Written in Arabic by:

 Dr. Jamal Bani Issa

 Adrenaline graduate- Third batch- 2015-2021

Translated by: Dr. M.A. Awwad

 Your voice echoes the chambers of my mind, just like your son's once echoed yours..

A year or some more ago, I've met you, I can't place when exactly, for my memory is fragile when it comes to the sufferings of daily living; such as remembering deadlines, birthdays, and remembering not to spill my teacup everyday, or paying attention as to not bump into everyone in my wake.

It is a mixed feeling, that I have towards you, indeed. It's the type of tough love a single mother bears upon her rebellious child; cold, tough, but still sparks like the light of a thousand stars.

But you're not my son nor I your father, oh uncle. And who am I to judge? For I am a sinner, just like you, and repent, just like you. Many life lessons gathered on your pages, I wish I got the chance to read them all. For I have not read well, forgive me. Time did not serve me well, neither did my arrogance and selfishness, which manifested as I ignored some of your personal calls.

I have witnessed the passings of many patients over my brief career, but I remained always a rock in the face of adversity. You were the exception, why? Why do I morn you so deeply when in fact our meetings were so brief and conditional? Perhaps it was because as I treated you, you treated me as well. Perhaps it's the skeleton in the closet, knocking on the door of my adaptive apathy? Or is it because our meetings were cut short, for I expected many more of those cups of tea to gather us. Perhaps the best things in life are as such — fleeting, passing, sudden, and leave a hidden scar.

But now you speak to me just like when your son spoke to you, in your delusions of loss. You speak to me of my distance, my preoccupation in the face of the many times you requested that I come see you as a friend, as a son. You speak to me of how I thought I had time, but so appears I didn't. I thought that we had more time, but you passed, and here I am morning you, just like when you morned your murdered son.

Oh uncle, the matters of everyday life bother me, but what are those compared to what you had to live through? What your broken heart had to deal with?

Your patience speaks to me, oh uncle. From power and wealth, to that apartment I found you gasping for every breath, drowning in pulmonary secretions and the weight of your enlarged heart weighing you further.

I know, oh uncle, what truly made you ill was the weight of memories and loneliness, and I wish I were there for you. The memories of your deceased daughter and your murdered son, and the absence of your elder son abroad. You kept telling me 'he'll come back, he'll come back'. And then came disease, like a wolf preying on what remained. Heart failure and pulmonary failure, as if one was not enough.

You told me many times, that adversity is the cloth of purification. I came to agree. Perhaps you treated me so much more than I did treat you, after all.

I have never, and will never forget your humble house and our cups of tea and especially the tattoos you tried to hide in embarrassment. Don't hide them please, for the soul of man hides many depths darker than the ink of a needle.

You speak to me in my times of need, just like your son spoke to you in yours. Your times of need are over, yet mine stand still for my time on this earth remain.. until we meet.

It is my pleasure to tell you that the souvenir that holds your name is in safe keeping, and it is a promise, to hang it on a wall, if i ever own one.

You speak to me, oh uncle. I wish i spoke to you when you asked for me, forgive me.

In memory of the late 'uncle A.Y.' , a patient of mine, who passed after a long struggle with heart failure, COPD, Arrhythmias, PTSD, the passing of his daughter, and the murder of his son. May his soul find peace.

By: Dr. Jamal Bani Issa

Adrenaline graduate- Third batch