Community

For the last three years every autumn, I have packed up my family and our sleeping bags and gone camping for a weekend in the Pocono Mountains. With 200 other Muslims. The first year I didn’t know what was scarier- the idea of camping in the great outdoors where the creepy crawly things live and the bathroom facilities do not in any way resemble those of my favorite JW Marriott or the 200 other Muslims also at camp.

As much as it annoyed my family and my then-estranged husband, I refused to find out my child’s sex before birth. I figured that the world could wait to press its confining gender roles upon my child. I wanted to be surprised by God.
I dreamt of a little girl learning to play catch and a boy learning to cook. I dreamt of children of both sexes learning, growing, and making spectacular messes.

I often think back to this past Eid al-Fitr to remind myself how easily life’s joys and challenges are intertwined. That morning we said Eid prayers with family and our Sunday School community; mid-day, we went to a wonderful lunch at a friend’s home (a friendship deepened through our shared experience with cancer); the day ended, untraditionally, at a Justin Timberlake concert. But in the middle, there was a visit to the hospital for my bi-annual MRI.

Last year, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. A routine mammogram led to a more in-depth one and then to a biopsy. I was certain that nothing would turn up, as I did not fit the profile – I have no family history of breast cancer (I later learned that only 10 percent of cases show a genetic history), eat a healthy diet, exercise, nursed both my children and have never touched a drink or a cigarette in my life. Despite this profile, I turned out to be the one in eight women who is diagnosed with the disease.