‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt

You brought the stranger closer,

And pushed the close one away,

And gathered a lover to the embrace of a lover.

Proximity is a fate, and distance is a fate.

What do you say, O ship, where are you heading?

I do not know if this patient is lucky or if he is a miserable person. He has been given the chance not to bid farewell to life, but his current existence is no better than death. His condition is just an extension of life without hope. All those who have suffered his condition did not live long in the hospital. Entering the ICU meant they were beginning to prepare for the end of life itself. The entrance and exit are lost—no one is born again.

I reviewed the medication schedule with Mrs. “Fawz,” fully aware that she may not know how to pronounce the names of the drugs, but she would keep track of the nurses around the clock. Every time I went for a review, I found her in his room.

There are medications round the clock. For the patient, there is Stimonal syrup, 10 cc twice, at 7 AM and 4 PM. He also has a spoon of Modiora solution, 10 milligrams at 7 AM before breakfast, and another spoon of Ator 40 milligrams at 10 PM. There is Aspocid 75 milligrams after lunch at 4 PM. As for Cogentol, it is taken every twelve hours, at 6 AM and 6 PM, along with a spoon of Liver Biomin, the same, twice a day. I also prescribed him a Bicozin injection intramuscularly every Sunday.

I prescribed effervescent Stiastin syrup, mixing one packet with half a cup of water, once at 10 AM and again at 10 PM. Vitaminmont syrup, 10 cc at 12 PM. The rest of the schedule includes a spoon of Concorr solution, 5 milligrams at 6 PM, half a spoon of Amaryl at 7 AM before breakfast, a spoon of Folic Acid at 4 PM, and Hemogit syrup, 10 cc at the same time.

I stopped the Tavinec medication after the five-day doses. Apart from the medications, there is physical care for the skin.

I also gave her a list of ointments, sprays, and tinctures for the back, sides, and chest, to be applied for resisting ulcers. Two days ago, I attended a session with the physiotherapist who comes for an hour on Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings. Despite all this, after two weeks since the patient was transferred from Hadi Hospital to Mrs. “Fawz’s” house, there was no progress. The physiotherapist even confided in me his desire to stop the sessions because the electricity hurts the condition, and manual therapy loses its effect after an hour or more.

According to the regulations set by the Ministry of Health here years ago, many medications are not available to non-Kuwaitis. Therefore, we dispense these medications in Mrs. “Fawz Al-Abdullah’s” name. I write the prescription in her name, on my responsibility and hers. She buys what she cannot find in government pharmacies from private pharmacies.

Caring for a patient in such a condition requires a huge budget, so the families of patients bargain with Azrael over the lives of those lying between earth and sky, instead of meeting death and ruin. But Mrs. “Fawz” never hesitated. I wished I could tell her that this would only prolong the rope, the end of which is inevitably approaching.

The strange thing is that every time I entered the room, which revives the soul with its elegance, I was amazed. Matches running on the television screen. Local, Egyptian, and Western songs playing on the radio. Paintings on the walls, changing every few days. She would often look at me as if waiting for me to say something to reassure her.

She would ask me when she saw my silence:

“Doctor Medhat, reassure me. I feel that he has started responding to the treatment. Today, he smiled at me. I don’t know if he can hear me, and understand what I’m saying to him?”

Perhaps Mrs. “Fawz” does not know the seriousness of the situation, nor does she realize or imagine the depth of the injury. She does not understand that the only way out might come through a miracle, and the patient has already taken the path of those who go and never return.

I never wanted to make her despair. I didn’t want to tell her that those involuntary facial muscle movements might indicate a smile or a grimace, but the patient’s serene face makes her believe he is smiling.

Yes, he hears, but a stroke in the brain’s control center makes us doubt his ability to distinguish between sounds, whether they are disturbing or cheerful, let alone respond to them. But the hungry man always dreams of a marketplace for bread.

On one visit, I had climbed the internal staircase, and just before reaching the room, I heard her speaking aloud, and it became clear to me that she was talking to him. There were no sounds of music, Quran recitations, or commentary on matches; it was only her voice.

