In memory of my father Professor Ataullah Siddiqui

The word ‘cancer’ touched our lives in 2020 when my father was diagnosed with a Grade 4 Glioblastoma. He only went into  hospital because he began to have unexplainable falls; he came out with an incurable brain tumour. My initial response was denial and then hope. With medical science, the way it was now, they could shrink it, right? Every night, I feverishly googled: symptoms, time scales and case studies. For every 20 articles explaining the rapid decline of a grade 4 glioblastoma, I held on to the 1 article of the miracle cure…the remission story …the exception. My dad could be the exception not the statistic. Hope. 

My dad was outwardly optimistic, but I can only assume he was in turmoil inside. The professionals explained that he could opt for surgery, chemotherapy and radiotherapy to allow him more time. There was no question about it. He had children. He had grandchildren. He wanted to see them grow up. He had books to read, places to go and family to visit. ‘Thank you, we’ll do all three!’.

In 2020, we were in and out of lockdowns and weren’t allowed to see him in hospital. I was able to pick him up from the hospital after his brain surgery. He hopped off the bed grateful to be out of hospital. He was surrounded by terminally ill patients and didn’t need the reminder. He wanted to be home, and we needed him home. This was a man who had just had his brain operated on, but he was full of life and full of hope. He told us that when facing the possibility of imminent death, family was all that mattered; family was everything.

Over the next few months, my sister supported and drove him to the hospital for every appointment and my mum took a break from work to care for him at home. I lived 2 hours away so was grateful he had their support along with my brother-in-law. A blessing. I was able to go every weekend straight after work. I felt guilty that I was still working while my mum and sister were caring for him. My daughter was 1 and I also felt guilty for leaving her every weekend, but I had very supportive in-laws. Another blessing. My husband, a GP, would help him understand his medications and talk him through his options trying hard to balance fact from opinion. 

My dad spent the next few months battling the small tumour in his brain. Sometimes, it looked promising. His appetite grew, he gained weight, and he was planning trips but then we noticed he became weaker, and he began to lose control over his arm then his leg. Within weeks, he went from walking to sitting and then from sitting to lying down. He also experienced side effects that worried us. We were more concerned that a clot or a fall would send him to hospital, and we wouldn’t be able to see him. He could die in hospital alone. The consultant advised that he should take a break. We never knew exactly what they meant. I always found myself reading into everything they said. No timelines were given. Was a break an actual break or was it a euphemism for ‘time to stop’? My dad was always hopeful, but he also showed me the beauty of submission. He planned to fight the cancer but would submit to Allah’s ultimate will and the test he had to endure.

In his last few weeks, we would have several conversations that would be etched into my memory long after he passed. He would explain practical things like money and how  he wanted me to distribute this. I felt the responsibility and followed each instruction carefully. We would also have profound conversations about his life. I asked many questions: ‘What was he most proud of?’ ‘What trip did he enjoy the most?’ and ‘What was his biggest regret?’ He told me he wished he could do more. He hadn’t achieved everything he wanted and there was always more he could have done. ‘More?’ I wondered. This was a man who had a PhD; a man who also received an honorary PhD for his report exploring Islam in Universities; a man who had travelled all over the world; a man who could speak many languages and met many world leaders; a man who had the opportunity to pray INSIDE the Kab’ah. I thought ‘If he wanted more, what hope was there for the rest of us?’ 

We knew we didn’t have much time left with my dad. He was bedbound and dependent on syringe-drivers. I took time from work to be with him as we suspected he had only days left. By the mercy of Allah, I managed to get to him minutes before he left us. He passed peacefully surrounded by his family. Duas were made and the Quran was playing in the background. Holding his hand, my mum encouraged him to read his shahada as best as he could. At 66 years old, Allah called him back. Gracefully, he submitted. 

The Aftermath

Although my father passed away in the best way possible, his last few moments deeply affected me. To see my dad take his last breath was harrowing. To be here one moment and to be gone the next, affected my sense of mortality. It made me realise the importance of life: kindness, good deeds, family and ultimately our journey afterwards. At first, my grief manifested differently. I suddenly became obsessed with living life to the fullest: learning, exercising, travelling. ‘One day that will be me’ I thought ‘what stories will I tell my children?’ Work kept me busy, and my second pregnancy distracted me. It would take me another year to face my grief and the trauma I thought I had buried. On a cold morning run, the grief appeared suddenly and out of nowhere like a tidal wave on a calm beach. It turned in to a tsunami of unprocessed emotion that I had pushed aside for so long, but now I had no choice but to face it head-on and start the healing process. I submitted.