A Love That Comes Once In A Lifetime

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - First Patient. 

The morning sun hangs low in the sky as I sit in my car outside the hospital, the heat of the Qatar desert already making its presence known.

I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror, adjusting the thin abaya draped over my shoulders. Despite the warmth, I opt for the modest attire, a nod to tradition and respect for the culture that surrounds me.

In Australia, I only wear an abaya during Eid, but here it is an everyday attire, and I love it.

My white coat lies folded on the passenger seat beside me, a symbol of the journey I am about to embark upon.

I spare a moment to check my appearance in the mirror, smoothing down the edges of my hijab and ensuring my mascara and lip balm are applied with precision. It is a conscious decision to keep my makeup minimal, a balance between professionalism and the fact that in seven hours, I will have to wash my face when I make Wudu (ablution).

Everyone at the hospital knows who I am before I even start my first shift – I am the daughter of the director. I can't afford to appear anything less than composed and collected, despite the lingering effects of jet lag from my long journey.

The last thing I want is to embarrass my father or undermine the reputation he has worked so hard to build.

Taking a deep breath, I gather my thoughts and make a quick Dua, asking Allah to make my first day smooth before I step out of the car, the dry air wrapping around me like a comforting shroud.

It has been a week since I arrived in Doha, Qatar, and I haven't quite settled into my apartment. Yet, despite being surrounded by familiar walls, the absence of my dad's presence makes it feel eerily empty, much like the solitude I have grown accustomed to throughout my life.

I thought that now that we are living in the same country, I would see him every day.

Growing up, my father was always there for me but not quite. His work often took him away, leaving me to navigate the complexities of life on my own.

My mum, may Allah have mercy on her soul, died when I was five. Her absence since then has left a void that was never truly filled, but my father did his best to be both parents to me. Being raised in a Western country, our relationship was built on a foundation of love for each other and love for our religion. He was strict with me, and I never dared to disobey him, always striving to meet his expectations.

Now, at twenty-five, having completed my residency, I am about to embark on my official journey as a doctor at my father's hospital.

I get out, make a Dua that my first day goes smoothly.

As I walk through the corridors, memories flood back to when this very institution was being constructed. I was merely eight at the time, marveling at the grandeur of it all. And now, here I am, one of the doctors who will tread these halls with purpose and dedication.

As I enter the bustling women's ward, the scent of antiseptic fills the air, mingling with the hum of activity. Nurses hurry past, patients murmur softly, and the rhythmic beeping of machines provides a steady backdrop to the chaos of healing.

With each step towards the entrance, I feel a surge of anticipation and nerves coursing through me. But beneath it all, there is a sense of purpose, a determination to prove myself worthy of the trust my father has placed in me.

The head doctor greets me with a warm smile, "As-salamu alaykum Noor."

I smile at her and shake her hand; she guides me through a quick induction process.

My heart flutters with a mix of nerves and excitement as I listen intently to the instructions. Then, the moment comes when I am assigned my first patient.

Her name is Hana, she is 60 years old, and she had been admitted the night before. "She is recovering from a stroke, Alhamdulillah, she will be okay," Dr. Sarah tells me.

My mind races with questions and concerns as I prepare to meet her. As I listen to Dr. Sarah tell me more about Hana, I feel a sense of empathy wash over me.

I can't help but wonder how many others are out there silently suffering, their struggles hidden behind closed doors. As a doctor, it is a stark reminder for me to also address my patients' underlying emotional and mental well-being.

I need to do everything in my power to help her recover, as her doctor, Hana trusts me to help heal.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the task ahead.

Entering the room, I find Hana lying in bed, her face drawn with fatigue and worry. I introduce myself, "As-salamu alaykum Aunty Hana, I am Doctor Noor, I will be taking care of you," I speak with a gentle smile, hoping to ease any apprehension she might be feeling.

She looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and resignation, her eyes betraying the fear that lurks beneath the surface.

The handover I received from Dr. Sarah reveals that stress had been the culprit behind Hana's stroke.

My heart sinks at the thought of the silent battles she must have been facing, the burdens she carried that ultimately took a toll on her health.

Throughout the morning, I tend to Aunty Hana, checking her vital signs and administering her medication, a sense of connection begins to form between us. Despite the initial apprehension.

Hana's warmth and resilience shine through, breaking down the barriers of formality that often separate doctor and patient. I never experienced this kind of connection throughout my residency. I don't know if it was because we were both Muslim or the fact she reminded me of my mother, even though I don't remember my mother all that much.

After Dhuhr, I check back on Hana, and she asks if I want to eat lunch with her. I agree because I haven't been given any other patients yet, and I feel awkward eating at the cafeteria. I hate attention and being here means everyone's attention is on me.

I find myself drawn to Aunty Hana's stories; her words flow effortlessly, peppered with a gentle accent that makes me wonder if my mom would have spoken with the same accent, if her words would have carried the same warmth and kindness that radiated from Hana.

"You're so beautiful, Masha'Allah. Your eyes and your skin are gorgeous," Hana's compliments catch me off guard, a blush rising to my cheeks as she praises my appearance.

"Are you married?"

I shake my head, almost scoffing. Marriage? Me? And that makes Aunty Hana gasp dramatically, "What a shame!"

I can't help but chuckle softly, shaking my head in response. The truth is, my focus has always been on my career, on making my father proud and carving out a place for myself in the world of medicine. But I always wonder if there is more to life than just my ambitions.

"I have one son, he's 30, also not married. He gives me a headache always. He does not want to look for a wife because he is always working. I look for him, but he gets angry at me."

I nod, listening to Aunty Hana's story.

"He's very handsome, Masha'Allah," she continues, her eyes sparkling with pride. "Allah blessed him with good looks, but he's not very smart like you. He left school and prefers to work. Work is his wife. Hopefully not for long, he will visit me tomorrow, Insha'Allah. You look and see if you like him."

At that, I almost choke on my chicken at her words. I didn't think she was going to set me up with her son. "Aunty, that's not how it works," I cough. "Right now, I am not looking to get married," I add.

"Maybe you will like him," Aunty Hana says, her voice tinged with hope as she subtly hints at the possibility of a potential match between her son and me.

I chuckle, "I'm sure he's a wonderful man," I reply, offering Hana a reassuring smile. "I look forward to meeting him tomorrow, Insha'Allah."

She smiles wide, "but nothing else," I add, and her smile drops.

Authors Note: 

First chapter posted!!! Hope you like it.