And then I thought that the office rather reminded me of an artist’s atelier. An artist paints on canvas with paints, while Mukhitdin drew a picture in his imagination, and his fingers also created a picture, a colorful three-dimensional, detailed image of both a pulsating artery and the whole organism of a patient, an organism that was functioning, alive and changing.
That was when I remembered the amazingly bright images created by Ibn Sina to explain each cycle of the vibrations of an artery. Here was a slender, graceful gazelle at the top of a rocky cliff. It was somewhat nervous, hopping and beating its hoof against the cliff. Maybe, the road down from the cliff was blocked by a dangerous foe – a gray python? Oh, how alarmed the gazelle was. First, it stood still, but suddenly, it couldn’t stand it any longer and decided to take a risk – to jump over the snake who watched it in one high leap. The pulse of a gazelle. Isn’t it a vivid and at the same time very precise description of an irregular pulse? Ibn Sina explained, “The beats are irregular in one part of a vibration when it is slow, but then it is interrupted and then it beats again.” Contemporary physicians have found a different definition for that, “atrial flutter,” but the essence is the same.
Meanwhile, patients continued to arrive at the office. The conversations were predominantly in Uzbek, which, to my embarrassment, I didn’t understand well enough. That was why the doctor gave me brief explanations now and then.
"He’s a shepherd. He fell off his horse and the horse landed on top of him. He was paralyzed from the waist down. They brought him here for the first time on a stretcher.
The old man in worn boots and a chapan (traditional Uzbek robe), about whom I had just heard, hobbled to the door leaning on a cane. His thinning half-gray beard swayed in time to his steps. Even though his gait couldn’t be called steady, Mukhitdin, who followed him with his eyes, wore a satisfied expression on his face. He was as happy as any physician who had achieved success in a difficult situation.
It happened often during his consultations. Sometimes I saw a broad smile on his face. Sometimes I could hear his joyful chuckling. He would also light his cigarette –an additional pleasure for him.
"Thank you, Tabib. Thank you so much," a moved patient, satisfied with his treatment, could be heard saying.
"How can you say that? I had little to do with it," Mukhitdin would say slowly, even somewhat surprised. "I just gave you the right herbs." And he would raise his thick eyebrows and throw his hands toward the heavens. "Thank God. It’s His doing. Besides, it was your zest for life and your determination to fight the disease that helped you."
At that, I felt like adding, “And it also helped that you believed in your doctor.”
I was absolutely sure that the tabib was a wonderful, skillful psychologist, in addition to being an accomplished physician. He astonished his patients with his ability to make a diagnosis, to discover the most important things during the first visit.
I remember how my American acquaintance, Neil Mazela, a robust 40-year-old man, once visited Mukhitdin when he was consulting patients in New York. Like all Americans he was very skeptical of any attempts to deviate from accepted medical practice. What is a physician expected to do in America? Tests, injections, operations. No pulse feeling, of course. So, Neil decided to consult with Mukhitdin, out of curiosity, after hearing from me that Mukhitdin was an extraordinary physician.
"You have strong headaches at the top of your head," the tabib said after feeling his pulse.
"I don’t remember having any," Neil answered.
"You sometimes have pain in your lower back… here… You must have lifted something very heavy years ago, hurting yourself badly."
"Maybe. I hadn’t noticed," Neil answered with a chuckle.
"There was a time when you fell, hurting yourself badly, as well. And you still have pain here." Mukhitdin touched his right hip.
What happened next is hard to describe. The smile left Neil’s face. He jumped out of the chair, moved closer to the doctor and… pulled down his jeans.
"Look here… But how did you know? How? Look!"
Neil’s right hip was a bit deformed, and it looked different from his left one.
"I used to go in for sports… and once…”
I had barely managed to translate his words when the tabib nodded and raised his hand.
"I know," he said calmly. "Sit down. I haven’t finished yet."
Neil was completely won over. He now believed the tabib unconditionally, which meant that he also believed in the effectiveness of his treatment. He was obsessed with the doctor. Belief stimulates brain receptors, and they, in turn, stimulate an organism and its immune system.
I observed something similar now in his office in Namangan. No matter which of his patients the doctor talked to, I could read in his glance, “I know what’s happened to you. And if you don’t remember it, I’ll remind you about it and explain everything.”
The pharmacist Abdulla entered the office to pick up a prescription for another combination of herbs. I had long dreamed about visiting the pharmacy and wanted to take this opportunity, but Mukhitdin said, "Wait… Sit down," and pointed to the chair for patients. "Let’s treat you a little. All right?"
I had caught a cold during the first days after our arrival. My nose was running. I had chills. Mama had been saying over and over, ”Treat him, Mukhitdin-aka, treat him, please.”
This time the tabib didn’t need my pulse. He took a small white packet out of his desk and commanded, "All right, comrade general… Throw your head back and show me your tongue… Now I’ll give you something tasty."
I opened my mouth, not expecting anything bad, but the doctor, the prankster, tricked me and poured something very bitter onto my tongue. I had no time to recover from that first blow before he grabbed me by the nose, and the rest of the powder ended up in my nose. My body shook as if from an electric current. The powder penetrated my throat, burning like fire. It even seemed to me that it came out of my eyes as smoke, for my eyelids burned and tears poured out of my eyes.
I jerked and tried to jump up, but the doctor’s strong hands pinned me to the chair.
"What’s wrong?" he laughed. "Be patient. You’ll feel better."
And I did feel better. The burning decreased and my nose dried out.
"Do you also use it for yourself?" I mumbled in a squeaky voice, for my mouth and throat felt as if they were stuffed with sand.
"Precisely. That’s how we treat a cold here. Now, let’s go to the pharmacy. I’ll show you everything there," the tabib suggested.
The pharmacy was next door. As soon as we entered it, I felt as if I had been transported from one “element” to another. The air was filled with the strong, spicy, exquisite aroma of herbs. Some of the scents were familiar. I felt as if I were in a garden with many different flowers where you could smell roses, the aroma of jasmine, and something wonderful though not familiar. By the way, I later recalled the pharmacy as not only pleasant but also soothing.
The pharmacy was a large room with many shelves, cabinets and racks filled with various zinc cans, hundreds of labeled cans. Accompanied by Abduraim, the head of the pharmacy, we set off on a tour.
It began with what Mukhitdin had promised.
"Try this," he said after taking pieces of some fruit from a can.
I chewed cautiously and said with relief, “It’s tasteless."
"All right. That was moza (oak’s nutgall, as I learned later on). It has antiseptic qualities. Now try this," and the doctor gave me something that looked like a smooth white root.