The Paths To My Heart<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"I am not sure why I have not written in a long time. I try to dissect my feelings. \u00a0To open up the bloody mess and follow the veins of my thoughts and\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/loveinshallah\/2013\/11\/07\/the-paths-to-my-heart\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Paths To My Heart\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"I am not sure why I have not written in a long time. 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{"id":4239,"date":"2013-11-07T03:00:29","date_gmt":"2013-11-07T10:00:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/loveinshallah\/?p=4239"},"modified":"2014-11-03T11:16:04","modified_gmt":"2014-11-03T18:16:04","slug":"the-paths-to-my-heart","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/loveinshallah\/2013\/11\/07\/the-paths-to-my-heart\/","title":{"rendered":"The Paths To My Heart"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<\/head>

$\"protecting-hands\"$ <\/a><\/p>\n

Of course, I miss Ibrahim. \u00a0I have learned that I will always miss him. I miss him in different ways everyday. \u00a0Most days, I miss his smell or even the smell of the sterile hospital. \u00a0His now-yellowed white hospital hat, which I store in two Ziploc bags and smell daily, no longer has his scent. \u00a0So instead, when I visit people at the hospital, I pump the possibly carcinogenic hand sanitizing lotion twice, close my eyes, and breathe it in deeply. \u00a0I am immediately taken back to his bedside- his pink abdomen moving rapidly and his lips cracked around the breathing tube. I don\u2019t feel grief ,rather, joy for the short moment with him. I open my eyes to see my husband, the only other being on earth who knows why I do this, looking at me. \u00a0I avoid eye contact and rub my hands together as if nothing happened.<\/p>\n

Yes, it\u2019s complicated.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

My living children remind me of him. \u00a0My third child, and second living child, Anabiya, is Ibrahim\u2019s twin. \u00a0When she is sleeping, I sometimes pretend she is Ibrahim. \u00a0I watch her sleep and count her breaths and revel in the fact that she breathes freely without machines. \u00a0I feel guilty when I do this, because I feel like I am not enjoying Anabiya for who she is and only enjoying her for the memories of Ibrahim. \u00a0Of course this is not true, I love Anabiya for being Anabiya. \u00a0Her resemblance to Ibrahim just makes my path messier.<\/p>\n

My son, Musa is a rambunctious one. \u00a0I imagine sometimes what it would be like if Ibrahim had lived. \u00a0Would he join in with Musa and wreak havoc in my home or would would he help me talk to Musa and explain what he should and shouldn\u2019t be doing? \u00a0How much taller than Musa would he be? \u00a0Would he know his ABCs? \u00a0These questions further muddle how it is that I feel.<\/p>\n

After my heart failure, following Anabiya\u2019s birth, doctors advised me not to have anymore children. \u00a0I knew I wouldn\u2019t have anymore but having a prognosis \u00a0made it a reality I didn\u2019t want to face. \u00a0I always liked the idea of having three kids. \u00a0I just have to learn to accept that while I only have two living children, I really am the mother of three children- instead of raising Ibrahim, he is in heaven, waiting. \u00a0I am at a place where I am content. \u00a0I am not ungrateful for all that I have been given. \u00a0But I also realize that I am forever altered and cannot pretend that Ibrahim did not exist.<\/p>\n

With each child that you have, a new part of you grows, like a limb, and as your child grows, the limb becomes bigger and stronger. \u00a0You learn to live with it and cannot imagine surviving without it. \u00a0Losing a child is like losing a limb that only the parents of the dead child can see missing. \u00a0It is a limb that you must learn to function without.<\/p>\n

I am trying to live my life happily. \u00a0To function normally with my missing limb. \u00a0I want to be a good mother to all of my children. \u00a0But what makes this seemingly easy journey messy is doing this without taking away from my children, the dead and the living. \u00a0How can I love Ibrahim wholeheartedly while giving my love daily to Musa and Anabiya in a very practical way? \u00a0And how can I love my living children in the deep, spiritual way I love my dead son? \u00a0I wish I knew how to find this balance.<\/p>\n

The rhythmic beat of my life continues as I try to figure out my way. There is no stopping it, and so I continue to love all of my children, each individually for who they are and hope that they can all forgive me for my shortcomings. \u00a0Because my children must know that if they were to look deep into the chambers of my heart, they would find only themselves.<\/p>\n

\u2014-<\/p>\n

Sabina Khan-Ibarra<\/strong> is a freelance writer and editor. \u00a0She\u00a0regularly contributes to her blog,\u00a0Ibrahim\u2019s Tre<\/a>e\u00a0which \u00a0she created after the loss of her infant son in 2011. \u00a0She created\u00a0 Muslimah Montage<\/a>\u00a0as a platform for women to share their stories and inspire others.\u00a0Sabina is also the editor of\u00a0 Hijabulous: Seeing the Veil through the Eyes of American Muslim Women<\/a>.\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

A version of this post originally appeared at\u00a0Ibrahim\u2019s Tree<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"