52 Weeks

Sometimes, time fails to heal certain wounds. A year after Shahdi’s premature death, the wound she left behind in my heart and soul is as fresh as the day she left. How could anyone expect the passage of merely fifty two weeks make any reduction in the magnitude of such pain? I certainly did not expect it, and therefore, I am not surprised to find myself still hurting as the day I found the lifeless body of my darling daughter. It still is hard to believe that Shahdi is dead; gone; disappeared; and out of sight forever. Sometimes, it feels like it was just yesterday when I last saw her and heard her voice.

Even after a year, it still is beyond belief that such a promising life was terminated so unexpectedly. It still is beyond belief that within the span of a few hours between when I saw Shahdi in the morning and when I returned home shortly after 5 o’clock in the afternoon, the heart of my beautiful girl had stopped beating and her mind, her soul, her character, her essence, her intelligence, her kindness, and her hopes and dreams had all vanished, along with her debilitating worries and anxieties. After a year, I still am struggling with how we lost control and allowed such a tragedy to take place, and how we were unable to prevent it.

For twenty years Shahdi was my travel companion on my life journey. The girl who was born on the first day of winter and was almost called “Yalda” (the winter solstice in Persian) for that reason, and whose favorite season was winter. The girl who was called “Shayda Makinejad” on her very first name tag at the hospital, but whose official identity was changed to “Shahdi M. Negahban” before leaving the maternity ward for home on the following day! Shahdi was the embodiment of the perfect child for most of her life: healthy, active, vivacious, intelligent, studious, beautiful, kind, affectionate, obedient, respectful, courageous, outspoken, creative, talented, dependable and responsible. She truly was one of a kind. For twenty years she filled our home with laughter and excitement; how can we get used to her absence in one year?! How can we get used to her absence in a lifetime? I suppose, the answer is: we cannot; we do not. Not a moment goes by for me without the realization of her absence from my life and the emptiness that has replaced her. I simply miss her immensely, with every fiber of my being.

There has not been a day in the past year that my tear glands have not worked hard, some days harder than others, whether in public or in private. The image of the sweet three-year-old Shahdi in a frame on the wall gets a greeting and a kiss from me every morning before I leave for work. The first person I greet every day after returning home from work is Shahdi while she is staring back at me through her many pictures adorning the walls of our family-room. And, the last person I say goodnight to is my beloved Shahdi, wishing her peace and telling her how much I love and miss her. How I miss the good old days when we used to exchange hugs and kisses before going to bed; or when, after work, I would find her sitting cross-legged on the couch with her textbook on her lap, busy with her school homework.

Whoever said time heals most wounds must not have experienced the loss of a beloved child. One year, two years, five years, ten years, or more cannot erase twenty years of shared experiences, memories, and coexistence, or fill the giant gap left in our lives. Time only serves to remind us that others expect us to move on and act as if we have come to terms with our loss and are ready to enjoy the rest of our lives. Time tells us to stop lamenting the past in public and to continue our grief in private without dampening the spirit of others.

And, that is exactly the course of action I have decided to pursue from now on, hoping I can more or less abide by it.