"Those who tug at the hem of life are abandoned, yet those who remain are also alone."
Psychiatric Clinic, 2023
"Bulut, medication time."
At the nurse's medication alarm, I rose from beside the sleeping uncle and turned toward the door. I was exhausted from carrying my own weight; walking was a torment for me. When I reached the door, the nurse smiled at me. That smile carried the chilling coldness of people who first touched me; thus, it was far from affecting me or making me happy.
Soon, she approached me with the pill box. First, she scanned me. While reaching for the medication she offered, I was battling the thoughts in my mind. Even though I tried to touch the pills in her hand twice, I couldn't catch her hand. My hand felt the void, and I was dozing in that void.
In one final move, I reached the offered pills. Is the poison a human cannot pour out not contained within medications? It is like a person licking the place they once spat. She handed me a glass of water again; this time, I grasped the glass on the first try and took it in my palm. Though I wasn't thirsty, I needed to drink a little to swallow the pill.
As I tossed one of the round white pills into my mouth, the nurse mixed the other medication—the drops—into the water and handed it to the hand I had just pulled away from the glass. I was so sick of these things I had been drinking for years. I wouldn't want the times a person guards in their life to be medication hours, for instance, or for doctors to extract meanings from random questions, their only concern being to protect other people from me.
If I were granted one wish, I wouldn't want to get well; I would want people to get well.
"Thank you," I said with my usual mundanity. I thought of asking about the thing that occurred to me yesterday—my itching. "My arms itch a lot and are breaking out."
"It's the effect of one of the medications you're taking," the nurse said, smiling. "There's no need to worry; I'll have the medication for the itching prescribed for you now," she added. Taking the pen from her bun, she filled out the medication form in front of her. When I nodded and said I wanted to return to my room, she approved with a very understanding nod.
I looked at the serenity given by the flowers in the large pots placed where the corridor diverged and at the smoothly painted gray wall. Beside the pots were four trash cans, each separated for different types of waste. I always liked the separation of this waste; even as a child, I was quite meticulous about this. Perhaps I did it unknowingly then, but now I know: putting people into classes where they do not belong is cruelty.
After glancing at the paintings hanging on the wall, I came to my room. I knocked on the door twice; this was my habit. I knew no one would be inside, but the purpose of doing this was to respect myself. Looking at the red fire extinguisher, I entered absentmindedly. A familiar atmosphere immediately enveloped my soul. I raised my head and looked at the ceiling; I looked at captivity, I looked only at loneliness.
The clean light of noon had spread inside, and whiteness had formed on part of the wall. I had left the window open to ventilate the interior, and now that I was back, I could close it. I wasn't curious about what was outside anyway. I didn't think it was possible for me to notice the light through my own darkness, in my opinion.
Moving quickly toward the window, I turned the handle and closed it firmly. Tugging the cord of the roller blind, I lowered it until no light entered. Now I thought I remained behind life. While glancing at the books on the desk, I also watched the surroundings. Whenever I got bored, I would open a book and then close it again. Perhaps I was intentionally leaving myself behind the pages. Finally, I decided to choose one of the books to read; I closed my eyes and picked one, but I wasn't satisfied with the book I chose either.
The moment I let myself sink into the red armchair, a deep distress settled over me. The armchair, instead of relaxing me, acted like a swamp, pulling me in. After standing up angrily, I paced around countless times, sometimes drawing a square, sometimes a circle with my steps; it was one of the ordinary actions I did every day to distract myself, to miss out on my life.
Actually, I felt like writing, but since patients are forbidden from using sharp objects here, I could only do it under a nurse's supervision. Doing it under a nurse's supervision frankly disrupted my emotional integrity, and I couldn't be at ease with the thought that my paper was being watched.
Finally, exhausted again, I sat in my red armchair. I figured this distress would be gone soon because Umut would be back from his appointment. He was currently seeing his doctor. I'd be lying if I said I missed him completely. Actually, the only reason I talked to people was boredom; other than that, I didn't believe they carried any value, and I wouldn't believe it from now on either. Yet, I think I loved him.
I sat until my back ached from sitting. Maybe I should go back to the uncle, but first I wanted to lie down for a bit. Stripping back my gray bedspread, I sat inside and stretched out my legs; later, when I had no strength left to keep my eyes open, I moved into a fully reclined position and rested my eyes. There was the comfort of the bed against my back, but not even a breeze of that comfort in my mind.
