Seven Years of Silence

As a result of getting home from university every day at 5 p.m., staying up late became a habit for me. Usually, around 7 to 8 p.m., I was used to cleaning the kitchen and setting it up for the next morning’s meal. At the same time, I ’was also helping my oldest son with his schoolwork. Therefore, I couldn’t spend quality time with my younger children before they slept.

In 2013, there was a terrible night when my youngest son was 18 months old; I remember staying up late in the kitchen. Meanwhile, I began to iron some clothes, including uniforms and office wares. However, I kept a close eye on my son while he was playing and running around the house. Things looked like they were so that day.

It was the middle of the night, and my husband and two other children were deep asleep when a scream that sounded like an explosion ripped through the house. There needed to be more context for me regarding what had happened and where it had occurred. I was too exhausted to find out what had caused the child’s screams that I had heard.

However, my husband was awoken by the loud wailing. He jumped out of bed and frantically called for Mustafa, our younger child. Without his eyeglasses, he had blurry vision. But at that time, his immediate concern was the finding of Mustafa.

I was observing and trying to figure out why my husband looked distressed; I was amazed at what was happening in our home. Suddenly, my husband saw Mustafa lying down the stairs; perhaps, while hopping around, he had fallen and now was crying hysterically.

Mustafa wept uncontrollably as if he had witnessed a terrible catastrophe, and my husband reached out to comfort him, offering his love and protection. We watched him for a while and then decided to take him out onto the balcony, where we could better look at his face in the brightness. We were shocked to see blood coming from his mouth.

We both worked to keep Mustafa calm while our other children napped. We tried several cures to stop the bleeding, but none helped. Mustafa’s grandmother, who was also present, suggested we take him to the hospital after analyzing the situation.

Fortunately, Mustafa’s aunt was at home and could care for the other children. We checked the time, and it was 11:00 PM. The situation was severe, and we knew we had to act quickly.

We both hurried to the hospital, but what we saw there was frightening. We came here with high expectations, thinking it was the best hospital available. Unfortunately, the pediatrician was off duty; perhaps they had already left.

So we went to the ER, where we found young primary doctors in their last year of residency. A senior staff member conveyed the lousy news that it was too late to help till the child’s specialist arrived in the morning.

At my repeated requests to physicians that they do something to stop my son’s bleeding. One of the Drs. said they didn’t know if it was coming from the mouth or somewhere else in the body, so they couldn’t decide what medicine to give. Although our child’s blood flow was heavy and continuous, he was too little and impatient for a complete mouth examination.

They further said that the reason behind this accidental bleeding could not be known until the child opened his mouth and cooperated for a physical checkup. In this situation, they wouldn’t give him an injection or medicine to stop the bleeding because they thought it might be coming from his liver or lungs and were reluctant not to take the risk.

Instead of examination, they asked multiple questions, like was there an infection in his mouth that caused ulceration? Did he eat any toxic things in lunch? They suspected he might have gotten hurt from eating poison or something harmful.

Imagine our son was leaving us with each drop of blood, and doctors asked weird questions like we did something to him. Meanwhile, someone said, I saw the same case where a child did not survive due to unstoppable bleeding, and my mother-in-law started crying and praying for our son’s safety. Our already bad situation got even worse.

I could not want to imagine what was going on as my mountain-like strong husband carried our child all the time. I stood still and quietly, waiting for some hope that some angel would come and heal all the wounds. Our brave boy looked at me with fear. He was begging, “Make it stop, Mama,” when I looked into his eyes.

He was telling me, “Mom, please bandage my heart.”

It felt like the hours went on and on, like a terrible nightmare. It was 2:30 AM when I looked at my watch. The hospital staff even suggested we move our sick child to a different hospital, hoping for a miracle because his blood level was low. And they warned us that the child would die due to blood drainage.

At that moment, it felt like he ought to depart this earth journey, and I was scared as the scene was the same: hospital, emergency, blood, and my younger brother, whom I lost ten years before. So, ten years were enough to fill the sadness created by the departed soul. After realizing it, I was so quiet I couldn’t even speak. His soul was slipping from our hands like shiny sand, and the time was 3:30 AM.

My husband suddenly remembered a friend who used to work at a private children’s hospital in the evenings. He might be able to help us. It brought us hope and life in our misery and darkness.

