"What did he look like?" I asked. I wanted to know how the tabib looked.
"It’s a pity I don’t have his photograph. He instilled respect in you at first sight. He had gray hair, a long gray beard, and such clear, wise eyes, so penetrating that they seemed to be looking straight into your soul. He had a straight back; he never stooped. The tabib was 81 when we met. He left this world when he was 94."
We sat there silently. I understood that it was hard for Mukhitdin Inamovich to remember it, so I didn’t ask him any more questions about the death of the tabib.
"I went through some difficult times after my teacher passed away. I had no right to practice. I had a degree in engineering, not medicine. Besides, Eastern medicine wasn’t recognized as a science in the Soviet Union at that time. Abdulkhakim Bobo had been allowed to have a private practice because he treated local officials. But I didn’t have such luck."
And then, His Highness Good Luck came to the rescue. Mukhitdin Inamovich learned of a talented physicist, Abram Samuilovich Magarshak who was the head of the Scientific Research Laboratory of Distance Diagnostics. That lab was a part of the Institute of General Physics of the Academy of Sciences in Moscow. Fortunately, a branch of the lab was set up at the Teachers Training Institute in Namangan. Umarov went to meet Magarshak. To begin with, he offered to tell him what his ailments were after feeling his pulse. After getting the exact list of his diseases, the perplexed physicist told the healer "We’ll work together." He had naturally heard of pulse diagnostics before, but now he knew for sure that it was possible to obtain enormous biomedical information, that a pulse on the oscillating wall of an artery gives a full account about the functioning of the heart, liver and all other internal organs. Moreover, a pulse can obviously give information about the presence of a foreign body.
"Can you 'hear' the first cancer cell in a body?" the physicist asked Umarov once.
The latter answered, "I can not only hear it. I can reject it."
Magarshak and his colleagues decided to create a pulse-diagnostics device with Umarov’s help. Mukhitdin Inamovich became a research associate at the lab, and soon after that, the head of the medical diagnostics sector. That’s how a doctor-tabib came to be included in the circle of prominent scientists. And, finally, he met the famous physicist Prokhorov who, thanks to his authority as a scientist, supported Eastern medicine, namely the branch of it developed by Umarov.
At last, a wide range of opportunities opened up for Umarov. In 1985, the Minister of Public Health allowed him to treat patients in Moscow hospitals. He was given the right to do his favorite work, not only in his native Uzbekistan but all over the Soviet Union. He had dozens of pupils. The Centers of Eastern Medicine were set up in Moscow, Namangan, Vladivostok and Khabarovsk with his participation.
As I was listening to his amazing story, I thought how many difficulties this composed, seemingly unhurried man had overcome. And he achieved what may seem to be impossible to achieve. Yes, he repaid his teacher very well. He carried on his cause with dignity.
And the doctor, after he finished his laconic story, sat in front of me smoking his cigarette. It seemed he was somewhere far away, perhaps in Moscow where he, who must hardly have spoken any Russia at that time, had found such wonderful friends.
He lit another cigarette, I didn’t know which one, and I couldn’t restrain myself from asking, "How come, you, a doctor, don’t take care of yourself?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "It’s not that harmful. It’s even useful. It eases stress. I haven’t established through my practice that smoking changes the structure of a cell."
“Oh, God," I thought, "It’s hard to imagine everything he has established in his practice.” And then I blurted out, "Maybe you also deal with AIDS?"
The doctor nodded calmly, "Little by little. I don’t have enough practice. AIDS patients are kept isolated. But I’ve managed to treat two patients, a man and his wife. I’ve made an arrangement with Prokhorov. I will be treating them for three years. We’ll see… in six years."
"How are they doing now?"
"Quite well. I keep the virus under control."
While we were engaged in this amazing conversation, the medication arrived – a paper bag full of herbs. We opened it, and I smelled the aroma of mountain meadows warmed by the sun.
The doctor gave some last instructions about how to take the herbs and what nutrition should be observed. For instance, he didn’t recommend that Mama drink milk, and he absolutely forbade her to eat eggplant and meat, which contribute to the development of cancer.
It was time to leave. We said a short prayer that ended with the word “Amen.” He walked us to the gate and when saying good-bye, Mukhitdin Inamovich shook my hand. I noticed that he did it his own way. He took my hand with both hands and held it lightly, without squeezing it. He had the long fingers of a musician. Yes, those were unusual hands, the hands that had brought good to thousands of people.
Chapter 11. The Road of Hope
While Mama was being prepared for the examination, I told Dr. Pace how we had visited his colleague in Namangan. We were sitting in his cozy office, he at his desk and I across from him. Every time my eyes left the doctor’s face, numerous certificates and diplomas in glass-covered frames met my eye. This time Dr. Pace was more restrained.
"He felt her pulse and told us everything. And we were seeing him for the first time."
"What exactly did he tell you? What 'everything’?"
"Well… He was sure that it had all begun after Mama had a miscarriage, after the scraping was done improperly. In the uterus… he…" I stumbled, "found two scratches. They were the reason everything began…"
I grew silent. The doctor was silent too. It was difficult for me to continue, and I myself understood how strange my story might seem to him.
"You see, now, of course, that’s not the point. Doctor Umarov said that it was already in her liver." I realized that I was expressing my thoughts the same way the tabib had done, in other words, as simply as he, trying not to use medical terms.
"In the liver?" Dr. Pace shook his head. "I ordered a liver test. The result didn’t confirm that. So, what did he prescribe to treat your mother?"
"A combination of herbs."
"What herbs?"
"The combination was created especially for her. There are hundreds of herbs in his pharmacy."
"Mmm, yes. American Indians also used herbs for treatment, but that was so long ago. Hundreds of years have passed." Pace’s tone made it clear that he considered going back to the past an absurdity, simply because it was the past.
An invisible struggle between the present and the past was underway. There was progressive science with its x-rays, tests, biopsies and other objective proof of his correctness on Dr. Pace’s side. And there were just groundless words, a reference to ancient medicine not known to Dr. Pace on my side. I represented, so to speak, the Namangan healer here.
The doctor went to examine Mother.
"The scar is healing all right," he told me when he returned. "There’s a tiny inflamed bump there, something like a little abscess. It has grown a little bit. We'll have to watch it."
I asked whether it was possible to prescribe pills to control her hormones. I knew that they were widely used and always prescribed for oncological patients like my mother. But Dr. Pace shook his head.