Heavy Words

A woman, head covered with a simple scarf, asked to speak to me alone, without anyone else listening in. She looked to be around my age, give or take a few years. She apologized profusely to Rasheed and Mazen, saying she needed to discuss a private matter with the doctor, a medical condition. Rasheed, more experienced in dealing with overtly devout women, asked her whether she needed the men out of the room. No, she said. She only needed to talk. She did not say anything until my companions were at the other side of the room.

“I have a problem,” she began. She looked both left and right to make sure no one was listening. As she did, she set off waves of spicy fragrance, some combination of basil, ginger, and olive oil. I couldn’t be sure where exactly the scent emanated from, but I assumed from under the head scarf, probably some homemade hair-care oil.

I nodded encouragingly, making sure my face remained noncommittal.

“Ever since we left home,” she said, “I haven’t been able to speak.”

I did not say anything, just raised a questioning left eyebrow. She understood. The vertical wrinkle running down her forehead deepened.

“Oh, I’m speaking now,” she said, “but not the right way. My words seem heavy and slow, much too slow. And sometimes I can’t even form words.”

“Forgive me,” I said, “but I don’t understand what you mean by your words seeming slow. It appears to me that you sound normal.”

“No, I don’t sound normal,” she said. “Not like before. My tongue has expanded. It’s quite swollen, much too big for my mouth.” Shoving her head forward toward me, she opened her mouth wide, drawing her cracked lips apart with both forefingers. “Look,” she said with a distorted lisp. “Look.”

She wished me to examine her mouth like you would with a horse. Unlike her teeth and her dry and stretched lips, the tongue looked healthy and pink. Her uvula, hanging like a fleshy polyp at the top of her throat, seemed normal to my naked eyes. I asked her to lift her tongue and she did. Nothing.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

She shook her head sideways. It didn’t. I was now certain that the lovely spice scent originated from her hair.

I told her to keep her mouth open for a minute, but that there was no need to use her fingers. I wondered what I could use for a tongue depressor without having to abandon her to look for one. I didn’t have a spoon on me, a Bic pen would have to do, and I did have alcohol wipes in my pocket. There was no sign of a problem, not on her tongue or in her throat. No discoloration, no movement issues, no swelling, no pain, no polyps, no apparent symptom of any disease I recognized, not diphtheria, no visible tumors. All I could see was a possible abscess in one of her teeth, but I was no dentist. I could not figure out what was going on.

“I don’t see anything wrong,” I said. “And you have no pain, right?”

She seemed disappointed. I wondered whether it was a neurological problem or a psychosomatic one. Why did she want the men to leave? I asked her if she could be more specific with her descriptions. How did it feel to have a swollen tongue? What did heavy words sound like? She shrugged.

“I think you should see a dentist,” I said.

“My teeth don’t hurt either,” she said.

She thanked me politely, stood up, and walked away. She sat on her cot across the room, took out a large plastic bag brimming with clothes, and began to rummage through it.

I wished I could refer her to someone. I wanted to explain to her how the brain works, what the nervous and endocrine systems were, but nothing came out. I wished to say kind words to her, anything.

My words were too heavy.

Another woman moved up the queue and sat before me.