or victorious woman. I’m fiercely protective of it and reflexively correct people when they mispronounce it (I even corrected Jimmy Fallon on national TV when I got chosen from the audience for game on his first late night show). In my mid-20s, when I faced multiple bouts of unemployment, I felt sheepish when people asked me what my name meant; I was as far from successful as I ever was and one time, deep into a 6-month period of unemployment, a friend laughed derisively when I told him what it meant. We don’t speak anymore. Regardless, my first name felt right to me even if it did weigh heavily at times, vacillating between destiny or a cruel-fated joke, but always a challenge I strived to meet.

My last name is a different story. I’ve always known two things about it: (1) I would never take my husband’s name and (2) if I ever achieved some notoriety, for my writing or otherwise, I’d use a different last name. 

When I started writing and the possibility of getting published felt real, I mused over anglicized versions of my legal last name – shortening it, changing the spelling, carving it up and chewing it until it was an unrecognizable but digestible pulp. I wanted to put distance between me and my father – I didn’t want him associated with any shred of success I managed to clutch in my anxiety ridden claws – but I didn’t want to divorce myself from my family entirely either. But the bastardized versions of my last name rang hollow and fake because they were. There was no strength or sentimentality behind it. I put the thought away after I stopped writing and let my short-lived blog go defunct.

The nagging thought crept back in again last year. My co-host Mehak and I started our podcast back up again. My Plenty co-founders and I decided to go in a different direction, getting me excited about the platform again. I started a writing group with people who wanted to get serious about honing their craft. It all converged and so I started recording, cooking and writing a lot more.

What to call myself? What to call this new me? What to call this fuller me? What to call this more me me?

I thought about my middle name, Sultana. For years, my sister and I thought we shared this middle name because our parents told us we did. My maternal grandfather’s nickname for my sister was Sultana, which means princess. But then my sister found a copy of her birth certificate and learned they had never claimed it on the form. It was just one of those weird-low-stakes-parent-lies that’s more funny than harmful. Still, I made my mother check to confirm they hadn’t forgotten to write it down on mine.

Faiza Sultana. Victorious Princess? Too obvious, too cute, and no real connection to my family.

If the real purpose of changing my last name for my creative work was to not only sever that final tie to my father but make me feel proud to print, what would have the most meaning? What would remind me why I was doing this in the first place?? What would make me proud to call myself? What would remind me why I was doing this in the first place? 

Shireen is my mother’s maiden name. It means sweet or pleasant.

I wasn’t sold on it right away. I took a poll of friends and family and she won out by a vote against Sultana. I deliberated and equivocated. And when I sat down to write this post about my name, I found it. What I appreciated about my first name was that it was aspirational and what’s more aspirational than being victorious but pleasant -  a gracious winner, successful but still sweet – a balance of badassery and femininity.

It also checks off all of the things I wanted; by taking my mother’s maiden name is way to honor her, a big fuck-you to my dad, and allows me to step into this new fuller version of myself.

So, with all that said: Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Faiza Shireen.

I’ve been told I look more and more like my mother every day. There’s a picture on the piano in our dining room – my mother is no more than 20, Farrah Fawcett hair, clear brown eyes, mouth parted in a smile while she looks off in the distance. The look of youth in her eyes hurts my bones.

I’ve written about my father often and often without meaning to. It’s easier to write about him in a lot of ways. Not my mother. Trying to put into words the love and gratitude I have for her seems so pathetic. Even now, I struggle to write this — it feels trite and inadequate.

She was her father’s favorite; he treated her like the son he wanted. At age 13, he left her by herself in London for a week. At 18, he paid for her to come study in America. That’s not the woman I grew up with though. This adventurous, independent, witty woman had her light dimmed by a too early marriage to a charming, handsome, and abusive man.

Still, she finished what her father sent her to America for – she had a career that provided for her four children over 30 years. All the vitality in that photo was channeled into loving us fiercely and doing her best to protect us from the worst of our father. But there were things she couldn’t hide and what broke my heart over and over again through the years was the sound of resignation in her voice after a long day. Her hands small in mine.

