Originally posted on Facebook, March 13, 2025.
Vancouver, BC. — It was an unexpected, freakish fall: sudden, jarring, and completely unpredictable. The moment I hit the ground, I knew. This was bad. The pain was bone-deep, excruciating, and I couldn’t get up.
Let’s rewind a bit.
I was in Vancouver for work and was looking forward to spending time with friends, walking on the beach and re-energizing, when life threw me a curveball. I had plans to go out with a friend for dinner just before the fall happened. She came to pick me up and found me doubled over in pain, unable to move. She assessed me and, with certainty, said we needed to call an ambulance to get me to the hospital ASAP.
X-rays confirmed what I already suspected: intertrochanteric fracture of the left femur (thigh bone). Emergency surgery was inevitable. I braced myself for the long road ahead, with only painkillers to get me through the night. I was scared. I was fearful. And I literally could not bear the pain.
The next day, I met Dr. Ali — a surgeon from Kuwait. He explained that, under normal circumstances, this would be a smaller surgery. But because of my myeloma (which weakens bones and leaves lesions throughout my body), they were concerned that a standard procedure wouldn’t be enough. If they only reinforced the top of my hip, there was an elevated risk for more fractures in the future. So, they decided to stabilize everything with a long titanium rod running from my hip to my knee. Did you know that the femur is the largest bone in your body? Well, I do now!
The surgery was set, and as I was wheeled into the operating room, numb from the nerve block but high in spirit, I couldn’t resist the moment. With a mischievous grin, I belted out the song from the movie Aladdin at the top of my lungs:
“Prince Ali, fabulous he, Ali Ababwa!”
Dr. Ali turned red, the surgical team erupted in laughter, and I went under knowing I had left my mark on that OR.
When I woke up, there was more good news—Nagib was on a flight from Toronto to be by my side. And my BFF, Tashu, wasted no time getting out my hair and makeup kit to make sure I looked fantastic. Because let’s be real—hospital recovery deserves a little glamour.
I spent seven days in the hospital before being discharged yesterday. My optimism told me I’d be on a flight back to Toronto this week, but my body had other plans. The pain is intense. Fatigue is real. And I’m learning, slowly but surely, how to move again, how to exercise, how to navigate a walker. Right now, I’m leaning on others. My goal? Regain my independence, one determined step at a time.
And speaking of others—Vancouver could have felt isolating during this ordeal, but instead, I was surrounded by angels.
Leila, my best friend and colleague, and her husband, Shaffiq, opened their home to Nagib and me, pampering me with hand and foot massages, homemade rice pulao, and carrot pickles. She’s been my rock while also holding down our work solo this week.
Tashu, my relentless exercise czar and cheerleader, spent days at the hospital, helping me do my physio exercises, cuddling me when I needed comfort, and reminding me that healing isn’t just physical—it’s emotional too.
This morning, I took a moment to thank my legs. For their balance, their strength, their resilience. For carrying me through life, for getting me out of bed, for holding me up even now, in my weakest moment. I will never take them for granted again.
I’ve accepted that this accident was meant to happen. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. I have had to cancel work commitments, postpone my trip to Portugal in April and prepare for a less than stellar quality of life for the next couple of months. As I left the hospital, I gave myself permission to feel the weight of it all and cried. And then, by the elevator, I met this tall, handsome man in his 30s. His arm was in a cast, and his left leg … missing. He had been caught in an avalanche, buried under the snow until they found him and airlifted him to safety.
When I asked how he was doing, he smiled and said: “I have life. And when there is life, there is hope.” Perspective. Strength. Resilience.
So here I am, making the most of this journey—literally one step at a time.
