Voices of Islam (153 page)

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Virginia Gray Henry-Blakemore

A few years ago I was living in an English village outside Cambridge while researching my doctorate and working with the Islamic Texts Society, an academic organization that publishes important works from the Islamic heritage after having them translated into English.

One evening, as I reached to switch off the bedside lamp, I noticed that my arm would not stretch out to do so. In fact, I found I was not able to pull the blankets up about me except by using my teeth; neither arm seemed to function. When I tried to take a deep breath, it seemed as though my lungs were incapable of expansion. At the approach of a cough or a sneeze, I held my arms closely around my chest for fear the sudden and painful expansion of my breast would rip me apart. When I arose the next morning, the only way to get out of bed was to hang my knees over the edge and slide off since my upper torso had become powerless. I could not even raise my arms to brush my hair. Turning on the bathroom faucet was an excruciating affair. By holding the bottom of the steering wheel in my fingertips, I was able to drive to the village clinic. The doctor concluded I had some type of virus for which there was no treatment other than time.

A day or so later, my husband and I were to fl to Boston for the annual congress of the Middle East Studies Association. I viewed my affl as an inconvenience that would ultimately pass and decided to ignore my condi- tion. I noticed, however, that on the day we were to leave England, I began to have trouble walking, and getting upstairs was extremely difficult. By the time we reached the hotel room in Boston, more and more of my system seemed to be shutting down. I could no longer write or hold a teacup, bite anything as formidable as an apple, dress myself, or even get out of a chair unless assisted. Everything ached. I could not move my head in the direction of the person I was speaking to; I looked straight ahead, perhaps seeing them from the corner of my eyes.

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Friends gave all kinds of advice that I simply shrugged off. The worst part was lying in bed at night. It was impossible to roll onto either side, and my whole body felt on fi with pain. It was terrible to have to lie fl t, unable to make any shift whatsoever all night long. I thought to myself, ‘‘If only I could scratch my cheek when it itched, if only my eyes were not dry but cool, if only I could swallow without it feeling like a ping-pong-sized ball of pain, if only I could reach for a glass of water when thirsty during the long night!’’

As we traveled on for work in New York, I continued to make light of my infirmity and to ignore suggestions that I seek help. On the plane, how- ever, when it was necessary to ask the flight attendant to tear open a paper sugar packet for my tea, I suddenly realized, ‘‘I can’t even tear a piece of paper!’’ I requested that a wheelchair await me in New York and that I be transferred to a flight home to my parents in Louisville, Kentucky. Since my husband was obliged to stay in New York, a kind soldier returning to Fort Knox helped me during that leg of the trip. I felt like a wounded fox that wanted nothing more than to return to, and curl up alone in, the nest of its childhood. My father met me at the airport and the next day he took me for every test imaginable. Nothing was conclu- sively established—was this rheumatoid arthritis, or lupus? I was brought to my parents’ house and at last put in my childhood bed with a supply of painkillers, which I was not inclined to take. Since I found I could toler- ate great pain, I wanted to observe the situation and know where I stood. I started seeing my body as a separate object and my mind passively witnessed its ever-declining condition. When my legs finally ‘‘went,’’ with my knees swollen like grapefruits and my feet incapable of bearing me up, I mused with detached interest, ‘‘Oh, there go the legs!’’ The body seemed to be mine, but it was not
me.
1
Later that night
it
happened. As I lay gazing out of my bedroom door and noticed the carpet in the quiet hall, I thought, ‘‘Thank God I’m not in a hospital and the hall is not linoleum and that I am not subjected to the clatter of ice machines and the chatter of nurses. I know I’m in trouble and I do need help, but
that
would be too great a cost for my soul.’’

