My mother left this world exactly a week ago. It was completely surreal. It was the day I've been fearing since she was given her diagnosis. That's 18 months of knowing the end was near and what it usually looks like, just not knowing exactly when or how it would actually take her. The uncertainty was difficult. Not having any control was difficult. The day it finally happened was difficult.

True to her nature, she fought hard with positivity and love despite it all. I am in awe of her determination, resilience and fortitude. I spent a lot of time with my mother in her last few months and was with her in the last days. I'm lucky I was able to do that. In the days since, I have realized my regret is not appreciating truly how good-hearted she was while she was here. All the memories keep flooding in. Things I thought I’d never remember. Things that didn’t seem to mean much to me at the time.

I am blown away by some of the messages we have received from people who knew her a little bit and a lot. A common thread in these messages is the gentleness of her soul, the warmth of her being and her ability to make others feel at ease. I wish I had appreciated all of this more, and I hope she knew how much she meant to so many people. She was always so humble. She always did good things silently, wanting nothing in return but the joy of others.

The weeks leading up to her passing were terrible. I will never forget them. I didn't realize I could feel so much and nothing at all. My mind was a whirlwind. Two weeks out she began to decline rapidly. I had just gone back to NY thinking I'd be there for some time but flew back when she began to show end-stage symptoms – it happened to be the last Mother’s Day I would spend with her.

The next day, on Monday May 9, we used her wheelchair for the first time to take her to an oncologist appointment in which it became clear that there was nothing left we could do. That was a tough day. It felt like we finally had to let her go. We didn't anticipate that she would leave us so quickly though.

Uncertainty gives you fear but also hope. This disease takes everyone a little bit differently – I’m not sure what I hoped would happen. It ended up being her last days. In that week she lost her appetite, began to have trouble swallowing, stopped talking and lost all mobility and movement. She had already been incontinent for some time. All of the physical decline was hard to see, but something changed in her that was even more painful to stomach. She is hands down the strongest woman I will ever know, but in those last days I sensed a sadness I had never felt in her before. I can only imagine how lonely and helpless she felt. She knew what was happening. This was the part that really made me hurt. I would have done anything so that she didn’t feel it. Still, she never let on - it was just something I felt. Those warm eyes still sparkled, but started to become worn.

The last week was full of many sad milestones. She had her first caregiver visit to assist with showering and other things. One evening she fell - simply standing stationary she fell. She just couldn’t hold herself up anymore. We began to administer morphine. She was never one to admit pain or take medicine and she tried her best to hide it until the end but she could no longer mask it. The hospital bed arrived. My father visited the mortuary and cemetery, just so that we could be prepared for the next month or so. Planning ahead, he bought 2 spots. We looked into Muslim burials. We did all this thinking we had time.

By Saturday, May 14, it became clear that things were changing quickly. That night we discussed our inability to care for her, despite our best efforts, in a way she needed and in a way that would make her the most comfortable and pain free. All our love wasn't enough anymore. My father and I could no longer carry her out of bed or do many of the other things she needed. We considered moving her to a hospice facility.

The next morning, on Sunday May 15, a nurse came over to assess my mother. She put the transfer in. She administered a high dose of morphine and some other medicine to ensure the Ambulette ride over would not cause discomfort.

Before they took her away, my sister had a moment alone with her. Nadia asked her if she was ready to go - not ready to go to hospice, but ready to move on from this journey. Laying there, my mother stared at her and nodded yes. Nadia told her we love her, we will miss her and we will take care of Abu. At the part about my father, my mother nodded aggressively and moaned in a way she had not communicated in days. That was the last time she was awake.

