Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

Saleem walked into the kitchen. I heard his heavy sigh and the wooden chair legs sliding against the linoleum tiles. My explanation hadn’t satisfied either of us.

“We will take him to the doctor tomorrow, Saleem,” I heard Hayal say. “Eat your dinner. An empty stomach will only make you more upset.”

Samira was in the kitchen as well. She’d set out to prepare supper for her brother as soon as she heard him come through the door. Everything she’d felt for her father had been redirected to Saleem, a deep adoration that came with expectations and needs. She was that bulky winter coat that kept him warm but slowed his step.

Samira did what she could to help. She helped mash fruits and vegetables to feed Aziz. She watched him while I went to the neighbors’ homes to clean or do small jobs. She always looked drained when I returned.

“Aziz is not easy, janem . He’s scarcely any better when he’s with me.”

Samira was unconvinced.

HAYAL AND I TRAVELED DOWN THE LONG VILLAGE ROAD TO SEE Doctor Ozdemir who had, years ago, cared for her sons. The doctor was still practicing and had been joined by his son. Their home was at the far end of town. Father and son saw patients in a small room adjacent to the house. The setting was simple but cozy, with the doctor’s wife stopping in with a small plate of cookies.

I was nervous, too nervous to eat anything. Mrs. Ozdemir read the apprehension on my face and I could see she wanted to say something but we did not speak the same language. She exchanged a few words with Hayal and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.

I looked at my son and, for a second, saw him through Mrs. Ozdemir’s eyes. Wisps of hair clung to his moist forehead. His head was starting to look too big for his body. He did not look well, I had to admit, and it had been so long since I’d seen him smile or say a single word. I couldn’t imagine what our situation would have been like without the inordinate kindness Hakan and Hayal showed us. I wondered how I could ever repay these total strangers for all they had done.

Aziz twisted and writhed in my lap to get into a more comfortable position. He hated to lie down. I knew him well, but I could not say what was wrong with him, just that he was nothing like my other children and it frightened me.

Doctor Ozdemir entered the room, his warm smile fading when our eyes met. I realized how distressed I must have looked and stood to greet him. The doctor had a mop of gray hair, a solid paunch above his belt. I trusted him and his silver hair immediately and knew something good would come from today’s visit. He nodded his head in greeting and motioned for me to take my seat again. He pulled another chair from under the counter and sat across from me.

Through a unique medley of Turkish, English, and Dari, we were able to communicate. Where words failed, we gestured and mimed. At the doctor’s request, I placed Aziz on the examination table and undid his shirt and pants. Doctor Ozdemir pursed his lips in consternation even before he laid a hand on the baby. Aziz had fallen asleep but as he started to wake, his chest rose and fell dramatically. He wriggled left and right, unable to pull himself up to sitting.

Doctor Ozdemir pulled at the skin on Aziz’s belly and listened intently to Aziz’s chest for what seemed like an eternity. Using a light and a wooden stick, he peered into Aziz’s mouth and then pressed his fingers against Aziz’s round belly, again and again, inching his way across his body. My heart raced.

“Doctor- sahib, ” I interrupted as respectfully as I could. “Is there a problem?”

I looked nervously to Hayal, hoping the doctor understood.

Doctor Ozdemir sighed deeply. He removed his stethoscope from around his neck and wrapped Aziz in his blanket before placing him back in my arms. I propped him up in my lap and turned my attention back to the doctor who began to speak slowly, enunciating carefully and reading my expression. His words fell heavy on my ears as I strained to understand what he was saying. Problem. That was all that had been confirmed.

“What problem? Does he need antibiotics? Vitamins?”

Doctor Ozdemir shook his head no while he repeated “antibiotic” and “vitamin,” words that needed no translation from Dari to Turkish.

Doctor Ozdemir pointed to Aziz’s chest, to his heart and repeated the one word that he had been able to communicate. “Problem. Kalp.”

“Kalp?” Another crossover word. Kalp meant heart. I felt my arms grow weak.

The doctor stood up and pulled a book from the countertop. It was a soft cover book, its binding taped together more than a few times. He began to flip through the pages to find a picture that would help him demonstrate his point, but he quickly lost patience and tossed it back onto the counter. He pulled a pencil and paper from his desk drawer and began to sketch.

I pulled my chair closer to his. He drew a heart and started to open and close his fist rhythmically. Then he drew two shapes and began exaggeratedly breathing in and out. Lungs, I thought. The heart and the lungs. I nodded, and the doctor returned to his rudimentary drawing. He pointed to the heart and again opened and closed his fist, but slower this time. Then he pointed to the pictures of lungs and began to shade in the bottom parts. Something was blocking up Aziz’s lungs. Doctor Ozdemir again started his exaggerated breathing, but this time he did so with difficulty, breathing faster and harder, his face drawn in fatigue.

I thought a baby, my baby, was too young to have problems with his heart. I felt a sense of overwhelming hopelessness. How could we possibly fix something that was wrong with his heart?

Doctor Ozdemir knew his message had gotten across. He tapped his pencil on the sketch he held in his lap. Intikal was a small town, and there was nowhere to do the things he felt were necessary. There would be no X-rays or blood test. Aziz needed a hospital and even if we were able to reach the plentiful resources of a city, I had no money to finance all that this baby would need. Doctor Ozdemir shook his head.

The doctor had reduced my world to a graphite sketch on a scrap of paper. I needed to hear Doctor Ozdemir’s grand conclusion. He rubbed at his forehead, pulled a paper pad from the pocket of his white coat, and scribbled something on it. He handed the prescription to Hayal, and between the two of them, they informed me that these medications would help keep Aziz comfortable temporarily, but that his condition would only worsen with time.

Hayal’s eyes watered. She had trouble getting the words out.

It was not language that got in the way of our communications that day. Had he spoken Dari fluently, I still would not have understood my son’s prognosis. The doctor looked at me, and in his eyes, I could see he was not surprised by my reaction. I would refuse to accept, he knew, just as so many mothers did up until the very end and sometimes long after.

I pushed aside everything I was being told and held on to what I could do. I needed something tangible to keep me afloat.

“I will give him this medicine,” I said. “How many times a day? For how long?”

They understood me. Doctor Ozdemir made loops in the air with his pointer finger, continuously. Hafta meant week in both Turkish and Dari. Every week, he motioned with his hand that the medicine should go on. I nodded.

“Return in two weeks’ time,” the doctor said. Hayal nodded, thanked the doctor, and asked him something I did not catch. Doctor Ozdemir shook his head and gently waved her off. He touched my elbow and stroked Aziz’s forehead before he walked out.

I was numb. Hayal started to usher me out the door with only that small square of paper in her hand.