Ramadan during virus a bittersweet holiday
Dr. Adnan Lakhani had only a few days to hold his newborn baby or mourn his father’s sudden death before he first heard of the devastating virus spreading through western China.
He prayed it wouldn’t last — Ramadan was fast-approaching, and childhood trips to the mosque were among the earliest and most fond memories Lakhani had of his father.
He wanted his 2-year-old son to have the same and “had big plans” for Islam’s holiest season.
Within a few weeks, the 35-yearold internal medicine doctor was working 24-hour shifts in an Angleton COVID-19 ward and self-quarantining at the home he shares with his newly widowed mother, postpartum wife and infant chil
dren.
“It felt like a dystopian novel,” he recalled. “It’s just hard to put it into words. It doesn’t feel like Ramadan.”
The 30-day holy month is typically a time of introspection and community. Daylight fasts from food and water are meant to remind Muslims of sacrifice and, in the evenings, they crowd into mosques for prayer, meals and charity work.
But not this year. Most mosques in the Houston area remain closed, and the region’s roughly 70,000 Muslims will celebrate Ramadan’s end, known as Eid al-Fitr, at home on Saturday.
It’s supposed to be among the Islamic calendar’s most joyous days. But this year, reasons to celebrate are rare and, for doctors such as Lakhani, the high holiday is but another reminder that nothing these days is normal.
And yet, he and others fighting COVID-19 on the front lines have found meaning in their work.
“Whenever forces outside of us take control of our life in such a powerful way, it can be humbling,” Lakhani said. “It’s a reminder of your place… . That you and I are not in control. God is in control.”
‘Have to keep moving’
Coronavirus is a particularly devastating and contagious disease, requiring health care workers to drape every inch of their bodies in protective gear for what would normally be a routine procedure or checkup. It’s time-consuming and, in urgent care situations, the half-minute needed to refashion a mask or gloves can be the difference between life and death.
“Literally there’s someone decompensating in front of you through a glass door, and you can’t run in there to help them because you have to get your stuff on,” said Dr. Abid Iqbal, a pulmonary and critical care specialist in the Houston Methodist system.
Most make it home, sometimes after a long road of excruciating pain or medically-induced comas. Others die alone, their last glances at loved ones confined to cellphones because of visitation rules still in place at most hospitals.
“They’re just by themselves,” he said. “They don’t look the same. They don’t look like humans when they’re hooked up to that many machines.
“It’s just been heartbreaking.” Iqbal typically rejoices in small victories such as, say, a patient walking a few extra feet without help.
“That allows them to get to the bathroom without peeing on themselves,” he said. “That’s a huge change in their everyday quality of life, and people are so thankful for those little things that we take for granted.
“What you and I may think is limited is life-changing to someone else,” he said.
But these days there is little time to rejoice in small steps forward, to process the trauma he sees each day or to find the space and time needed to truly immerse himself in Ramadan.
“You almost have to compartmentalize it in your brain and push it down so that you don’t think about it,” he said. “Because the next day hits so hard you almost don’t have time to be reflective. You just have to keep moving on.”
A disappointing Eid
By the start of Ramadan late last month, Dr. Jad Daye had already gone almost two months without hugging his kids.
He thought constantly about the potential long-term effects of his decision to self-isolate.
“Are they going to be afraid of me?” he wondered about his three children, all younger than five.“Or think I abandoned them?”
Today he’s more hopeful. The number of cases started to fall at HCA Houston Healthcare North Cypress, where he works as an interventional cardiologist. And last week, his son broke their rules and ran to his dad for a hug.
“He gave up,” Daye said of his son. “It pushed me over the edge. I realized I cannot live without the intimacy of emotional attachment with my kids. I don’t want to miss out on that.”
His kids nap on his lap more often nowadays, and he thinks more about the interactions and relationships that he may have taken for granted before the crisis.
That includes Eid, on which he and thousands of others typically gather at local convention centers or stadiums to celebrate the end of Ramadan.
“This is the very first Eid that we won’t all be together,” he said. “It’s disappointing to say the least.”
He paused and then, after a deep sigh and moment of silence, continued. “I don’t know,” Daye said with a slight tremble. “It’s just — it’s very emotional to me.”
Zen in the E.R.
If she wanted, Dr. Sara Andrabi could enjoy her beloved, low-caffeine Diet Cokes with a guilt-free conscience.
The Quran allows for those caring for the sick or vulnerable to not fast and Andrabi, an emergency room physician at one of the area’s most hard-hit hospitals, certainly falls into the exempted camp.
She calls Ben Taub Hospital the city of Houston’s “safety net” because of how many patients are low-income or without insurance. It was “humbling” but “challenging” work that, to a certain extent, she said, prepared her for the outbreak of COVID-19.
“We’re definitely about ebbs and flows, and being adaptable and flexible,” she said. “Because that’s how the emergency department is day in and day out. You don’t know what you’re going to get.”
The hospital is still strained, family visits for COVID patients are still restricted, and Andrabi is still fasting and working long hours.
The first few days of Ramadan were difficult, she said. Since then it’s been “Zen-like.”
“You’re more and more focused,” she said. “You almost feel like your religion is a boost.”
Andrabi has three young children — she turned 36 on Wednesday, the same day as her daughter’s first birthday. Hugging her kids is normally at the top of her priority list once she’s home. It used to be simple. Now, it requires a laborious process to clean and disinfect everything she’s touched that day and, once she leaves her garage, she takes an additional shower upstairs before interacting with anyone.
“That was really hard for me,” she said. “When I would come home there were times I would get teary-eyed because they would just want to hug me.”
Yet she considers herself lucky — her job provides daily opportunities for the compassionate work demanded of Muslims, and while she misses her friends and family, Andrabi said she has chosen to focus on the many good moments they shared before coronavirus.
“These are things that we used to take for granted, but we now realize are such a big part of our life.”
“Whenever forces outside of us take control of our life in such a powerful way, it can be humbling.”
Dr. Adnan Lakhani, doctor of internal medicine in Angleton