A few moments later, I became aware that I seemed to be solidifying, my body had stiffened and seemed to be very much like a log: I was totally paralyzed. Then, I seemed to separate from my body and lift a distance above it. I glanced back and saw my head on the pillow and thought, ‘‘This is remarkable. I’ve read about this kind of thing.
I
am thinking but my brain is down there in my head! I must be
dead.
’’ I considered what to do. When death comes in Islam, the dying person repeats the
Shahada:
‘‘There is no divinity except God and Muhammad is the Messenger of God.’’

As I thought of the phrase,
La ilaha illa Allah
(There is no divinity except God), I seemed to be pulled back toward my heart, as if by a thread of light. However, there I was—quite all right in many ways, but utterly rigid and still.

Even at Night the Sun is There: Illness as a Blessing from God
125

The light of the moon comforted me as it passed through the leafl

November branches, making patterns on the blankets. I thought, ‘‘Even at night, the Sun is there. Even in darkness and death, light and life are present.’’ The fall season seemed to parallel my state.

Then I began to think about my future. I have friends who are paralyzed and who have always been placed along the sidelines for various events. Had I now joined them? Was I now out of the normal life of others? I began to see myself like a hunchback or a dwarf. I had always been known for my inexhaustible energy and activities. I could always, somehow, get to my feet and do one more thing. This was now over. I would no longer be able to
do
anything. I thought of people in this world who have impressed me most

—the Mother Theresas of our world. I realized that what was exemplary in these people was not what they
did,
but what they
were;
the state of
being
that determined their movement was what actually inspired others. So I set upon a plan of inward action: The best thing I could do for others would be to sanctify my soul, to let my state of being become radiant. Having concluded this, I felt things were in order.

In the morning I was found, fixed in place; I was given eggnog through a straw—chewing was over. My husband came from New York and I recall marveling when I observed him. He could, without considering the matter in depth, shift his position in a chair, scratch his forehead, or lean over to pick up a dropped pencil—all painlessly! Imagine—refl action! Occasionally, if I really wanted to move my fingers, for example, I would think to myself, ‘‘All right, now, I-am-going-to-try-to-move-my-fi and I would concentrate my entire attention on the task. With incredible pain and focus, I could at most shift a few millimeters. It struck me profoundly that when someone is able to move in this world without pain—that is, in health—that person has a foretaste of Paradise on Earth without ever being aware of it. Everything after that is extra.

Ultimately, it was decided that I should be given a week’s course of cortisone so I could return to my children and the English specialist who might be able to fi re out what I had. The cortisone was miraculous and frightening. I could actually walk and pick up things, yet I knew that I could not do this under normal conditions.

On my return to Cambridge, in order to speed up the blood tests, the doctor asked that I be removed overnight from the cortisone. I then discovered what withdrawal symptoms are—a level of pain that seems to consume one alive with fire. But the pain was nothing compared to the frightening mental confusion I experienced: I could not grasp proper thinking, or even normal reality. What I needed was not only a doctor but also a kind of scholar/saint who could describe to me the hierarchy of meaning in everyday reality, so that I would not be so painfully lost. I suppose true doctors are a combination of all three. The Islamic physician/philoso- pher was called a
hakim
(a sage or possessor of wisdom,
hikma
). I grasped

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some rosaries and clung to them like lifelines thrown to a drowning man, and I made it to the light of dawn on the invocation of God’s Name, my sanity intact.

The English specialist could not make a conclusive diagnosis. Our Vietnamese acupuncturist suggested that toxins had built up in my entire muscular and nervous system and prescribed massage during steam baths to release them. This sounded defi tely worth doing. However, at the same time, I had come to that point that the very ill always come to, where, although they take advice with gratitude, inside of them something has dimmed and they no longer wish to make any effort. Pleasantly, I had reached a great calm within. Each day I was brought downstairs, where I directed the preparation of meals and worried the children, who saw I could no longer sew on a button or sign a check. I was resigned to never moving again. I had never experienced such peace. It was touching to see that people prayed for me and it was lovely that so many asked after my condition. I felt like an upright pole stuck in the middle of a moving stream.

