That’s right.  It’s time for the hole in Abdullah’s heart to be closed off and fixed.  He’ll be 11 months by the time his surgery rolls around, which is September 1st.  He is, alhumdu’lillah, doing really very well considering his condition.  It’s almost like he doesn’t have any problem at all, actually.

But the reality is that he does have a problem.  Not only does he have a large sized hole in his heart, his aorta is prolaptic and leaking.  That’s the real issue, according to the cardiologist.  We could’ve withheld surgery on Abdullah if he had just a hole in his heart, but the leaky valve is worth worrying about (finally, I guess…) So they want to go ahead and fix the valve and hole before it truly affects Abdullah’s health.

So some of you may be wondering, how does it feel to know your son is going to have open heart surgery?  Well, like the title of this post suggests, it is something that no one wants to hear.  I don’t even like saying surgery– I keep telling Abdullah he’s going to have sugary to become sweeter.  Saying surgery, or rather OPEN-HEART surgery is scary… I can see the look of fear on people’s faces when I mention to them.  They kind of… cringe.

And what’s not to cringe about?  Someone, albeit a highly trained paid professional, is going to put a blade to my son’s chest, put his heart on by-pass, cut into it, and then fix him back up again.  As amazing as the surgeon is (alhumdu’lillah) that’s still really scary!

And just because the surgeon is likely to be successful, doesn’t mean he will be successful.  Allah is the One I am depending on to heal my son.  But what if Allah chooses differently for Abdullah?  Insha’Allah he’ll make it through the surgery, but those first few days after are even more critical.  The nurses say to expect two days in the ICU and a couple of days in a separate recovery room.  Will he heal?  Will he have any complications?  Will he be in pain?  Will he be my same smiling little goodu? Will he be right back to his little antics at home, crawling under and over the furniture, keeping me on my toes?  It is something I have to prepare myself for… again, these are all things that no one wants to hear.

On Sunday we worked together to first trim the bushes.  I used a trimmer to make sure all of them were perfectly rounded and flat on the top.  I felt like I was back in ceramics, smoothing out all the bumps on a newly spun pot.  It was nice to fashion it with my own hands.  Anyway, after that finished we had to cut up one of the trees in our yard that was having an identity crisis.

I say this because when we first bought the tree so many years ago all of its branches were growing downward.  It’s a crabapple tree, so its branches droop downward.  I guess that downward growth was forced by man when it was just a little tree, so now that it’s growing up, it’s starting to rebel just a bit.  A few of the branches on the top are growing straight up!  It looks like the tree is vomitting new green leaves.  Unfortunately for it, as healthy as the branches were, we called over Usman uncle and his chain saw to cut the new branches all of.  Sorry tree, but pain is beauty.

Anyway, with all the trees and bushes trimmed up and pretty, I noticed that our yard was still missing something… flowers!  So yesterday when I went with ammi to Randazzo’s, we picked up some flowers and brought them back home.  In the afternoon I went oustide to plant them.

Side track:  our garage is loaded with things my parents are taking to Brazil, and the shelf that holds all the gardening supplies is hidden behind a giant king size mattress that is leaning up against it.

With no gloves and no small spade, I used my bare hands and a giant shovel to bring up the soil, and pat down the dirt after I had placed the flowers in their place.  It was actually a lot of fun to have my hands in the dirt again.  It made me wonder why we need to use gloves in the first place… to protect our dainty hands from getting dirty?  What’s a sink for…

Anyway, I finished planting the flowers, and wanted to make sure the dirt and mulch was well packed down, so I used my feet to stomp the dirt back into place.  Ammi came outside to water the newly planted flowers, so she unravelled the hose.  I was too dirty to go back inside.  So before I did, I asked ammi if I could use the hose water to clean up a bit.

Man, oh, man!  I haven’t felt so refreshed in a long long time.  I forgot how nice and cold hose water is, and how it’s stream of water feels like your dipping your hands into a river.  I washed up my hands and my feet, and then decided to go the extra mile and wash my face… and take a drink!  I haven’t done that since I was in middle school.  Ah, good times.

Anyway, here’s the finished product:

I had ordered my ice cream and sat down when the following occured: (as retold in my old blog)

We were carrying on a normal conversation, plenty of stupid jokes and funny memories.  In the middle of all my laughing, I kept seeing this boy, about 11 years old, gawking at me.  He was staring.  Everytime I looked, his eyes were fixed on me.  It was quite rude.  And I thought to myself, “Where does this kid get his manners from?”  Of course, I looked over at his father, and his old man’s staring at me, too.  Let me tell you, it definitely wasn’t because I’m some sort of stunning beauty.

Nope, here in homogenized milk white Northville, they were staring at me because I looked so different.  After a while, I started smiling at the man and his son, hoping that they’d realize that I saw them giving me dirty looks.  I thought that if I was smiling, they’d realize I was a nice person, and stop looking.  But did it work?  Nope.  My smiles recieved more glares. 

I just don’t get it.  What was so different about me?  I was a 19 yr old girl, out getting some ice cream with an old high school buddy of mine at a local Dairy Queen, in the town where I grew up.  I was laughing and smiling just like any other person.  But at the end of the day, I’m something different?

I always remember that moment, because I felt so aggrevated with that boy and his father.  After living in Northville for so long and feeling completely well adjusted, all it took was one rude little boy and his equally ill mannered dad to make me feel paranoid, and alienated.

Why am I mentioning this event now, after almost 3 years?  Because something happened to me AGAIN, at the SAME Dairy Queen, with the same friend.

Karen and I met up with some old high school friends for dinner today.  And after eating, we again decided to get some ice cream, just like the last time.  We ordered what we wanted, grabbed a table by the window, and got to laughing, talking, joking, etc.  We were all catching up and enjoying our company.  Everything was normal until…

…THUD! THUD! THUD!

Two high school girls who had just left the store thought it’d be hilarious to pound on the window, from the outside, right where my head was and scare me.   They ran off laughing hysterically.

And right after they finished I was back to feeling alienated and different.

I know that I’m probably reading too much into it, and I’m quite possibly over reacting, but I can’t stop thinking about it.  I keep thinking about that son, his father, and now these two girls, and how all it takes is four people at a Dairy Queen  to make me feel paranoid and out of place.

I hate that they have that power over me.  I hate it.  I hate it.  I hate it.