Because the sound of the door opening made me give all my attention to the door, I lifted my head slightly to see who had come. The woman dragging the cleaning machine entered silently and carefully. When she saw me looking at her, she smiled; I smiled back. While she wiped until everywhere was spotless, I followed the feet of the machine.
Finally, she finished her work and walked toward the door; at that moment, her eyes drifted to the window and the fully closed blind. Apparently, she couldn't help but ask, and soon satisfied her curiosity. "You've closed the blinds tight, shall I open them a little?" she said with a polite and affectionate expression. Straightening up suddenly, I said, "No."
When this reaction surprised her, she shook her head and teased me with words I knew were well-intentioned: "Even my cat looks out the window, I guess you don't like it." When I didn't answer, she left the room with the machine.
My sleepiness had vanished. I stood up and looked at the clock; evening was approaching, the room had already darkened a bit. I didn't care because I wasn't going to turn on the light. I had it in mind to go check on Umut; frankly, I was curious about what he said regarding what the doctor told him about his illness.
The moment I opened my door, the silence in the corridor caught me. I walked straight past the trash cans and headed toward the last of the rooms on the opposite side. The door was ajar; the cleaning staff was still mopping the floors. I thought Umut would be in his room, but when I slipped through the crack of the door after knocking, I saw no one was inside. It seemed quite strange because by now the meeting should have been over.
"Was anyone inside?" I asked the cleaning woman. Her face now seemed a bit weary, yet she still radiated cheer. "There was no one, it's been empty since I entered, honestly," she said with all her sincerity.
The uncle's room was right next to Umut's room. I knocked and entered the same way. No sound had come; thinking he might be sleeping, I entered silently. My eyes found the bed against the wall; as the still body lay inside with all its fatigue, I could only watch. I actually knew: there is no healing here, there is suppression and putting to sleep. Yet, shouldn't treatment be done to awaken?
Stop thinking, I whispered to myself, clenching my fists.
"Bulut, come eat your food," said the familiar voice of the nurse. Startled, I quickly turned toward the source of the sound. She had a tray in her hand. Inside was a bowl of soup, some salad, and a slice of chocolate cake; she must have brought it for the uncle.
"I want to eat my meal later today, I'll stay here, I won't tire him too much, don't worry," I made a brief explanation to the nurse.
She took this request quite naturally and warned me, "Of course you can eat it, but not every day, deal?" I nodded; this formed a silent persuasion. Calling the uncle by his name, she woke him gently. The uncle was in such a deep sleep when he opened his eyes that he first asked where he was. While the nurse gave him a satisfying and loving explanation that he was safe, she also helped him sit up.
"Let's measure your blood pressure," she said, and called the other nurse by calling out, "Nurcan." "Honey, bring the blood pressure cuff." The uncle seemed better then; he looked at me and froze. I also looked at myself in surprise to see what was wrong. When Ms. Nurcan entered almost at a run, she placed the cuff on the uncle's arm; I could see the cuff inflating more and more. Today she was an elderly nurse filling in for another; normally, the eldest here was Ms. Nurcan.
"Are you alright, Mr. Muzaffer?" she was saying. Finally, when she measured the value, she said it was normal, opened the snap of the cuff, and removed it from his arm. The uncle was smiling sweetly as if spoiled by this attention. "Thank you, my nurse, may God bless you," he said, breaths escaping his difficultly opened mouth. The woman smiled back at him with the same kindness.
"Eat your meal, alright? You'll get well faster if you eat."
When they both left the room, deep in conversation, I was looking to see if anyone was passing by in the corridor. Those who came passed, those who went came, and finally, the surroundings became serene. When the uncle took a spoonful of soup to his mouth, I still couldn't understand why he looked at me that way.
"Are you alright?" I said, adjusting my tone of voice. Smacking his lips, he left the spoon and wiped his mouth with a rectangular folded napkin. "I'm fine, I'm fine, but I saw very terrible nightmares. They say when you see such a bad dream, you should spit to the left and go back to sleep, but it's shameful," he said, shaking his head. His lengthened beard resembled the image of a wise man.
"Tell me, was it about me? You just looked at me strangely," I said with total openness. He laughed sweetly at my words; his beard twitched. As he took a piece of bread dipped in soup to his mouth, he swallowed his bite and wiped his mouth again.
