They cannot guide their son through the world anymore, so they guide his light through it instead, choosing kindness in his name to make the unbearable a little more livable. They met the modern old-fashioned way, on Tinder, in Iowa City in 2017. He was Faris, newly in the United States from Jordan to begin pediatrics, and she was a PhD student. One coffee turned into always. They engaged in December 2018 and eloped four days later because waiting felt impossible. Soon after, they moved to Cincinnati for his neonatology fellowship. He was literally a baby doctor. They always imagined a family.
Before they married, she was treated for cervical adenocarcinoma. That scare made the idea of children feel urgent. They started trying after the wedding and learned she was pregnant in the fall of 2019. She finished her dissertation while teaching and growing a baby during the pandemic. The pregnancy was smooth primarily, and an epidural and a mask eased the delivery. On May 6, 2020, right on time, their son arrived. They had kept the name a surprise. The moment they saw him, they knew he was Sami, a name that sings in both Arabic and English.
Sami was colicky and clingy, never sleeping longer than three hours. They never let him cry it out. The nights felt endless then, but now those hours are precious. Once he could sit, babble, and move, his joy opened. He adored the family cats and tried to say cat. He loved puppets, tickles, and especially Halloween. Neighbors gifted him a giant inflatable ghost because he often stared at theirs. On Halloween, he finally had both sets of grandparents together, a rare pandemic miracle, and soaked up the attention. They wanted him to meet the world, even with restrictions. Daily walks with the baby carrier facing outward. Outdoor trips to the zoo to see giraffes, his favorite. Evenings at the Village Green with music and sometimes a tiny taste of their ice cream. They broke the rules for joy and never regretted it.
On January 12, 2021, when Sami was just over eight months old, everything shattered. They had arranged a nanny share so she could teach one class. She stayed nearby the first week while he adjusted. The following week, for the first time, she stepped out briefly. Minutes later came the texts. He was not breathing. CPR. 911. Faris met the ambulance at the hospital where he worked. A whole team tried to save their son. Nothing worked. He was gone. There were no clear answers. It was not SIDS because he had been awake. Tests were normal. They suspected an arrhythmia. They had monitored him, worried over him, and used every tool they knew. Still no explanation. It is hard to understand how to go on without knowing why.
On the drive home, they promised one another total honesty and the courage to ask for help. The house was too quiet, nights too long. They brought home a puppy named Captain and discovered grief can come with wet noses and small routines. She bought a treadmill and started a running streak on Valentine’s Day, one mile a day for 252 days, the number of days Sami lived. She ran through aches and apathy because she wanted to feel the weight of his lifetime in her body. When she stopped, it felt strange that her legs still worked when her heart felt broken.
Family sent necklaces with Sami’s picture and the words some people only dream of angels, I held one in my hands. They rarely take them off. Therapy was hard to find, but a bereavement social worker listened first, and that helped them hold on until they could secure regular counseling. They know they are fortunate to have resources that many families do not, and they often think about the people who face this pain without a safety net. They reject the idea that grief should make you better. They were good people already, and Sami was the best of them. Resilience is simply proof of survival. Yet kindness found them everywhere. It made them think about the power of community in Sami’s name.
They created the Sami Colpean Al Gharaibeh Memorial Fund through their town’s foundation, first for a community garden, and then as part of a larger project at the Village Green with an accessible stage and gathering space. Strangers donated. A mom from an online group secured a grant they never expected. They started Shine On Sami Day on his birthday, seeding small pay-it-forward gifts at local shops and sending cards with his photo and a gentle reminder to care for one another. Watching children dream up acts of kindness because of Sami’s story helped them breathe.
They look for signs, not because they are superstitious, but because noticing what would have made him smile helps them keep going. When offers and gifts arrive at the perfect moment, they let themselves believe that love moves in ways we cannot measure. Their advice is simple. Survival is enough. You owe no one a particular performance of grief. Protect your home and each other. Open your door only when you are ready. You are not failing if all you do is keep breathing.
