Fridays seem to be arriving with a newfound velocity, sweeping in faster than they once did. It is a typical morning at work—a rhythmic cycle of questions, answers, meticulous plans, and drug charts. As I begin wrapping everything up, I find myself back at RHDU Bed 3, reunited with my 26-gauge needles and the steady hum of infusion pumps. Dr.Navin, my senior colleague, stands by my side with his characteristically peaceful demeanor, carefully loading the medicine I am about to receive. The man possesses a profoundly tranquil presence; his very personality seems to emanate a sense of calm that anchors the room.
However, the person who has helped me weather this storm—my husband—is not here today, he is travelling. He has never been a man of many words; communication is certainly not his strongest suit, and I never insist that he sit through these long infusions with me anyway. Having said that, his mere presence somewhere within this building is reassuring. We have walked together for fifteen years, navigating a landscape of both radiant times and bitter hardships, but now, this man has become the very structure upon which my entire being rests.
When we first began seeing each other, he was an aspiring surgeon. As luck—or perhaps fate—would have it, he initially failed to secure an MS in General Surgery and ended up matched with Pathology(which is wonderful field of medicine, perhaps just not for him). I remember him, teary-eyed, telling me, “I’ll have to spend the rest of my life looking at microscopes.” Something about that declaration felt fundamentally wrong. I knew the young man standing before me had exactly what it took to be an outstanding surgeon; I was simply not willing to accept that defeat as his final story. So, day and night, I dedicated myself to searching for another way.
We eventually zeroed in on the DNB—a dreaded acronym back then, because the passing rate for any specialty was a meagre 30-35% at best. But what is life if not an exciting, unpredictable mix of curveballs? When we began investigating our options, we discovered it was the very last day for form submissions at the National Board of Examinations. We rushed to apply, and against the odds, he secured a seat in General Surgery at Sir Ganga Ram Hospital. The rest, as they say, is history. Today, he stands as one of the finest Thoracic surgeons in the country. The journey was arduous and the compromises were endless, but has it been worthwhile? Most definitely, yes.
I am writing this story today because this morning, when I called him in tears saying I wanted to give up, he chose to fight for me—just as I had fought for him fifteen years ago. He restored my equilibrium and told me not to surrender; he assured me that a way would be found.
On the other hand, I look over to see my brother sitting by my bedside—quiet, perhaps a bit confused, but smiling nonetheless. He traveled here for Eid, yet here he sits in a hospital ward with me. I believe the “hopelessly hopeful” attribute I carry comes directly from him. At the peak of a successful corporate career, he walked away to start his own venture, bolstered by the unwavering support of his wife. Many would have flinched at such a precipice, but he did not. For him, the risks transformed into benefits not by mere chance, but through sheer hard work and a rare quality: Faith.
He possesses a beautiful, almost mystical kind of faith. He believes that nothing truly catastrophic can happen to us because we are the children of incredibly benevolent parents. His trust in Allah is of a depth that is difficult to find. My brother has been my shadow throughout this journey, hiding his own tears so that he might wipe away mine. He spends hours reading and researching my disease, striving to understand the mechanics of what I am facing.
He also taught me a vital, peculiar technique. He told me that whenever my inner voice whispers something negative, I must speak up and say: “Shut up. I’m not listening to you. You are just a demon in my head, and I will not give you the power to overpower me.” This simple act of defiance has helped me find sleep on so many restless nights.
I find that every Friday, I end up feeling more and more grateful—for the people who surround me, for the privileges life has been kind enough to offer, and for this unflinching faith I am currently in the process of developing. I once saw someone say, “I don’t have a favorite place—I have favorite people.” For today, this quiet, clinical corner of the RHDU became my favorite place on earth, simply because it held my favorite person sitting across from me, his eyes bright with hope and his heart full of love.
So, how can I possibly give up, when there is so much beauty at stake?
“Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear” (Quran 2:286)
This verse serves as the silent foundation of my life, a divine promise that the weight I carry is never greater than the strength I was given to sustain it. It is the steady pulse beneath my husband’s unwavering resolve and the “hopelessly hopeful” faith my brother wears like armor.
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