We dialed his phone number, and he surprisingly picked up on the first ring as if an angel had conveyed our message in advance. Remember that my spouse is typically quiet and reserved, not the type to break out in excessive displays of emotion. He asked his friend, seemingly relaxed, if he might schedule an appointment with the town’s best child specialist.

I can’t think of what his friend said in return, but things continued calmly. On the other hand, I behaved unexpectedly and possibly impolitely. In a loud, imploring voice, I snatched the phone from him and pleaded, “Please save my son’s life.” He is probably in his final minutes now. We’ve been waiting for four hours for a doctor, and his blood has already drained.

I will always oblige his friend for waking up in the middle of the night to visit the doctor when he realizes the seriousness of the situation. Our colleague called the doctor, who had fallen asleep with his phone off. Twenty minutes later, we received a call from the private hospital asking us to join the surgeon, pediatrician, and anesthesiologist who had arrived.

An act of God has just occurred. As if in a dream, I saw a doctor hurry from his car, grab our son, and rush them into the operating room. The words, “Nobody must cry; I can’t work under these conditions,” he said, are still engraved in my mind. Please ask the crying woman to stop or leave the hospital (my son’s grandmother).

My child was taken to the operating room in a flash by hands who knew the value of every heartbeat. Outside, our blood-stained clothing made us weird, and people in the hospital looked at us miserably. But we did not take it as our son finally got medical treatment after waiting five hours. The colleague later told us that he hadn’t realized the seriousness of the situation at first and appreciated me for being so persistent.

We finally knew that the scary night we had spent with our child was over when dawn broke. As the darkness disappeared, I saw a beautiful sight: my child was no longer bleeding and resting quietly between awake and asleep.

The doctor said it had been a tough case, but with the help of Allah Almighty, he had chosen to use anesthesia to look inside the mouth, where the tongue had been cut in half. Perhaps, during the fall, his teeth went through a central vein by piercing it.

It was unclear whether his tongue had been damaged or removed, so I cautiously looked at the doctor’s face for answers; he said he was a plastic surgeon and stitched our baby’s tongue back together.

My husband asked; What number of stitches will there be?

The doctor told my husband, “Countless.”

Our kid spent the whole day and night in the hospital. We were given a long list of instructions to follow when we finally got him home. For instance, he couldn’t eat any of his regular meals, like solid food, hot chips, or snacks. They advised us not to get him to talk because it could damage his stitches.

It was unsafe for him to use his mouth until the wound was completely healed. Only then could he eat and talk properly. We were cautious to follow his schedule and meet his needs as they came up. Within the recommended six-month healing period, we gave him extra time to relax in front of the TV and on the computer.

He was progressing physically, but he had become relatively isolated due to the trauma and stress he suffered that night and our decision to let him not play instead of letting him watch the screen. After a year was gone, we could no longer ignore the fact that he no longer responded to his name. He was not communicating with all of us.

There was an abrupt change in his attitude, responses, and interaction. We went in for a second opinion, and the doctors suggested behavior analysis. Experts on children have proposed that his strange behaviors can be linked to impaired hearing.

Together, we overcame several challenging junctures. Finally, at seven years, he began to utter some words, although one at a time. Even after a decade, the wounds were still fresh. Even though now he’s eleven, my courageous little kid works with speech therapists to improve his language skills.

According to therapists, we should continue to limit his screen time to develop his social and language skills. I feel bad for leaving him alone, but I have to, as a university teacher, have to perform a lot of official assignments. The more time we spend with him, the better he gets.

We will not give up hope, even though there is much to do. Although Allah controls everything, as a mother, my guilt keeps growing. I regretted not being able to spend as much time as I wanted with my kids, especially my youngest, because I was focused on my job and trying to support my family. Should I have kept working at that job? These thoughts are killing me inside.

However, I share some reflections and experiences today through writing about my struggles. Because I find comfort in writing and escape from the bitter realities of life. My loyal colleagues (writers and readers) supportive remarks and feedback also pushed me to continue.

Thanks a lot for reading this story; I request you all keep remembering Mustafa in your prayers so he can communicate and return to everyday life.

Yours truly,

A mother writer

Dr. Ameer Bibi

Initially published on medium by the author.