"I don't tell my dreams. If I see a bad dream, I don't tell anyone; I immediately repent. If I see a good one, I interpret it as auspicious and still don't speak. Didn't Yunus Emre say, 'A word can stop a head from being cut, a word can end a war, a word can turn poison into honey and butter'. Do you read him? I say not everything should be taken into the mouth. But it is true that I was surprised to see you, bless your mind. When I woke up, I forgot where I was for a moment, and seeing you, I was bewildered. Your face had turned white as a sheet," he said, barely speaking. Then, his breath must have run out, as he coughed twice.
"My face turned white?" I said in surprise. I really hadn't understood anything because I didn't know how such a thing happened. He nodded at me with serenity. "Of course, it turned white. Are you waiting for someone?" he said, and when he finished the last sip of soup, I saw that nothing was left of the bread either. When he attempted to leave the tray on the nightstand, I immediately took it from his hand and helped him.
"..."
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the armchair with his hand. I went and sat without insisting. As I leaned back, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I was actually applying the breathing exercise the doctor had suggested I use.
"Is that that breathing technique or whatever? They told me too. I'm not a scholar like you, son. When they said 'inhale through the nose,' I'd take it through my mouth; when they said 'exhale through the mouth,' I'd give it through my nose. I guess you're doing that," he said to me, laughing. I thought there was such a vibrant, such a good-hearted man before me that I couldn't help but wonder what brought him here, but I thought asking would be impertinent. I didn't know what he had experienced to use such heavy medications.
"It is so," I said, and added: "It doesn't work much for me either, try it anyway." The moment I rose, supporting myself with my hand pressed against the armrest of the chair, his voice stopped me. "Wait," he said; "Let me say my piece."
Frozen in place, I looked at the small area under his eyes, full of wrinkles. I couldn't tell if there was the cold side of life or the warm side in those eyes. Though it didn't matter to me. Taking a deep breath through his nose that moved his chest, he fixed his eyes on his quilt.
"What do you do in your room all alone like that every day?" he asked first. I shook my head vaguely and said, "Nothing." I didn't want anyone to ask me that, nor did I want to answer, frankly.
"So, you won't open the lid of the box for me?" he said in a humorous tone. Truly, his use of words was very aesthetic, proper, and polite.
"No," I said, drawling it out, "What box?"
"I mean the lid of your heart, dear. They say it like that in our village; especially my lady used to say it a lot. If only you could see how beautiful my lady was; I never saw anyone else but her, and I never wanted to. Her eyes were small, moss-colored, and her nose was tiny. Sometimes she'd wear her glasses, sometimes she'd take them off. I'd say 'don't keep taking them on and off, you'll ruin those beautiful eyes,' but she wouldn't listen. It wasn't often she ignored my word, but sometimes she'd make herself suffer. As for me, I couldn't bear any of the pain she suffered. One day I said, 'Don't let your eyes get watery even after I die.' Bless her hands, she'd make all kinds of food, and I'd buy the ingredients. On the days I went to work, I'd return straight home so she wouldn't worry. Does a man who loves speak a word over his lady's word? Just as he wouldn't over the word of his beloved. I was afraid of her being hurt while waiting for me. One day I was walking in the snow; while trying to hurry, I even fell."
He chuckled after his words. "Yes," he said, drawling it out, and continued after reciting a blessing upon our Prophet.
"You're alright, I hope," I said, thinking it would be rude to remain unresponsive.
"Oh," he said, "I was sturdy once, now I'm falling apart," as a bitter reproach settled on his face toward the end of his sentence. "I always prayed to my Lord: 'I spent my youth with this beautiful woman, let my old age be auspicious with worship to You and service to my lady'." Although I was afraid to ask, I took a deep breath and ventured, "Your wife, right now..."
But of course, the decision to follow through with the rest of it stung even the conscience of my broken emotions.
"She passed away," he said, his pupils becoming watery. As for me, I didn't know how to console someone who was crying. I didn't even know if offering consolation was the right thing to do at such a moment. Handing him the tissue on the nightstand, I waited for him to wipe his nose. We remained without speaking for a few minutes; afterwards, as if he had recovered a little, he sniffed and moved his back.
"Are you comfortable?" I said with mixed concern. He nodded, confirming me with his sunken eyes while his soul met with affection again. "I'm comfortable, but you tell me now, you didn't answer my question. What do you do in your room?" he asked as if nothing had happened. I felt as if I were seeing a great person who had overcome suffering. I didn't see a wall, a machine; I saw a flesh-and-blood, real human being.