I didn’t want to interrupt her solitude. I looked around and found a chair in the short hallway leading to the room, next to a three-legged golden table. I signaled to the old maid—who had followed me after opening the villa door—to understand that I would sit here for a while before entering, and asked her to bring me a glass of water. The maid complied, knowing I didn’t want to interrupt her mistress, and slowly walked away, her pace matching her advanced age, while I sat listening to Mrs. “Fawz’s” prayer, her murmurs, her voice quivering:

“Seventeen nights have passed, my dear, with no light but your face. No sound but your silence. The nights, their sky only reached by my prayers for your recovery. I have not committed a sin for God not to respond to me. I do not know when God will bless you with recovery.”

“I am waiting for that hour, one day or night, and when it comes, you will find me beside you, observing you, and talking to you. What harm is there if I wait for a few more days or additional months? We have already waited for years. Much has passed, O benefactor, and only a little remains. The days left to us, together, will make us forget this fierce pain.”

A period of silence passed, then I heard her crying. I started to observe my surroundings. In previous visits, I would pass through the entrance and the salon and climb the stairs quickly, not giving me the time to contemplate the details. My only concern was thinking about the dictionary of phrases, whether new or repeated, that I would use to reassure Mrs. “Fawz.” She didn’t need me to say anything about the medicine; the abundance of sorrow had taught her how to cry. What she wanted was someone to pat her on the shoulder with compassion.

After I had visited her three or four times, she began to speak to me, as though unloading a burden from her chest, making me like a brother to her and the patient. I felt like I was dealing with a special case. I began to feel embarrassed when she offered me payment for my special visit; I felt that I was sharing in her sorrow, and just as we collaborated on writing prescriptions and dispensing medicines, I felt a greater duty than just the visit, comforting words, and listening to the grieving lady.

From where I sat, I could see several paintings depicting Mrs. “Fawz” by the hands of various artists. While I do not know the names of the artists in my country, the signatures on the paintings carried an Egyptian rhythm.

From where I sat, I also saw the crystal chandelier with golden arms hanging from the ceiling, passing over the staircase and into the hall, like a cloud above a water basin resembling the ones in the Levantine homes, which one of my Syrian colleagues at the hospital had shown me, a water basin surrounded by mosaic tiles.

There were carved inscriptions, protruding decorations, wooden furniture inlaid with ivory, triple-layer curtains, and carpets deep enough for the feet to sink into. There was no doubt that the rest of the villa was of the same grandeur. Yet, here was Mrs. “Fawz,” locking herself in a room of a few square meters before a patient who didn’t pay attention to her presence.

The music volume increased on the radio. I knew she had noticed the time of my arrival and was surely waiting for me. I stood up without drinking the water the maid had brought. Inside, the voice of Mohamed Abdel Wahab filled the room:

“O ship, tell me, where are you going?

O ship, tell me, where have you traveled from?

O ship, tell me.

You keep running ahead of me, and you sink and climb,

Pass bridges, turn around, and then go straight.

What do you say, O ship, where are you going?”

“Hello, Dr. Medhat. I hope you are well!” “Thank God, we are doing fine. Thank God. The condition is stable today, and his face is relaxed.”

I avoided looking at Mrs. “Fawz’s” face because as soon as I entered, I noticed the redness of her eyes from crying. She had wiped her tears, but she couldn’t erase the traces of sadness, and the heavy footsteps of sorrow on her face. It shows on your face, O chewing gum.

“Your voice echoes as you fall, and distance is painful.

Its fire burns.

The earth is a carpet as you fold it.

What do you say, O ship,

Where are you going?

O ship, tell me, where are you going?

O ship, tell me, where have you traveled from? O ship, tell me.”

She told me he “used to” love Abdel Wahab. Then she realized she had used the verb “used to,” and it hurt her. I noticed her eyes welling up with unshed tears. She quickly added:

“He used to, and still does. I feel that he listens and responds whenever an Abdel Wahab song comes on.”

