learning how to walk again

it’s hard to believe that three years ago I was in an accident that was supposed to change my life. in a way it still did, but not in the way my doctors thought it would.

it’s April 22nd, the last Friday of Ramadan in the year 2022. it’s pouring and I make sure that there are no cars turning as I begin walking down the street. and a woman rams into me with her jeep. I remember everything. I remember a memory playing in my head, the first time I walked. my mom is holding a camera and singing “Papaleeeee papaleeee,” while my dad holds my hand, encouraging me to continue walking. I think i’m two years old at the time, but regardless, this is a memory that should not have resurfaced. I remember hearing the woman get out of her car, she’s sobbing, and i’m upset. upset that she hit me, that she didn’t see me, that I did everything right. this is the part where my brain chooses to avoid what just happened, because it’s too hard to process. I start thinking about the fact that I’m fasting, when will I get to eat Iftar?? when will I get home? who will tell my family?

I laid there long enough to build traffic. I remember cracking too many jokes with the firefighters that I couldn’t see. I remember one of them telling the paramedics that I was fluid and talking, which was a good sign.

it was only when the nurse asked me what day it was that I realized just how screwed I was. I didn’t know what month I was in. the paramedics kept asking me if I wanted to call anyone. and I refused for hours. I was fine, no one needed to be notified. nothing terrible happened. but now i’m in this hospital and i’m not reliable. my brain isn’t giving me the answers I need. I don’t know what month we’re in.

my phone was shattered and I began calling my parents but my fingers were bleeding. and no one was picking up. the trauma bay surgeons kept feeling my legs and I didn’t know. I couldn’t feel their hands. I didn’t know they were touching me. and I didn’t have anyone else to call.

i’m not sure how to describe that moment to anyone. I can’t feel my legs, I don’t know what day it is, and no one is picking up my calls. and the police and doctors are asking me questions that I don’t know the answers to. but no one is with me. no one is holding my hand telling them to leave the room & let me breathe. I think that was the first time I realized just how scary being alone could be.

my parents eventually come. my mom is sobbing, loud. but nothing matters at that point. they put fentanyl in my veins and I can feel the weight of a truck on my back. i’m in and out of consciousness and my dad’s a rock. assessing the damage, wiping my blood off of me. I made the smart decision to land on my hip first instead of my head when she hit me, that’s where all the blood was coming from. and i’m not sure what it’s like for a parent to look at their kid laying in a neck brace covered in blood, asking the doctors what my chances are. what my chances are to walk again. a rough estimate, my dad is asking. and I decide to try to never put them in a room like that with me again.

days pass, and my legs will be okay. Allah had mercy on me. that’s really the only answer I can give. Allah had mercy on me, on my body. and my work in Afghanistan, the sadaqah I gave the Friday before, saved my life. my insides will heal. I just need to gain my mobility back. i’ll be okay. but i’m not sure my family will be.

I don’t remember when I got home from the hospital, but I remember I asked my mom to shut my door. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I had lost 40 lbs in the hospital. I was damn near a ghost with white gauze plastered over my body. I couldn’t walk and I felt pathetic. but my grandpa knocked on my door that night, & came into my room. and I will never forget the way he cried.

my grandpa’s father and younger brother were killed on the same day. he watched his sister, his childhood best friend, die in his arms. and he begged me to care for myself, for my life, if not for me, for him. since then, I promised that I’d try to continue living. for at least longer than him. my funeral is not another one I want him to be alive for.

so i’m at finals the next day. i’m at work 2 weeks after. i’m at physical therapy appointments realizing my back and right leg are fucked. I pass out easily. my mobility is that of a newborn infant who cannot walk. days pass and I get up in the mornings. I make it to the bathroom on my own. I make it to the bus stop on my own. 7 months into physical therapy and I decide it’s time I go to the gym. I lift a 5 lb dumbbell and I’m crying again because I can’t. I cried for weeks in that gym. I cried a lot during recovery. but my grandpa visits often and tells me he knows what depression is like but he knows I’ll get stronger. that i’m a smart woman and that he loves me. and that i’ll never be alone the way I was in the hospital, for as long as he’s alive.

now I refer to the year I spent in recovery as a funk in my life. my friends and I crack jokes about it, and that’s only possible because they didn’t see me at that period of my life. no one that sat in that hospital room with me, has ever laughed about it. my mom still cries at the memory. my dad tells me to never break his heart like that again. and so I bike for hours now, and break a sweat but look cool doing it. I’ve been to Afghanistan twice within the past year distributing aid on foot. I danced at my uncle’s wedding, I danced at my aunt’s wedding. I do so many things because I can. because Allah had mercy on me. because my grandpa was here for me. because someone pushed me to get out of bed in the mornings. my mobility is back, i’m stronger. I gained the weight back. Kalaam Project was born in recovery. I wrote my second book in recovery. and maybe it happened so that I could start Kalaam? maybe it happened so that I could write my second book?

life does get better, you’re given obstacles you dreamed of having before. Allah answers your duas, in due time. sometimes you need to learn how to walk again to do all the other things you’re meant to do. and Allah never leaves your side, even when you question His plans. even when you’re too ashamed to be in His presence. and I’m happy that I’m still here. Alhamdulilah.