It was my turn to be outspoken. "I read books, pace around, lie in my bed, and sometimes I think," I said. Actually, I wanted to keep it short because the only thing I had known since childhood was the uselessness of speaking. He frowned his thick black eyebrows, looking with feigned anger at this answer. "Don't make me pull it out of your mouth with tweezers, son; tell me piece by piece what you do. You say you think, but what do you think about?"
"Nonsensical things," I said, again wanting to keep it short.
"Understandably, you have no intention of talking," he finally said reproachfully, but this time he hadn't frowned. "Fine, at least go and sleep; don't keep swaying over my head like a baby's cradle." Taking this remark seriously at that moment, I stood up and was just about to leave when his voice stopped me again.
"I was joking, joking, son. You got cross and left immediately like a bashful bride. I don't understand what kind of youth you are, one can't even exchange a couple of words with you," he flared up when I turned my head. I really wasn't in the mood. Actually, everything was in its usual state, and I only saw the hours changing.
"You said it very seriously, so I thought it was real," I said, explaining. Then he asked me for a glass of water, so I filled the water from the pitcher on the opposite counter and handed the glass to him. Between the trembling movements of his dried and spotted hands, he grasped the glass and took it slowly to his lips.
"Of course I'd be serious, otherwise would it be a joke?" he said, snapping at me. He didn't look at all like a madman as people talked about him behind his back here; in fact, he was quite intelligent. Especially, he didn't look like an ignorant person at all.
"If there's nothing else left to talk about, I'll be going now," I said, finally unable to resist the urge to leave.
"Alright," he said with his laughing eyes and said, "Come again, child," while giving a deep breath. I was going to present him with my condition; it was just the right time.
"But you continue telling about yourself too."
"If you tell too, why wouldn't this old man tell?" he said, leaving the glass he had held for seconds on the nightstand with a clicking sound.
"I won't tell," I flared up and explained the reason afterwards. "I have nothing to tell."
At that moment, he bit his lip and muttered, "Good heavens." "In our time, there was an artist. They'd ask him which concert he had, he'd say 'I don't know'; they'd ask how many houses he had, he'd say 'I haven't counted'; they'd ask if there was someone in his life, he'd say 'I don't know' to that too. One day I went right to the front of this man, sat in the section where the seats were close to the stage. They asked the man again, and when he said 'I don't know' again, I got angry. 'Well, I don't know this, I don't know that; give an answer, you lazy man,' I said. Everyone was looking at me though, my cheeks had turned red. I thought the man would be angry with me, but at that moment he reached out his hand to me."
"He wanted to shake hands, I guess. So I reached out my hand too, then anyway, I went down. At the exit, just as I was leaving, he was waiting for me again. 'Thank you for understanding me,' he said. What can be said to one who says that? I also said 'you're welcome'."
"See, I told something again," he said, feigning regret. "And you keep your mouth shut. If you don't have a topic to talk about tomorrow, I swear I won't take you into my room; and don't think I didn't see you come in to cover me up."
"Did you see?" I asked, suddenly surprised he knew this. I thought he was in a heavy sleep at that moment and didn't expect him to hear.
"Of course," he said, puffing out his chest as if proud of himself. "I hear, I hear well; especially, I hear goodness right inside me. Now go to bed."
Nodding my head, I returned to where I had just come from and went out through the door that was already ajar and closed it. Hearing the sound of the door closing, I immediately looked at the room next door; the empty room, the lonely room, the poor room, the orphaned room. God, if I were in a book, the author would have to tell these by cutting them out. Definitely, if someone read my life, they could die of boredom. What a pity!
Then I passed and went on; my steps found their way and brought me to the door of my room. This time I had found my room without watching anything and in total exhaustion. I have nothing to tell for tomorrow anyway, I said to myself. So I lost my last friend too; I already don't know what happened to Umut, as for myself, I am a total enigma. But I didn't know; I, who hadn't opened my hands to God—I, who had pulled the nails out of the doors He opened for me and had attempted suicide many times—I would only learn. God would teach. Everyone learned whatever they learned from God; wherever everyone went, they would return to God again. This time my thoughts had turned completely to spiritual matters. I was like a monkey jumping from branch to branch. While lying in my bed, which was already messy, there was a wish between my lips: "God, let me have things worth telling too."
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"God is the Hearer of all things, He heard him too."
End Of Chapter