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.