In the spring, my husband had work to do in Arabia and suggested that as he would be traveling by private plane, I could just as easily sit in a dry climate as I could in cold, damp Cambridge. I agreed to go. On my arrival, a dear friend managed to get me to Mecca because she thought that prayers in the mosque there would help. But when I found myself before the Ka‘ba, I felt it would be wrong to pray that my affl n would be lifted, as its good had come to outweigh its bad, in terms of my heart and soul.

A few days later, I was asked to give a talk in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. I declined, explaining that I was unable to research and prepare a topic properly. Friends said they would be delighted to do this for me, if I could come up with a subject. I answered, ‘‘All right, why does this Job-like trial happen to a person, in the view of Islam?’’ The passages they wrote down and translated into English from both the Qur’an and the Hadith—the sayings and recorded deeds of the Prophet Muhammad—all seemed to say the same thing. In Islam, illness is understood to be a great blessing. This is because it is an opportunity, if borne with patience and freedom from complaint, to purity oneself of past sins and burn away wrong thoughts and deeds.

As I delivered my talk, it began to dawn upon me why Muslims always reply with
Al-Hamdulillah
(‘‘All praise belongs to God,’’ the same as
Alleluia
) whenever anyone inquires as to their health. I had always wondered why one could ask someone who suffered from an obviously terrible physical or emotional pain or loss, ‘‘How
are
you?’’ and all one could get out of such a person was, ‘‘All praise belongs to God.’’ I wanted them to talk about their pain with me, to share their suffering, and wondered why they would not do so. Suddenly, I realized that they were praising God for their state of being!

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127

The suffering they endured, no matter how great, was an opportunity to be purifi which is the very aim of human existence. In an instant, I saw my own illness in a new light. I no longer patiently tolerated it—I
loved
it, I
fl with it.
I saw how blessed I was to have been given not something small, but something as total as paralysis.

As I began to love my illness, my fingers began to regain movement. Bit by bit the movement in my hands returned, until at last in late spring, I was restored. What had been the most painful and difficult time in my life turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened to me. I had gained a deepened perspective, a sense of proportion and freedom. God had blessed me with near total dependence on others, a symbol reminding me of my utter dependency on Him. Even when I had not been able to move one inch, I was able to be in touch with His Divine Presence. This generous lesson from Allah taught me to say ‘‘yes’’ and to love whatever He wills for me, now and always.

(The illness described above was later diagnosed as Guillaume-Barre Syndrome.)

O God, to Thee belongs praise for the Good health of my body, which lets Me move about, and to Thee belongs

Praise for the ailments which Thou causes to arise in my flesh!

For I know not, my God, which of the

Two states deserves more my thanking

Thee and which of the two times is more worthy for my praise of Thee: The time of health,

Within which Thou makest me delight In the agreeable things of Thy Provision, through which Thou givest Me the joy to seek the means to Thy Good pleasure and bounty, and by Which Thou strengthenest me for the

Acts of obedience which Thou hast given me to accomplish; Or the time of illness,

Through which Thou puttest me to The test and bestowest upon me favors: Lightening the offenses that weigh Down my back, purifying the

Evil deeds into which I have plunged, Inciting me to reach for repentance, Reminding me of the erasure of misdeeds Through ancient favor; and, through

All that the two writers write for me.
2

From Imam Zayn al-‘Abidin ‘Ali ibn al-Husayn (d. 712
CE
), Great-Grandson of the Prophet Muhammad,
al-Sahifa al-kamila al-sajjadiyya,
‘‘The Perfect Page of the

Prayer-Carpet’’ (Translated by William Chittick)

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NOTES

This chapter fi appeared in
Parabola,
Vol. 18:1, Spring 1993, 60–65. It is reproduced here with minor modifications by permission of the publisher. The editor thanks Yulia Uryadova Salamo of the University of Arkansas for transcribing this chap- ter from the original.