Patients -صَبْر

This verse from the Quran has brought me a lot of comfort over the past eight months.

 It is the third of November; the year is coming to an end. It has been a long year, full of happiness and sorrow. Though the sorrow has been the heaviest and hardest I have ever felt. Losing your father is one of the hardest losses you could possibly experience.

I haven’t been blogging much and I never chose a word for 2025. If I were to look back and choose a word it would be “patients” This year has taught me what patients means.

I have seen it in my father’s silence when he was in so much pain and we mistook that for defeat. He never gave up, but he endured all the pain and discomfort cancer and its treatment brings. He never complained. He was always so gentle until his last day. Through all the pain he always managed to smile when I walked into his hospital room, and his face always lit up when my mother walked in.

I have seen the patients in my mother’s smiles as she tries to move on with her life without her life partner someone she has spent the majority of her life with. I have seen the patients in my siblings who each in their own way has been there for everyone while grieving too. My husband has been patient, loving and supportive as I navigate through this grief and try to balance the many responsibilities in my life.  

 I’d like to think I’ve been patient; this year has asked a lot from me. I can’t seem to let go of all the details and I keep going through them in my head over and over again. I know I need to let go of the details, the beginning of the diagnosis started on November 30th, after the first hospitalization, I started running, it felt like I was running for three months and then I came to an abrupt stop and I didn’t know what to do with myself. The world kept turning but my world had stopped.

I have been trying to be strong, to move on, to be ok. But it is harder than you can imagine. Grief can sneak up on you and take you off guard when you least expect it. I’ve been doing my best, to most people I think I seem fine. I try not to show it, I prefer crying in privacy. I have spoken to some close friends, it has been very helpful.

I have started new projects, made new goals, learned a new hobby. I have gone to most, if not all, the races that were held in Riyadh this year, somehow that helped. Tuwaiq trail race is on the 29th and I’ve signed up though I’m not very excited even though it is my favorite race. I’m trying my best to push myself to train. I haven’t been as active as I usually am.

Maybe that’s what patience truly is — not waiting for the pain to fade, but learning to live with it, gently. It’s showing up each day, even when your heart feels heavy. It’s trusting that healing doesn’t mean forgetting, but finding peace in remembering.

I know my father would want me to keep moving forward, to live fully, to smile again. And though some days still feel impossibly hard, I’m learning that patience is also a form of love — love for him, love for my family, and love for the life I am still blessed to live.