Sabr
How my father’s patience carried him through the toughest battle
Two months before my dad left this world, he told me about the greatest loss of his life, the passing of his mother — a woman with kind eyes and a heart so tender it embraced anyone who sought solace. Over his life, my dad became the semblance of that woman, the one person he loved most in this world. Little did I know that we would end up sharing this same fate: carrying on with life in the same way, dealing with our greatest loss by weaving tales of our loved one’s kindness into the fabric of our own existence.
When my dad was diagnosed with chronic myelomonocytic leukemia in the summer of 2021, he took the most devastating news of our lives with grace. His name, Sabir, which is derived from the word sabr, means patience in Arabic. Sabr captured the person he remained even as his body waged a war against his will to live. In the coming months, he would inch closer to the end of his time left here, but that wouldn’t deter him from seeing the beauty of this world and convincing others of it too. Doctors informed him he was destined to lose his battle with cancer, but my dad persevered anyway.
Pain was no stranger to my Baba, who lost his mother at 27 years old and became a second parental figure to his six siblings despite being the third oldest child. Even then, he relied on sabr to guide him along a path he never walked before. The loss of Baba’s mother created a void so profound, he spent the rest of his life trying to fill it, turning strangers into loved ones. His kindness like his mother’s, knew no bounds.
When he started earning money for the first time in his life, he donated half of his salary to those who needed it more. He invited strangers over for meals and treated them like old friends. Baba lent his shoulder for others to cry on and his ear to let people confide their deepest secrets. His presence lit up any room he walked into and his love brought a sense of security most people spend their lives searching for.
But more than that, Baba had a way of finding purpose in hardship. He expressed gratitude even in the darkest of times. His cancer robbed him of his health and happiness, but never of his strength to continue fighting. In his last year, Baba’s battle with leukemia intensified and he lost more than 40 pounds. His arms filled with patches of red, purple and blue and my dad grew frail. Simple tasks like getting himself dressed took more than 20 minutes and drinking a cup of water exhausted him.
Even in those times, my dad would reassure me that things would be okay and that he never felt better. His hospitalizations became more common and he required a blood transfusion almost twice every week. Even then, he told me the pain would subside. He focused on little wins like finishing an entire meal after refusing to eat for two days. His body was no longer his, transforming instead into a testing ground for nurses to stick needles and for doctors to diagnose another condition. Even then, he continued to push through the pain and reminded us that he was thankful for 67 years of good health.
Now, when some of Baba’s closest friends call my mom to give their condolences, they’re shocked to learn my dad had cancer because he refused to tell them about its diagnosis — shielding them from the very pain that destroyed him. So as his children, my siblings and I will try our best to carry his legacy forward and remind his loved ones of how peacefully and fulfilled he left this world.
His greatest goal as a father was to educate his kids and put them on the path to success. Not only did he fulfill this duty, but he exceeded in this role. He witnessed my sister’s journey in becoming a doctor, my brother’s path to becoming an engineer and he nurtured my passion for writing, which led me to pursue a career as a journalist. Baba saw all three of his children get married, an accomplishment that fulfilled his second wish in life.
He loved to travel the world and when he was bedridden for the last year, he forced us to go on vacation and share pictures so he could live vicariously through our trips. He loved listening to and telling stories, so my mom, siblings and I filled his time reflecting on our childhood and laughing about our memories together.
We exchanged our favorite song lyrics, celebrated birthdays, and returned from every hospital visit enjoying ice cream, where my dad remained devoted to only two flavors: strawberry and vanilla. He continued to entertain even the silliest of my questions, like what type of animal he would be if he had the choice. With utmost seriousness, he simply answered: “a giraffe” — a fitting choice considering he was always the tallest person in every room.
When he took his last breath on a Thursday afternoon, he remained surrounded by loved ones who held him, prayed for him and reminded him how loved he was. He was welcomed by rain when his funeral proceedings took place in Canton, Michigan, where my dad wanted to be buried close to his family. He lay with his eyes closed and a smile stretched across his face — convincing us all that he was finally at peace. After his burial, the showers ceased and the sun presided over him, mirroring the way light illuminated every room he walked into.
His absence has left a void so profound that no amount of love, spanning eternity, could ever fill it. But still, his words echo through that emptiness, transcending the limitations of poetry, convincing us that even after our darkest days, there is light. Baba was someone who searched for meaning and purpose in every moment so much so that he left me with the invaluable tools to cope with his loss. Of course, even then, he fulfilled his final duty as a father, imparting me with the wisdom to find meaning in the greatest loss I’ll ever have to bear.
In one of my last conversations with Baba, he deciphered the meaning of a song we both loved to listen to — Tu Jhoom, a spiritual Pakistani song that reflects on the journey of finding contentment and peace in the chaos of life. The lyrics convince you to let go and embrace whatever in life greets you. But a specific verse in the song that Baba translated will always stick with me through the most challenging of times when I wonder why he had to go:
Saari Khushiyan Mil Jaavan Te, Pichhe Ki Reh Jaana. Even if I find all the happiness, What will remain behind?
