Now, let’s go back to Mukhitdin’s explanations. He told me that the beating of a pulse reaches the upper point, the one where a doctor’s finger is placed, at different angles. Naturally, they all “sound” different. In other words, they carry different information. A combination of such beats spurts in an artery, angles of decline, creates 48 varieties of pulse. When Ibn Sina identified them, he gave them colorful names, such as “mouse’s tail,” “galloping gazelle,” and “crawling worm,” among others.
According to Ibn Sina’s teaching, a disease can occur as a result of excessive heat or cold, in other words, according to contemporary notions, as a result of an exo- or endo-thermal process. The pulse also gives relevant information about this.
And finally, the vibrations of an artery demonstrate which of the four humors is out of balance and is therefore harming one of the organs.
"Do you understand now how many different vibrations of a pulse it is possible to hear?" Mukhitdin asked. He picked up a pencil again. "Let’s multiply all these numbers… Twelve meridians by 48 angles of incidence… by four signals regarding changes in humors… by two temperature indexes… Well? Have you figured it out? Over 4,600 basic, and that's just the basic vibrations…"
A short pause followed. I tried to comprehend what I had heard, tried to imagine…
"That’s not all," he broke through the silence. "That’s not so many. I can distinguish 5,000 pulse vibrations, and my teacher was able to hear about 10,000."
"What about Ibn Sina?"
"I don’t know for sure, but I think about 15,000."
"So, what does it mean? Such an enormous number. Does it give an amazingly precise diagnosis?"
We were standing on the terrace, and Mukhitdin was, as usual, smoking a cigarette.
"You see," he said pensively. "If I can point to the spot where a tumor is with my finger, my teacher could point to its location with the tip of a needle."
“And Ibn Sina?" I thought, but I didn’t ask him about that.
Chapter 14. “Everything’s All Right with Me”
The life of every person consists perhaps of large and small, noisy and quiet battles. Our family was no exception, particularly when Mama fell ill. However, after acquiring Mukhitdin as our “general," we became a well-supplied army, and we had hopes of winning. Mama was feeling better and better. She thought that she was over her disease and was drinking the herb brews to improve her general health.
And in this way, two years passed relatively happily, if you didn't consider the permanent inner tension. But then Mama got pneumonia.
Mukhitdin had feared that most of all. “Beware of a cold. Be very careful, and don’t expose yourself to cold temperatures. Take good care of your lungs,” he often repeated to Mama. So how could this have happened?
Mama lost weight, grew weaker and looked drawn in the face. They did everything they could at the hospital, but they also broke the terrible news to me – the cancer had metastasized to her lungs and bones. In other words, what we had feared most had happened. We knew that Mama’s lymph nodes, affected by cancer, were agents of metastasis.
It was difficult to express my despair.
“Mukhitdin most likely won’t be able to help me,” I thought as I held the telephone receiver in my hand. But Mukhitdin, after listening to me, said, "Come here as soon as possible, for a couple of weeks."
Mama was very surprised. “To Namangan? Again? Why?” I had to lie that I didn’t feel very well, that this and that were bothering me… in a word, that I wanted to consult him about myself, and she should go along to keep me company and have another check-up.
Mama, thank God, didn’t suspect a thing.
The doctors at the hospital couldn’t understand why I was concealing the ordeal from her. Here in America, they have different medical traditions, different moral notions. Maybe doctors were afraid to take additional responsibility upon themselves. Maybe… but Mama’s peace of mind was more important to me. Mukhitdin supported me in that. He used to say that the less the patient thought about a disease, the better her organism could fight it, the easier it was to stimulate it, and the greater the chance of recovery.
Mukhitdin’s familiar office, his concentrated face in which all my hopes rested… How long he held Mama’s wrist. He’d never listened to her pulse for such a long time. He talked to Mama, made jokes, tried to smile. Then he lit a cigarette, with his other hand still on Mama’s wrist.
"And how is my oncology going?" Mama asked.
"Oncology? And what is oncology?" he smiled. "Valera, do you know what it is?"
Our eyes met. His gaze was odd and tired, lacking his usual spark. Yes, I understood correctly why he was holding Mama’s wrist for such a long time. He refused to accept what the pulse was telling him. He was trying to feel barely audible signals from an artery that refuted the diagnosis, but in vain.
"Everything is normal Esya-apa," he at last told Mama. "You still have a cold, but it’s all right. I’ll give you some good medicine."
At that point Mama demanded that the doctor get busy on me. I hadn’t had time to decide what to complain about, but Mukhitdin, after feeling my pulse, informed me, "You have a slight pain here, and he pointed at my right side near the ribs. "You have a blockage in your liver."
He was right, as always. Precisely now, in Namangan, I felt an intermittent pain exactly where he was pointing.
"It’s nothing serious," Mukhitdin assured Mama. "Let’s go, Valera. I’ll give you some medication."
We stepped out, and after lighting another cigarette, he told me, "Valera, it has spread to the ligaments. The lungs are also not well."
We were silent. I had already known all that, but I still hoped. Even now I was waiting like a child for a miracle… what if Mukhitdin could help?
He looked into my eyes and said seriously, "I can promise two or three years. She’ll hold out… and now I’ll take you to a place where you can rest. See you in the evening."
We went back to the office to pick up Mama and Abduraim, Mukhitdin’s nephew, who took us to our temporary abode. It was an apartment on the fifth floor with a balcony from which one had a beautiful view of the city and the whole valley spread out below. We could see people – some with hoes, others with seedlings –puttering around in their gardens near neighboring houses. It was the beginning of April, which was usually warm in Namangan, but this year it was cool. It was also somewhat damp in the apartment. Heating was out of the question. There was no hot water either. Mama was a bit sad after our comfortable daily life in America. And my heart was plunged in darkness.
"How shall we live here for ten days? How?" Mama sighed. "I don’t even have energy to cook anything."
But her worries were for naught. A doorbell rang, and Mukhitdin’s wife Fatimakhon and their 18-year-old son Khasauboi entered loaded with packages. Fatimakhon was energetic and skillful. A kettle was boiling on the stove, the electric heaters filled the apartment with warmth, and Fatimakhon’s skilled hands stocked the refrigerator with food. Pots could be heard banging in the kitchen from whence the aroma of something tasty came. It was impossible to confuse this aroma with anything else. Pilaf was being cooked, real Uzbek pilaf. And while it was cooking, we sat down to have some tea, and the music of the melodious Uzbek language filled the air.
We already knew a few things about the Umarovs, but what the wife and mother of the family told us was more interesting and richer in content than the brief stories told by the laconic Mukhitdin. They had five children, and the youngest was two years old. Fatimakhon was a gynecologist, but she had given up her career for the sake of her family. It was true that during all those years when Mukhitdin hadn’t been allowed to practice, it was necessary to earn at least something. The Umarovs decided to work at home. They wove fabrics on a loom, a skill inherited from their parents, and sold them. That’s how they had lived until the time when Mukhitdin received recognition.