March 2015

Dysphasia, Asphasia

My father the mathematician, the poet, and the gambler, had an undetected stroke last week, and he has lost his ability to retrieve and enunciate words.

He understands my words. And other people’s words.

He understands not only the text, but the correct reading of his own long poems when I recite them to him.

He can not read them. He can not produce one word of it, let alone the metaphors, allusions, biting satire, literary puns, and word games.   The title of the poem I read to him today, was “In honor of the day of the Briber” and began with a eulogy and quickly transformed into a biting satire… the briber ends in hell, to the great satisfaction of the narrator.

It is good. It is committed. He wrote poems my father. The facility he had with language. French and English, as well as his native Persian.

What is to be done now?

When he saw me this morning, he was so excited, he said “Zood oomadi” you came early. I had arrived from London. Last time, he had complained, “you are late.”   This time, I surprised him. I came as soon as I knew something is up. I heard the word “mikham”, I want.

And he is aware of passage of time. Zood Oomadi. He said with excitement.

But then, as the day passed…. He became angry and angrier with me.

Why?

Because he sensed I was not completely there? Or that I had given up the fight? Or that it was too painful to be able to talk to me. To say things to me. Explain. Demand. Joke. The subtlety of his communication…. The strict economy of it above all.

Language for him was at the end sacred. You didn’t abuse it. You wouldn’t talk so much specially when on the phone. You wouldn’t say unnecessary things. He practiced great economy with words.

And he is using them to his advantage. He says, Khoobeh. good. Bereem. Let’s go.

My sister is in India at this time. On a silent retreat, with a group of Pure Yogis from Manhattan. Her speech patterns two weeks ago, was so debased I noticed it. I was embarrassed for her ums and ums.

Last night in Tehran, on the Eve of April 1.

We visited Ekbatan apartment again today with Baba. And mr. Fardi from Parnian Center came with us. We waited all day, he kept his jacket on, until Fardi finished his shift. I wanted him to watch how I take baba to his apartment, and what we do there, so he could take him when I am gone every Monday. They would come at 4:00 pm, after his shift ends, the doorman here, Mr. Hakim, would let them in. They would make a coffee with milk, sit in the kitchen a little. Go to his room. He can fix things, observe things. He could walk out and be greeted by neighbors who recognize him, and say hello. And the shops and shopkeepers. And to sit on the benches he used to sit on in the park.

We had done this two days ago alone…. He went to his room, lied down and rested a bit as well. And said yes, he would like to come back every week.

So we did. Today we came with Mr. Fardi. We arrived, and entered the lobby. This was the first time, that he did not call the elevator himself, or push the 9^th floor button as he has done for 30 years.   I think in his presence, he felt disabled….

We went up, and I opened the door and we went in. He didn’t feel immediately at home, as he always had. Went to the kitchen. I made coffee, served him and left him alone there, to understand…. And find himself there.

I waited with Mr. Fardi (the guy from the nursing home whom I brought to show him around) in the living room.

Baba came out of the kitchen and looked around.

“Sefr”.

Do you mean money?

Baleh.

Are you asking about the monthly charges?

Baleh.

I have paid them, with your money of course.

Khoobeh.

Baad az man eenja kasi neest.

Baad. Man. Khoda.

I will come here. I like it here.

He looks at me.

I will come, Nina and mehrdad will come here.

Faghat. Faghat. Khoobeh.

He goes into his room…. He looks.

Baad man. Khoda. Che fayedeh.

Sefr.

This is in Homayoon’s name. I say. I repeat homayoon’s name. He looks alert. I like it here, I say. I will come here.

Faghat. Khoobeh. He looks at me.

He goes to the window in his bedroom.

He leaves the bedroom, the living room. He goes to the windows. Looks out, into the field. The airfield. Merhabad runway.

He knows this is not his home any more. What will happen to this place after him? No one will live here…

I promised him, I will keep the place living.

Back at Parnian. He led me to the table to eat with him. He wanted me to eat with him. And then outside. On the swing. And he got up, took my hand and led me to the living room, by the television to watch a show.

Oh he was so aware I was leaving.

When I told him, that I am going to call a taxi he had tears in his eyes. I took his hand. Pressed it to my heart. Tears. Tears. He looked into my eyes.

The sigh.

His sigh.

I have to go the university.

The smallest movement of his head, in accordance.

Such such such sadness. I have not seen anywhere.

Pure sadness. No hiding. And no excess. No theatricality.

Pure courage, on his part.

He looks into my eyes. And lets me hold his hand.

Pure awareness and presence, and realizing, the past, the present and the future, in that gaze.

I do not want to upset you I say. You are good here. They like you here.

Tell me go. Hit my hand. I hold up my palm. Say BORO.

NO, he shakes his head. NO, no, he will not.

I say, let’s watch Tom Sawyer on television. Ok.

The taxi arrives,

He doesn’t want to come to the door. But mrs. Mohseni, comes and says, let’s accompany Mahnaz. Ok, they will come to the front door. I say, say Boro.

“Boro.”