She arrived at the hospice and was in a deep sleep for the next 36 hours. I don't think it hit me until about a day had passed that she wasn't going to wake up again. On Monday, May 16, we began to hear respiratory changes. Her breathing became labored and she started making an occasional sound as if clearing her throat. Throughout the day it worsened and the rattle began. The ‘death rattle’ is what they call the gurgling sound a dying person begins to make with each breath. It's liquids like saliva settling in the lungs and the chest. It sounded like she was drowning. Her oxygen was low and her heart rate was rapid. Her body was shutting down and it was killing me. There are a number of things that happen in the last days and hours and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. All we could do was sit by her bed, talk to her and comfort her and ourselves. I'd like to think she could hear us and feel our love.

I believe she passed in as peaceful of a state as possible. My brother and father were sleeping in her hospice room. Omar said he slept around 3am, at which time she seemed in a stable state. Around 3:45am on May 17, my father noticed my mother not breathing. The nurse pronounced her dead.

When I saw my mother about 20 minutes later she was still warm. Seeing the life drain from your loved one’s body is terrifying. The color had begun to leave her, her lips looked glossy and her extremities were beginning to cool. I held her hand, caressed her cheeks and gave her kisses. This was my first experience with death and the first dead body I’d ever seen. I looked at her and my mind just saw her sleeping. I tricked myself into seeing her chest move up and down with the breaths she wasn’t taking. We sat with her and tried to come to some peace for a few hours before the mortuary came to take her body. We watched them lay her on a stretcher, cover her body and face and take her away.

Later that day, Nadia and I performed the ghusl at the masjid. My mother had once asked me to ensure she had a Muslim burial and that she would like if my sister and I would do the ceremonial washing if we were up to it. It was intense, but I felt like I was able to give back to her in some way. It’s the least I could do for her - she never asked for anything. Her body was ice cold but it was as if she was smiling at me. She looked so at peace with her gentle expression. It still seemed like she was just sleeping. As is the ritual, we wrapped her in 5 layers of white cloth and covered her hair. That was the last time I saw her face and the last time I kissed her. I whispered in her ear many times how much I loved her, how I hope she is happy and that everything will be ok. They covered her face, performed a prayer and took her away until burial.

The next day, Wednesday May 18, was her burial. It was simple and modest, as I imagine she would have wanted. Muslims don’t bury in a casket, but law here requires it so we used a natural wooden casket with a simple flower spray. The Imam spoke, recited some verses and guided us in laying her to rest. We each symbolically threw a bit of dirt on her casket once she was lowered in the ground. I'm still not sure everything has set in. It all feels like an alternate reality.

We have visited her grave every day since. The cemetery we choose is well kept and has a good feeling to it, for being a cemetery. You don’t feel more sad than you need to there.

We are not a family of hysterics – I guess some would call us stoic. Of course we cried, and of course we feel immense pain. There is a void in our lives now. But we choose not to fall into shambles. We must keep full hearts and carry on. How can we not celebrate her beautiful, be it too short, life? She would want us to keep our heads up.

Still, there are moments of turmoil and moments of calm. Sometimes I am within myself and other times I am looking in from outside. It's very strange and I try to wrap my head around it. I don't want to be sad or angry or lost. In many ways I am not, but in some ways I am. I’ve said before that I think that all of this has changed me for the better. I do believe that. I feel an urgency in my spirit. I need to be a better person and to do something great with my life. I am who I am much because of my mother and I hope I can continue to honor her. I want to leave a legacy like she did. I want to affect people in a positive way. The seeds have been planted and my tears are watering them.

I read this the other day and it resonated with me: "A friend once told me that there are moments in life where all meaning seems to be lost, moments that remind us of the chaos that we live in."

I’ve never felt such a multi-faceted and complex pain like this before. What I have shared with you is just a sliver of everything I've felt and everything we've experienced. I've always felt that it's silly to stop yourself from feeling things. The 'bad' emotions are normal. It's just a matter of what we do with them.

In that light, we must grieve and allow ourselves to feel it all. In the end we must remember that death is part of life. Let us take all this fear and pain and use it to grow.

And we must remember as my mother would often say... wuv and peace.

May 17, a sad day.