My Mother’s Body Was Cold – A Son’s True Story of Loss

My Mother’s Body Was Cold…

This is a true story written by a son who was not ready to say goodbye. It is about the last days of a mother, the silence of hospital rooms, and the pain of watching someone you love suffer while you can do nothing to stop it. S. F. Shaw writes about fear, hope, prayer, and the quiet lies we tell our parents so they won’t be afraid. It is a story of holding a hand that grows colder, of faith that breaks and rebuilds, and of a love that does not end when life does. This is not a story to read but it is a real one.

S. F. Shaw Personal Story

My fingers refused to move for days, but finally, I forced myself to write. I do not think I have the strength to truly describe the emotions, the pain, and the grief I witnessed. But I must try.

It began in the final hours of December 6th. Around 11:00 PM, I stepped out for a break during my shift in Lahore. I grabbed my phone from the office assistant at the reception desk to check my messages; he was listening to music, head bobbing to a beat, completely unaware that my world was about to shift. I unlocked the screen and saw missed calls from my uncle and my brother-in-law.

Call it intuition, but in that split second, I knew: Mom is in trouble.

My wife confirmed it. “She has severe breathing issues,” she said. My uncle had refused to help, making hollow excuses, but my wife’s brother had rushed her to a clinic.

My younger brother, Jawad, and I didn’t hesitate. We left Lahore immediately for Islamabad. During the bus ride, we made a pact: this time, we wouldn’t listen to her stubbornness. We were bringing her back to live with us.

The Knock Was Hope

We arrived in Islamabad the next morning. The city was wrapped in a cold, grey fog. We reached the house, excited to surprise her.

I found the main gate unlocked.

That was odd. My mother was a sensible woman; she never left the gate open. I pushed it open, crossed the small porch, and knocked on the inner wooden door.

No answer.

I waited. I knocked harder.

From inside, I heard a faint, trembling voice.

“Push the door hard… it will open.”

I shoved the door and rushed in. The lounge was empty. I ran to her room and lifted the curtain.

Time seemed to stop.

My mother was sitting on the freezing cold floor, in the dead of December, without slippers. She was pressing her hands on her knees, struggling with all her might to stand up… but she couldn’t. She looked at me, her breath catching between words.

“I… went… to the washroom.”

I froze. I realized then that my knock at the door hadn’t just been a sound to her. To a 61-year-old woman trapped on the floor, my knock was hope. It was the signal that, Thank God, someone has finally come to lift me up.

I ran to her, lifted her by her shoulders, and pulled her into a hug. Oh, my dear Mom, how could you be so helpless when your two sons are still here?

The Struggle

The next few hours were a blur of helplessness. Her liver had failed, and her body was swelling with fluid. She was trapped in a cycle of agony – she couldn’t sit, and she couldn’t lie down. Every few seconds she would beg us, “Pull me up,” and then immediately, “Lay me down.”

For four hours straight, Jawad and I didn’t sit for a single moment. We pulled her up, laid her down, and helped her sit. She was restless, in constant pain from her failing liver.

Then we took her to the city’s famous government hospital. It was a place of cruelty. There were no ward boys. The guard told me to fetch a stretcher myself. When I found one, it was stained with blood. When I complained, the staff simply looked away and said, “Pick another one.”

Getting her onto the stretcher was a war. In the middle of that struggle, she said something that pierced my soul:

“Fawad, what are you doing? It hurts me… don’t do it.”

Inside the emergency ward, doctors ordered tests and directed us to another room. We went there, and an indifferent nurse gave her injections, drew blood samples, and handed them to me.

I told Jawad to stay with Mom so I could go to the hospital lab. A patient’s father from the bed next to Mom’s leaned toward me and whispered, “Go to the G-8 market. The hospital lab here is not reliable.”

Those words shocked me. Is this the condition of our healthcare system?

I submitted samples to a reputable private lab; they told me the reports would be ready in three hours.

