She was five months twenty three days old that day and she was undergoing a brain surgery. My precious little angel. Zoya. It broke my heart to see her small hand, jumbled with needles and tubes going in and out of her body, strapped to a small plastic board; so that she can't pull out the needles. She was so brave. We held her close to our hearts. The unspoken fear hanging around in the dark hospital room. What if this was the last time we get to hold her? We knew she was in good hands. She was in one of the best hospitals in the area, with the best surgeons and very very caring staff. Still.. she was only five months twenty three days old and she was our little girl.
I took pictures of her. She was holding Tanveer's finger. Eyes as big as saucers. Sucking on her favorite pacifier. Still I see a smile behind the pacifier. "Fight, my little angel" I begged her silently. The nurses come in. It was time to go.
We sat at the waiting room. We cried. Held each other tightly. Nothing else mattered. I couldn't even visualize how Raffae looked. I was only concentrating on Zoya. I was in intense negotiations with God. Take me if you have to, but don't do anything to her. She hasn't even started her life yet. I want to see her crawl, walk, run. I want her to talk gibberish. I want her to try on mommy's shoes, jewelry. Paint on the walls with my lipsticks.
The surgeon came out after almost two hours. Everything went well. She was in recovery and responding well and we could go see her. I walked in and saw her half shaven head with a half-moon cut on it. All I cared for was she was breathing..