I reassured her that the time would come when they would sit together again and listen to all of Abdel Wahab’s album.

“She brought the stranger closer, and pushed the close one away, and gathered a lover to the embrace of a lover. Proximity is fate, and distance is fate. What do you say, O ship, where are you going?”

“By God, Dr. Medhat, we were on that train, and it felt like Ahmed Rami was writing about my first trip with Mohsen from Alexandria to Cairo. We didn’t want to reach our destination. We wished the journey would last a lifetime, a timeless trip. I never imagined that there would come a time when all of that would be part of a past that never returns.”

“If the time is long for the passengers, they speak in questions and answers. After a while, they become lovers. Then, one knows where the other is going. I traveled with you, and returned with you. And I what was fated for me with you. It was a glance from here to there. The eye knew where it was heading. O ship.”

I felt the weight pressing on my chest. Should I continue the lie? Should I tell her that recovery is possible? Or should I face her with the truth?

I told Mrs. “Fawz” that what she is providing is unmatched in Kuwait, and that the care the patient receives in her house is no less than what is provided at Hadi Hospital. She had created a seven-star medical care room. The team that comes to follow up on the case is one of the best nurses. But the only solution that might surpass this, without confirming any recovery rates, is transferring the patient for treatment in Europe. There is no doubt that his being in Germany or France would be better than in Kuwait. She responded:

“I thought about that, Dr. since the beginning, but you yourself said that transferring Mohsen in a journey lasting over ten hours between car and plane presents a great risk that could put him into a critical stage with no return, especially after the abdominal surgery for feeding through the stomach. Even if there were no danger, such operations require family approval, and unfortunately, as I told you, events unfolded quickly, and the steps of coordination were not carried out as we had planned”

“My travel with him has no legal or social justification, and you are no doubt familiar with the customs here. If I travel with him and someone notices, I will never be able to return to my hometown. I took the risk of bringing him here, but no one sees him, and if they do, he is just a sick man unconscious in front of everyone.”

Mrs. “Fawz” was speaking while trembling with emotion. She was talking with two voices inside her, her own and the voice of society, as though she were playing two roles: the judge and the accused, living in two states: the lover and the nurse.

I didn’t feel that she regretted bringing her patient to her home as much as she felt the painful responsibility of bringing him from Egypt to Kuwait. The words were repetitive, but I accepted them with an open heart. Perhaps I should share her hardship in the moments I listen to her. I may be the only one she speaks to, as she might be too shy to talk to her family and perhaps sees no point in speaking to her old Indian maid.

The previous week, she had called me. Her call came exactly at one in the morning. As soon as I saw her number, I felt that something catastrophic had happened. I thought of everything, and I even felt that my medical violations had been uncovered, that my manipulation with the fake prescription had been discovered by someone, and that my expulsion would be imminent in the early hours of the morning. I told myself that with little luck, one ends up with a big mess!

On the other end of the line, her voice was trembling, and my anxiety grew. She told me that the feeding tube had come out of the patient’s stomach, and the nurse she had called could do nothing because every time he tried to reinsert it, it came out again.

I reassured her and told her I would be there immediately. I checked the hospital’s shift schedule, which I keep on my phone, to find the name of the on-call doctor in the internal medicine department. I explained the situation to him while getting dressed, and he advised me to buy a new tube since feeding often blocks such tubes, or the balloon that holds it inside the stomach might have deflated after the air inside it escaped for one reason or another.

When I arrived, I could see her behind the curtain of the only lit room. I went up, put on my medical gloves, and took care of the matter by replacing the tube.

During the tube replacement, Mrs. “Fawz” sat nervously, her eyes wandering as if she were the patient. Her forehead was sweaty, and her hands trembled. When I reassured her, I was surprised when she hugged me and started crying.

I felt that the tight bond between her and this patient should never be severed. She might have lost her life if she had despaired about him. (Continues)

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Published under International Cooperation with"Sindh Courier"