Another life changing Ramadan

Bismillahi Ar-Rahman Ar-Raheem, May Allah’s salaam and salat be upon his messenger Muhammad. Peace be upon those who follow guidance, may the mercy of Allah be with all his adoring slaves.
I have not written in some time because I have not had access to the internet via a computer. In addition, I have not been in the best frame of mind. I have allowed my personal shaytan to push my mind where he wants me to go. So, suffice to say I’ve been of little use to anyone, especially myself.
All of these lead to this being my lowest Ramadan ever in terms of my acts of worship. I was seeking answers to my spiritual difficulties when circumstances brought me to where I am now, looking at the fool in the mirror.
On the day of jumah, the 23th day of Ramadan 1431 H., (September 2), my oldest daughter began to look as if the Angel of Death had received her name. A bubbly, energetic 3 year old girl, whose sense of humor and love for life was incomparable began to find pleasure in little else than sleeping. A girl whose appetite was healthy and whose pallet was eclectic desired only water. In between the one or two morsels of food she did eat she longed for rest.
I woke the morning of the 25th day of Ramadan, three days later (Sunday September 5), to my wife shooking me exhording me to wake up.
“Look at (our oldest girl) {I’m not going to write my daughters’ name because my wife & I do not feel comfortable doing so}!” My wife winced.
“She looks like she is in a concentration camp!”
I sat up to see my daughter laying next to me. She was on her back wearing only a diaper. Her little ribs poking from under her skin. Three or four lumps floated under the skin of her belly as if she swallowed golf balls. These golf balls kind of bowed as she labored to breath.
“Are you ok, baby?” I asked her.
“Uh-huh.” She sighed in reply.
She just lay there, her mouth slightly open bordered by blueish-purpelish lips, staring at the ceiling. By this point she only eat the equivalent of half of her ordinary meal in three days or so. I couldn’t believe how frail she became in a matter of days.
I jumped out of bed.
“I’m going to take her to the doctor,” I said as I staggered to the restroom.
Once we got everything ready to go my son & I took her to the Children Hospital at Montefore. I chose them because they have a children’s emergency room. We waited about an hour or so after she was triaged to be seen by the doctors. After finding Ketoms in her urine they said she had type 1 diabetes.
For several hours for surrealistic interactions with about four or five different medical professionals it finals sunk in.
“Ok, Mr. Haqq, so your daughter is going to be admitted.” One of them said. She spoke in the modern intonation of American English, the semi-Valley girl cadence. What was most upsetting, I suppose it was indicative of just how sick she was (is), was when she said that it would be several days. I couldn’t believe it.
I suppose that it was all so surreal that I didn’t cry till the next day, or maybe it was that day. The fact that diabetes, type 2 diabetes has been so prevalent in the news cycles that the word was hollow when I first heard it. It was when they took blood from her every two hours that the gravity of the situation began to pull me down in to the depths of sorrow. As they woke her the take blood, jamming a needle in her tiny arms all in the name of imperical data that I realized that our lives were going to have to change, dramatically change.
I traded places with my beloved, who stayed the night with our daughter. When I arrived the next day, our daughters eyes were puffy from lack of sleep and crying.
We meet with so a handful of specialist and it just seemed so routine to them that, again, I felt the same way. The fact is most of them disagreed with each other. The nurses in one camp, the doctors in another, and the diabetic counselor all by her self. Each camp told us something different. All of this conflict, coupled with the large plastic bag full of supplies we are going to need to keep our baby alive for the foreseeable future all reinforce in me the conviction that the powers that be DO NOT want an end to this madness. It is quite profitable to have people dependent on insulin injected in some form and all of the testing equipment as opposed to curing the body so it produces insulin on its own.
Worse is that when expressed this view it was vehemently denied and seen as paranoia.
And to this day, including all her time it the hospital, her blood sugar has been high in a range considered to be dangerous. At least, I can write this without crying.
I really and truly despise the philosophy of that rules this land and the mind & heart of the majority of it inhabitants. I understand why jihad is done to destroy the oppressors (which include those whose philosophy of social Darwinism, the media who propagates it, and the profiteers from it regardless of vocation).

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