We couldn’t leave our Mom there. We brought her home, but the pain didn’t stop. Desperate, we drove her back to Lahore, to a prominent private hospital. The cost was exorbitant, far more than our salaries, but we pooled every resource we had. We just wanted to save her.

The Waiting Room

She was admitted to the Medical ICU. The doctors gave us grim news, but they also showed a ray of hope, and we clung to that.

The nights that followed were long and cold. I sat on the floor of the waiting area. I ran errands for medicines while the hospital staff treated us like transactions. But in that darkness, there was one light: a stranger named Zulqarnain. Seeing my distress, he shared his blanket and space with me in the freezing waiting room. He was the only humanity I found in those days.

I became a liar for love.

I would sneak to my mother’s bedside, hold her hand – now bruised and swollen from needles – and whisper, “Mama, doctors say you are out of danger. You’ll be alright.”

I said it so she wouldn’t lose strength. I said it so I wouldn’t lose strength.

She couldn’t reply. She would only look at me, her eyes fighting to open but failing. My Shehzadi Mama (Princess Mom) – a gynecologist who had healed so many in her life – was now helpless.

The Truth

The doctors kept feeding us false hope to keep the billing cycle running. But on the third day, a nurse–an angel in disguise–told us the truth.

“She is in a coma,” she revealed quietly. “The ventilator is the only thing keeping her breathing. She cannot survive five minutes without it. You are only prolonging her pain. Look at her hands and feet; they are swelling, and she has internal bleeding. I know it’s difficult for you, but I request you: remove the ventilator and relieve her from this pain.”

It was the hardest conversation of my life. I told Jawad, “Our goal was to relieve her pain. Look at her. She is in pain.”

Jawad was silent. He was reluctant, just like me.

We decided to delay the process for one night so that I could have a final chance to see my mom.

That night, I was restless. I went into the ICU and roamed around my mother’s bed. I leaned in and whispered into her ear, “Mama. Are you listening to me? Please give it a try. Open your eyes and see me. I am here with you.”

It felt like she was trying to open her eyes, but she couldn’t. I saw her hands were swollen and her body bruised with the signs of internal bleeding. I stood there and thought, Mother, I wanted to save you, but it seems like you are still suffering.

The next day, we stood before the doctors and said, “Enough. We know the reality. Stop this.”

They handed us the release form.

The Longest Journey

December 10, 2025.

The darkest day since my father died.

That morning, Jawad, my wife, and I sat on the stairs near the Medical ICU. The hospital buzzed with life around us, but we were on a deserted island. I opened my phone to the Quran. As I recited the verses, a strange, powerful patience descended upon my heart. The chaos faded. There was only the Word of God.

Thirty minutes later, the nurse called us.

They pulled the curtains around her bed, creating a small, private world. We moved in.

She was lying on her back. Still. Frail. Silent.

We didn’t cry out. Instead, we recited the Quran loudly, our voices filling the small space, guiding her.

As the verses flowed, I felt the shift.

My mother took a long, deep breath. I heard the sound of it.

Then a second breath.

Then a third.

And then… silence.

The machines stopped. The struggle stopped.

I closed the Quran. I touched her nose. No breath.

I placed my hand on her chest. No beat.

She had left us. She had embarked on the long journey from which no one returns.

My mother’s body was cold.

But her legacy is not.

To my beloved Mom: I could not save your body, and I am so sorry. But I will save your name. You will never be forgotten. Not in my heart, and not in my writing. Every book I write from this day forward will begin with your name, and it will end with your name.

Rest now, Mama. You are finally home.

May Allah grant you peace, my dearest mother. I pray that you rest upon velvet cushions in heaven, walk on dew-covered grass, and live in a home adorned with jewels and gold. May no pain, suffering, or trouble ever touch you again. May you sleep on a soft bed of cotton, with no one to ever disturb your rest.

Amen!