The Journey

Mohammad Dada, my cousin and little inspiration, was born on November 24, 2002 in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania. While he was born healthy, he fell ill with yellow fever just three days after his birth. Unfortunately, he wasn’t treated in time and his health began to take a rapid decline. Over the next few years Muhammad was frequently in and out of hospitals. He lost his sight and his hearing, the doctors were unsure as to what was really happening to him. His parents tirelessly searched for different treatment options for their son, but it became apparent that their homeland did not have enough resources and treatment options for their son to survive. When Mohammed was just three years old, his parents undertook a life altering decision by leaving everything they knew and venturing off to an unfamiliar place, Canada, hoping to give their son a chance at life.

The visits to hospitals continued in their new country. New struggles ensued as Mohammed battled frequent bouts of pneumonia. When he ate, he was unable to digest without having the food enter his lungs and so a feeding tube was put in place. Despite all the challenges, his family was hopeful that things would get better.

It was time to visit to the neurologist. The memory of the incident still stays with me. Muhammad squirmed in my lap, laughing every time my hands ran over his belly. I listened intently, my anger rising as the doctor spoke in his indifferent, monotone voice. It was as if Muhammad wasn’t there, as if he didn’t even exist. The neurologist explained, “He cannot hear or see, he will not be able to talk or walk. He may not even feel emotions – now you have to decide what you are going to do.” His tone still cold, he continued “you may also think about the group homes they have in Oakville, it is going to be hard taking care of him on your own.” He looked at us… I guess not realizing that he insulted everything we stood for.

I couldn’t help but mutter, “He is right here”. The doctor’s heartless attitude left me in disbelief. He was talking about Mohammed as if he wasn’t human. He didn’t know or care to inquire about anything regarding our little Muhammad’s personality. About how he would laugh with excitement, feeling the cool breeze from the open car window; how he cried, tears filling his eyes when he was afraid; and how he grunted, tilting his eyebrows when he grew angry. The doctor’s response was appalling. He knew nothing about Mohammed and how much joy he brought to his family. He spoke as if the tiny bundle of joy, fidgeting in my lap, was a doll: lifeless and just a toy.

Muhammad sporting a tux at my sister (Akila’s) wedding reception

We went home that day with the doctor’s words ringing in our ears. Was he really asking us to decide whether or not Muhammad should live? We were confused. We knew that Muhammad wasn’t always critically ill. Yes, he was struggling with some disabilities, but he wasn’t always sick. He laughed with us, banging on his chair as usual. Why was everyone talking as if he was going to die? Granted, he had been in and out of hospitals many times, too many to count; but he always pulled through and it didn’t take long for him to jump right back to his usual mischievous self. That day, we made a decision to ignore the doctor. We were committed to taking care of Muhammad, allowing him to enjoy life.

Three years later, Muhammad has progressed a long way; physically he is stronger, being able to overcome sickness with less effort, intellectually he is smarter—responding to his environment more accurately. He has learned to grasp a marker and make a mess, and play a tiring game of throwing a ball and someone running to catch it. Above all, he has definitely become much more mischievous than before. Muhammad is his own person – no one tells him how to act or when to laugh. You and I may laugh after being told a joke but for Muhammad, he finds it funny when we twirl him around in his wheelchair or when we slightly tip his seat back so his face is towards the sky. When no one is beside him, Muhammad gets furious, sensing the lack of attention, like any 7-year-old child. In public, we often find ourselves overlooking the ignorant glances that scold us. You and I may frown when it’s time to go to school, but Muhammad on the other hand, frowns on the weekends because he misses it.

He may not communicate the way you and I do but his laughter, his eyes, and his touch speak a thousand words each day. He brings happiness to everyone around him. Muhammad, our little inspiration—without being able to speak, has taught us all so much.

Please stay tuned for Part II: “Meaningful Engagement” – an Occupational Therapist’s perspective…

Sukaina Dada
M.Sc. OT