She endured and persevered through the turmoil of her husband’s physical and emotional violence. I don’t need to explain the strength and courage it took to leave her 30+year marriage and half of her earnings behind. I don’t need to explain how her iron will saw her through my brother’s illness and then his passing. I don’t need to focus on her identity as a mother or a provider – I don’t need to prove that she excelled in those roles because the fact that our family is stronger after everything we’ve been through is proof enough.

Everything good in my life is because of my mother. Everything good about me is from my mother. She provided stability in utter chaos; a lighthouse in a storm. She built a rock solid home on sinking ground.

It’s hard to look at our parents as anything more than just that. It’s hard to admit that they existed before our birth and are a product of their past lives. We hear stories and see glimpses in photographs and videos but it’s almost impossible to understand our parents as people having once had dreams and hope like we do. But it in the past few years, that I’ve started to see glimmers of the woman in that photograph. She carries herself differently now, her voice doesn’t falter, and her eyes have softened.

I look more and more like her every day because she looks more and more like herself.

I’m not sure when it started, whether it was after Sameer was first hospitalized or after he passed away, but my sister and I developed a habit of picking up phone calls from each other by abruptly asking “What happened?” No greeting, no preamble, just straight to the point, in an effort to steel ourselves from whatever possible awful news the other was about to deliver. Eventually, we stopped waiting for the question and would cut one another off with “Nothing happened, everyone’s fine,” and then slowly, jokingly, “Soooooo, everyone’s dead…” When you’ve experienced a lot of trauma or struggle, if you’re lucky, you develop a good sense of humor.

Every once in a while, we’d drop the custom and go back to having normal phone interactions but then something would happen. Someone got sick, someone passed away, something went wrong and we’d pick it back up again. Every time we were lulled into a sense of complacency, something knocked us back onto our guard. It felt like we were living our lives in between tragedies.

Despite all of that, my siblings and I still turn to each other for comfort or a sanity check or just the feeling of stability. We are tethered to each other by virtue of birth, and while a lot of families would have fallen apart facing the things we have, each challenge seemed to strengthen our ties.

It’s true of my extended family as well. My mother is one of 9 and all of them are pretty close, even the ones that aren’t (yes, it’s ironic but somehow still true). I’ve always said that having a big family is a blessing and a curse. The curse is the multitude of opinions, sensitivities, and petty grievances. The blessing has always been our ability to rise to occasion and set aside differences and our inherited trait for passive aggression, and take care of each other when in need. My extended family is, in part, the reason my siblings and I are functioning adults. The love of our aunts and uncles has always been abundant and powerful.

Somehow, the virus missed our family but 2020 didn’t spare us. Our beloved aunt Aysha lost her battle with cancer. The decline was rapid and shocking; the difference dramatic and heart-breaking. In April, all the way in Dallas, she organized a virtual zoom mehndi (henna ceremony) for my mom’s wedding. By August, the family arranged to bring her to NJ because her condition had worsened so drastically. The siblings didn’t blink an eye to take over her care. Yet there were arguments over her treatment, feelings were hurt, resources exhausted, and I was, for the first time, worried about the affect it would have on the family.

But when the end was near, all of it was put aside in service of the greater good - giving her dignity in death. She died at home with her family surrounding her; her last breaths were prayed over by her loved ones; her sisters gently washed and prepared her for burial; and her grave was lovingly beset with flowers by her adoring nieces and nephews.

My cousin who couldn’t travel due to the pandemic, texted me to ask how the family was doing in the aftermath of it all. I remember looking up to see everyone. Naturally, we had all gathered in the kitchen and the only way I could describe it was that we were all grizzled veterans, sad but functioning. This wasn’t our first brush with death or tragedy, it won’t be the last. But we have learned with each calamity, what really matters: we’re stronger together. The fear I had about this moment turned into genuine awe. There will always be the curse of being a part of a big family but for us, the blessings outweigh it all.

I’m not sure when it started, but recently, something all of us have begun saying to each other, frequently and ardently, is “I love you.” Sometimes, I find myself saying “I love you very much, okay?” like a plea - You must know this, you must remember this. After this year, it couldn’t be more true. After this year, I don’t think we’ll need reminders to continue to say it.