Al-istiqamah: When was the prognosis made that the cancer was in fact terminal?

Omar: It was at the rehab place when we noticed a lump at the site of the amputation. We had scans and x-rays done and it was determined that once again, her cancer had come back. This time, there was nothing the doctors could have done. The doctor told us that she won’t survive. “Asma is at the end of life’s journey,’ he said. That was one of the hardest things ever to hear and digest. I remember walking with my father and younger brother back towards the room Asma was in. Once we reached the glass sliding door to Asma’s room, my mother and sister came out to ask what happened. Pretty much we broke down into tears and wept for a good while. All this time Asma was in her bed playing with a rabbit the hospital brought in to make Asma happy.

It was more of a three-year nightmare – except with this we never were asleep. The doctor visits were depressing. The hospital stays were depressing. Each piece of news we got from the nurses, doctors and surgeons was depressing. We would dread going to the doctor's office due to the uncertainty and not knowing what he would tell us next.

Al-istiqamah: Once Asma comprehended that the cancer was terminal, did she mention dying?

Omar: She would casually speak about death as if it was something small. She would ask so many questions about herself and death, leaving us with a feeling of something piercing right through our hearts. “If I die, who would give me a ghusl (bath)? If I die, what will happen?”

I noticed as time went by and her condition deteriorated, her questions changed from ‘if’ to ‘when’. Asma actually asked me, “When I die, will I go to Hell?” I was puzzled and sad at the same time when she asked me this. I asked her why she would say something like that. Her response? “Because I missed some prayers.”

Al-istiqamah: Subhanallah.

Omar: Now keep in mind that she had missed some prayers when she was in pain and consumed by her illness. I can’t even being to describe her condition. Out of nowhere, she told my mother that she doesn’t want to be a teenager. She passed away right before she hit her teen years – at the age of 12 years old. Subhaan’Allah, how strange is that?

As you may know from reading my blog about her, her leg was completely amputated. Her leg was buried in a separate cemetery from the one where she is buried. Anyway, I was driving towards the hospital for her doctor’s appointment. I was with my mother and Asma, of course. As we were passing by a cemetery, she asked me, “When I die, will I get my leg back?” Another time she asked me, “When I die and stand before Allah, will I get my leg back?” The questions she used to ask us were heartbreaking. What made it worse was that she would ask these questions casually. She was serious when asking them. It was as if she was preparing herself for death.

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