Читать книгу I Am Like You! - Ali PhD Kian - Страница 5

By the time I was five I had a brother and a sister. In 1962, the polio vaccine was considered a miracle. In most Third World countries, the general population had a limited amount of specific medical knowledge. All that was really known was that a man named Jonas Salk had created what seemed like the answer to the permanent eradication of a crippling and, oftentimes, deadly disease. There was never any question as to whether I would receive the vaccination. So, after a short visit with our family in Asekan we traveled back to our home in Tehran on the same dirt road my beloved Grandpa had traveled along. It was important that we get to a clinic in Tehran in time for me to receive my vaccination.

All I recall about our trip home was that I was suffering from a mild case of flu. What our family had no knowledge of was the fact that, when the body is fighting a virus the immune system is weakened, and that weakness makes the body even more susceptible to other bacteria. Introducing the polio vaccine into my body while I was battling even a minor bout of flu set off a bacterial time bomb. I contracted polio.

In most Third World countries, there is really no one to complain to when an incident such as mine occurs. While it was most certainly human error that led to my condition the only recourse my family had was to throw up their hands and declare my fate: “God’s will.” Whether it was indeed “God’s will” or fate or chance (at the age of five), I was given a path in life to follow. I could choose to travel my path in self-pity or find a way to see the road ahead as both a life challenge and lesson.

I was less than one-year-old wintertime in Tehran

I didn’t simply wake up one day unable to walk. Polio took over my body slowly, diabolically. Emotionally, I felt more confusion than sadness. I was only five after all. I would get better. But I didn’t. Eventually I was only able to move about by bending my knees and placing the bulk of my weight on my hips. When I was extremely tired or weak, I was forced to crawl, just as I had as a baby. Everything that was happening to me was taking place in a Third World country, in the late 1960s. There were no wheel chair ramps or sloping, gentle sidewalks. Sharp angles became my enemy, stairs were my battlefield!

People began to stare at me, and not because I was a cute five year old. Perhaps I wasn’t quite a freak, but I was “handicapped.” It would be another decade or two before people began to use the word disabled. Words matter. Physical pain can be understood and managed to a certain degree; the psyche is much more fragile.

I grew to hate “god” not the God of faith, but the word itself. Strangers, who meant well, thought nothing of approaching my parents to offer their condolences. “God bless him.” “God cure him.” And of course, everything that was happening to me was “God’s will”. I began to feel like an alien, an outsider. The pity of others was being transformed into self-pity. I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to be like the other children. Ironically, perhaps the only people I didn’t feel judged by were other children. Other children might look at me with curiosity, but it was honest and there was no judgment. They only became frightened of me if they were reprimanded by their parents and told “not to stare”.

My parents did everything in their power to help me. I was taken to doctor after doctor, but it was financially exhausting. Over time, my trips to the doctors became a blur. I do recall one trip to a doctor when I was nine. The pain in my ankles was unbearable. I began to cry and couldn’t stop. I knew the doctor couldn’t make me walk again. I just wanted the pain to stop.

When it became clear that conventional medicine couldn’t help me, friends and relatives began to suggest a myriad of alternatives. One relative suggested my parents take me to the shrine of Imam Reza (one of the main Imams in Iran). Imam Reza was the great, great grandson of the Prophet Mohammad. There were many people who believed he had the power to heal. Some claimed he had given a small girl back her sight.

I have never been a religious person, but I respect and admire people of all faiths. It takes a great deal of courage to believe in the indefinable or things that cannot be known in a finite way. Unfortunately, traveling a more secular path in a country founded on religious fervor can be dangerous. Whether one “believes” or not, it’s never easy to be told that your lack of belief condemns you. In a country like Iran, telling someone to “go to hell” or that they will “burn in hell” is much more than a mere expression of anger. It can be a frightening condemnation that can have real consequences- corporal punishment and imprisonment can be the norm for “non-believers.”

My mother organized a “sofreh”. Sofreh is a gathering of friends, neighbors, and family for a feast. The host of the sofreh prepares food or arranges catering. A lavish meal might be prepared or the event can be much more modest. My mother simply served hot tea, bread, cheese and dates. Before the “feast” begins, everyone takes a turn reading from the Koran. After the reading and eating, each guest asks the host what they would like from God. Of course, my mother’s request was that I walk again. Everyone prays for God to honor the host’s request.

There was no miracle. My mother was disheartened. Perhaps she hadn’t prayed hard enough. I didn’t believe that but (as a child) I felt responsible, as if I had let her down and disappointed her. If only I could have stood up straight and run into her arms. Still, even as a little one, I didn’t really believe that food and prayer was the pathway to a cure.

I was my father’s son. He was a man of logic, more than emotion. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel deeply, he did. I saw that at the time of my beloved grandpa’s death. My dad saw the world as a jungle. He warned me. “People are cruel. They will judge you based on what they see, not on who you are. People will laugh at you, point at you, and make jokes at your expense. Ignore them.” My dad’s words were prophetic. Everything he said has happened to me. Still, the words that I remember most were “ignore them.” Those two simple words became my mantra. They were words I could believe in. Words that have allowed me to survive whatever indignities or insults have come my way.

My dad around the age of 45 years old

It took time to fully incorporate my dad’s advice and I realize that not everyone was cruel. There were (and are) people who are genuinely sympathetic to my condition. I also recognize that some people are reacting out of fear. It’s almost as if they think by simply looking at me they’ll “catch” what I have. What people oftentimes fail to recognize is that I don’t need to be reminded of my condition. I know I have polio. I’m living it. And even when the best-intentioned person expresses their sympathy or concern, I find myself feeling less than that person, when all I really want is to be seen as an equal.

I used to dread going out with my Mom. As she pushed me in my stroller, unwanted attention seemed to come in waves. People would stare, some would laugh or point, a few would whisper behind cupped hands, so we might not hear what they were saying. But I knew. Even as a six year old...I knew. They were wondering what was “wrong with me”. I wanted to throw a tantrum and scream to the world. “I am like you! I am just like you!”

There were times when I searched for answers. I wanted there to be a reason for my fate. Maybe I was being punished. Perhaps the God everyone prayed to at my sofreh felt I deserved my lot in life. But what God punishes a five year old? What sin could I have committed to warrant my condition? Or was I being forced to pay for transgressions in some past life? Could I have been an evil tyrant in another time? I was constantly flooded with questions, but there were never any answers. Over time, I began to realize there were no real answers–either to the prayers of others or to my questions...and there can be peace in acceptance.

I’m not alone in the world, nor is my experience unique. There are other physically challenged people whose lives are much more difficult than mine. I have all my faculties. I have friends and family who love and support me. Still, I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit that anger does rear up on occasion. It could come up over a simple task, like having to bend over for a pencil I’ve dropped. Or someone might pass by with a “perfect” body and the rage and jealousy I feel is enough to curl my toes, if I could curl my toes.