Unexpected hope
Their flights were scheduled to land before baby Yahya arrived. But it snowed like it never snowed before on January 25th, 2022. Combined with the looming threat of another wave of COVID-19, we knew it was safer for my parents to stay home until it was easier to travel.
With -25 weather, I was lucky I didn’t need an oxygen tank during my home birth since it was frozen solid in my midwife’s car. I imagined having my parents there to help us with the first few weeks postpartum. A warm meal cooked by mom. The comfort of knowing I could see my dad’s face after a long and weary night. A few extra arms to pass the baby to when Mehdi and I both needed a break. All these hopes felt reasonable in my mind, du’as I wanted answered because I’d seen it happen that way for others. I thought that’s how it was supposed to be.
Within the first week postpartum while I was nursing my son and frantically worrying about my lack of milk supply, my husband went downstairs to answer the door. Our Muslim neighbor who’d moved in hardly a week ago came by to deliver two giant platters of delicious Iraqi biryani. My eyes widened as a plate of hot homemade food appeared before me. Perfectly seasoned rice with succulent chicken and a medley of vegetables nourished me for days until I could stand before the stove to cook for our now family of four.
Between swaddling, rocking, and round-the-clock diaper changes, I’d lose track of time except when it was mealtime. While I can normally sustain with some combination of snacks and intermittent fasting, my postpartum hunger showed me a different side of myself. I was always hungry, and borderline hangry. Another doorbell rang a few days later. This time my dear friend I consider a big sister came by to bring another meal for us. A heavenly combination of meatloaf and greek salad with garlic bread. I devoured nearly half the pan and dozed off to sleep the moment Yahya's eyes flickered for nap time.
Allah knew what I needed and provided in ways I couldn’t imagine.
Amid relentless hyperemesis, I was overcome with guilt for lying in bed most of the day. I had heard it gets easier with the second pregnancy, and it did by a smidgen but it still recked havoc on me, bringing me down to 80 lbs, mere skin and bones when I’d see myself in the mirror. My daughter was 3 and had watched a record number of Monty Don’s gardening show episodes with me in bed along with the entire collection of Swiss Family Robinson. I would wobble downstairs and fix her a bowl of cereal before mumbling some words and going back to bed. As gross as it feels when I think of it now, I remember eating several bags of dry plain potato chips and Coke to keep food down. Slowly, boiled rice and potatoes made the list of foods that didn’t make me gag. When I wasn’t nauseous, I was going through another strange hormonal change which made my saliva production increase by 698745%, without warning. When I researched it, a few women said they had this symptom for up to 19 weeks. Great. I was only on week 9.
The only medication that worked for me was Diclectin. I ordered it well in advance before it ran out until my family doctor started questioning how bad my symptoms really were. I was ready to travel cross-country if for any reason she chose not to prescribe it. It’s funny now that I think about it since I’m the type to advocate for safe home births and take one Advil a month strictly for borderline-unbearable PMDD. If I was vomiting 8 times a day without Diclectin, it went down to 3-4 times a day with the drug. So yes, “Give me the drugs please” is what I told the doctor in the nicest, firmest way possible.
Week after week until the morning sickness finally eased up, I did next to nothing around the home. For nearly 3 months, I didn’t do a single load of laundry. Or wash a dish or sweep a crumb. I did not go out. I did not do any drop-offs or pick-ups. I didn’t cook a single meal. A local halal food delivery service was a Godsend for our family. I walked around with bags and buckets near me at all times, praying for the days I could eat food again and see a healthy Asma in the mirror; one that was a normal BMI. What got me through was my husband’s hand-holding and hopefulness through and through. Everything I dropped, he picked up and kept going for us. He served in the way he always does, humbly doing what needs to be done. Reading stories, taking our daughter out, managing meals and bath time, driving me to appointments, giving me hope with the joy awaiting us in just a few months inshallah.
In the weeks following our baby boy’s arrival, my husband and daughter would make the sweetest breakfast with scrambled eggs and toast. I was so grateful the smell didn’t make me search for a bucket anymore. For two weeks, breakfast arrived hot and ready by my bedside. I had imagined my parents being with us to hold our son, the one we named after the stillborn son who was born to my parents just two years before me. I cried the moment I found out we’d have to go through postpartum with no other help. But Allah’s help was always there and showed up in millions of small ways that I can only magnify as I recount these moments.
Allah knew what I needed and provided in ways I couldn’t imagine.
Will I remember this the next time I feel like I’m going through a storm?
