As far as I understand, those were the primary causes of my mother’s disease. Negligent uterus scraping triggered an inflammatory process, which was not dealt with in a natural way. Due to the rejection function of the cells, for which savdo was responsible, the natural process didn’t work in the area of the injury. Cells in the uterus, inflamed by the festering waste, did not receive natural help. Their pathology began and a malignant tumor appeared. In other words, corruption of the work of a blood-producing organ (the liver) and pathological corruption of the composition of blood were the principal causes of Mother’s disease. This is certainly a very superficial and schematic picture – I mean my “scientific” explanations, my attempts to understand what had happened to Mama. In fact, everything is much more complicated. It’s sufficient to remember that a cell, according to Eastern medicine, goes through 28 stages of development before it splits. It’s clear that the stages form an uninterrupted chain. If something is broken in one of the links, a catastrophe occurs in others. Not only one specific cancer can occur as a cell splits but any of the 28 existing types.
I must admit that I couldn’t understand the meaning of a phrase Mukhitdin repeated now and then: “The whole of Ibn Sina’s teaching is built up from the cell level.”
How could that be? Ibn Sina didn’t know anything about cells; he couldn’t without a microscope. It’s not mentioned in his works. But the more thoroughly I read “The Canon,” the more often I thought that the principles of the functioning of an organism as formulated by Ibn Sina, and his keen understanding of the process of that functioning, precisely coincided with cell theory. You may remember that I have already mentioned that modern scholarly term "isomorphism," which aids us in comparing old and new scientific theories to find similarities between them.
I would like to mention once again that my explanations have nothing to do with what I heard in class. The conversation there was much more serious. How savdo, all stages of the process, all causes of its disruption and resulting consequences were discussed in detail. The conversation shifted from the tenets of “The Canon” to the methods of contemporary diagnosis and treatment, to a comparison of old and new approaches to the origin of various diseases.
After some time, I felt that the tabib wasn’t quite satisfied with his students’ answers. It was obvious that he expected them to be more profound, to use a more creative approach to the subject, to expand on it by using materials well analyzed at home – both “The Canon” by Ibn Sina and contemporary books on the corresponding area of medicine. Everyone present knew perfectly well that the basic ideas of Ibn Sina, both theoretical and practical, had withstood the test of time and hadn’t lost their significance in ten centuries.
“So, tell me, my friends, show me how it appears in the light of today’s science using specific examples! Don’t behave like contemporary physicians who, after being educated and starting an independent practice, stop being researchers. And don’t behave like those medical scholars who after landing at research institutions and academies mention the works of their ingenious predecessor only condescendingly and quite superficially.”
That impatient anticipation came through in the questions Mukhitdin asked during the discussion. He knew… he well knew that the world of scholarly skeptics awaited his students outside the Center. He himself had experienced it after his teacher’s death. He had experienced it during his work among high-ranking doctors and academicians in Moscow.
"Ah, Valera, you’re so naïve," The tabib used to tell me, the irksome person who pestered him with questions.
"Didn’t Moscow physicians see how fruitful your work was?"
"I worked in Moscow for so many years, curing so many people, but only a few individuals believed me."
The tabib told me many amazing stories on that account. I remember two of them in particular:
The son of academician N. suffered from leukemia. Many years of treatment hadn't helped. His disease was progressing. The father of the young man, "the great scholarly individual,” didn’t believe in either the tabib’s diagnostics or herbal treatments. The son proved to be wiser. He began to receive treatment from the tabib secretly, without his father’s knowledge. After some time, he felt better. His disease receded. When the time came to rejoice, he shared the wonderful news with his father-academician. And what happened? The "sage” stuck to his convictions, declaring that at last the many years of chemotherapy had worked.
The wife of a physician who was the head of the oncology department of a big hospital came to see the tabib. The tabib determined that she had breast cancer, but an x-ray didn’t confirm it, and she didn’t do anything about it. Soon the tumor grew larger and was noticed by everybody. She had surgery, a course of chemo… and in six months she was dead.
That’s why Mukhitdin wanted his students to be knowledgeable, not only in the field of Eastern medicine but also in contemporary medicine, so that they would become hardened fighters capable of rebuffing the skeptics.
Suddenly the tabib stood up, a short stick in his hand.
“That same bamboo stick, ” I thought.
I had heard about the stick both from the doctor and his students. It was the symbol of dissatisfaction. The tabib’s glance was more defeating than a strike with a bamboo stick.
He stopped near Timur.
"Well, please, repeat what you were telling us about, but please, don’t hurry! Go into detail, all right?" The tabib said, slightly waving his stick.
When Timur had arrived at the Center five years earlier, he not only hadn't known what pulse diagnostics was but wasn't able to speak Uzbek. However, he was determined to master both… The tabib acted in a very simple way. He gave Timur a synopsis of his work in Uzbek and said, “Translate into Russian.” Needless to say, it was quite a difficult task, but Timur handled it… and that was the beginning of his studies.
However, the capable, industrious, and seemingly shy Timur had his slight shortcomings. When he began to talk, he tended to go on at length and, as Mukhitdin put it, “liked to beat around the bush.” That’s what happened this time, and the tabib’s advice to “Ponder, don’t hurry” didn’t help. The magic stick in his hand didn’t help either.
"Well… enough for today," Tabib said, sighing.
Corrections and reproaches would be superfluous, for the pupils were upset and wore embarrassed expressions as they left. But how could it be any different?
“Ustoz” is how they addressed the tabib. Ustoz means “master,” “teacher” in Uzbek. But it seemed to me that they attached a loftier significance to it. Mukhitdin was their caring father, friend, patron, and even provider. He provided free lodging for them. (The majority of the students had come to Namangan from other towns and even regions.) Each of them was paid a salary at the Center. To tell the truth, one couldn't call the Center a profitable institution. Even though certain payments were charged for consultation and treatment, many patients paid what they could afford. And if they couldn’t, they didn’t pay anything because the tabib knew how many poor, very poor people there were around. Obviously, only his kindness and unwavering faith in the need for what he was doing helped him to cope with the burden he took on himself. Vast plans, numerous concerns, long hours of intellectual and physical work from early morning until late at night… he usually saw up to one hundred fifty patients a day.
Yes, he was an Ustoz, a real Ustoz, and it was no accident that when his students addressed him, they pronounced that word quietly, bowing their heads slightly. It was not surprising that they filed out ashamed and upset after that day's class.