One Million Reasons
I know a man with one name.
In Ethiopia, children receive two names: the first is their given name, and the second is the name of their father, and acts as a surname. One reason for this practice is to protect against incest, an easily-committed calamity in a country where everyone is related. When planning to marry, six elders from the groom’s family will visit the family of the bride so as to negotiate the marriage. In order to determine whether or not the bride and groom are distant cousins, the families relay the names of both parents back seven generations. These names, handed down faithfully through the years, prove the family line.
Mulugeta was no exception to this tradition, and had therefore been given the surname Epistafinos, after his father, the same as anyone else. He used the name to secure a 7-year engagement, but since coming to the United States adopted the practice of introducing himself by his first name only. As Epistafinos had fulfilled its purposes long ago, it was soon retired for good, and he became simply Mulugeta.
Mulugeta looks a bit like a great, balding owl. His dark, wrinkled cheeks are like old leather and a carefully-combed tuft of gray hair grows atop his head. He is always dressed well, in a quiet but purposeful kind of way; his suits are dark gray or navy, well fit and pinstriped. I do not think I have ever seen him without his tan felt trench coat, black fedora, and walking cane: he is quite reliable. The owlish quality he possesses rests, I feel, in his eyes. They are black and deep-set, which makes them appear small, and they hide behind large glasses, which makes them appear smaller still, but they pierce you. Every Sunday morning, from 9:00 to 11:00, I stand in the front left corner with the choir and Mulugeta sits in the front right row with whoever has been assigned to guide him through the mass books, because he is either too old or too Ethiopian to do it himself. Sometimes I catch him watching me. It is never a glance or an unseeing stare, but always quite purposeful. I cannot comprehend how someone can manage to watch another person in such a quiet and justified manner, but he does. Still, I always feel uncomfortable and a bit guilty when I catch him at it, because I have an uncanny suspicion that he can read thoughts, and I return to my prayers with strengthened determination.
I confess that this is the extent of my experience of Mulugeta. A heavily-accented “good morning” and the occasional attention of his silent eyes make up the whole of our relationship. But perhaps this distance has been an aide to perspective; that is, as long as it hasn’t blurred the picture entirely.
It is a long walk from the parking lot to the door of Mulugeta’s apartment, but he was waiting outside the large brick building to greet my parents, as he always did. A multitude of wrinkles accompanied his smile, like waves in a turbulent sea. “Father, how are you?” he asked, kissing his hand. “Madam, how are you?” He always calls my mother madam, as if she is a French heiress and not the wife of an Orthodox priest who holds mass in the back of an antique mall. “Come, come,” he ushered. “The food is ready.”
Soon after Mulugeta’s arrival, the complex began receiving complaints from its residents about a fiery stench that appeared mysteriously every few weeks, and thereafter Mulugeta was prohibited from cooking his native cuisine in the apartment. The ungracious attitudes of his neighbors did not dampen his spirits, and he now simply prepares these dinners at his daughter’s house and then transports them. He does not cook extravagantly for himself, but my parent’s bi-monthly visits merit a feast.
They were greeted by his maid, a short, plump Ethiopian woman in her mid-30s. She smiled pleasantly throughout the evening, but said nothing, knowing very little English (“Either that or she just doesn’t talk,” my father mentioned afterward). They sat and she proceeded to serve them course after course of Ethiopian delicacies: fresh salad, goat and chicken in a thick, peppery sauce, stewed squash and spinach, and of course injera, the thin, sponge-like bread that Ethiopians use in place of utensils. Madam received red wine and Father whiskey – just one glass, despite his host’s protests.
Despite Mulugeta’s reserved demeanor he never runs out of things to say, and I can easily imagine his words on that day, in the simple little kitchen.
“I learned how to drink whiskey a long time ago. I learned many things as a career diplomat, and that was one of the things I had to learn best. You must know how to drink whiskey, play golf and hold conversation. That’s what you do as the face of a nation. I served in China for a long time. That is where I got to know President Bush Senior; he was a diplomat from the United States then. We are good friends. He helped my family receive their citizenship in the United States. My daughter is a doctor and my granddaughter Michelle Obama’s hairdresser – we owe that to him and we are grateful.”
He continued, and enlightened them on many topics of consequence: He was close friends with the king and the patriarch of Ethiopia; perhaps he would take them there for a visit sometime. Ethiopians founded many of the world’s most civilized refinements, such as coffee, an accomplishment which found its importance in their coffee rituals, a very serious affair. His autobiography had just been finished – it was sitting on the table, and if he got it published, half of the proceeds would go to the church building fund.
Before they left, Mulugeta took them to the living room, where his wife sat in her recliner. She was covered with Afghans and blankets, even though it was about 90 degrees in the apartment. Mulugeta stepped aside to let my father by, watching attentively. It was clear to everyone in the room that she was leagues away from those around her, and my parents acted the way most would; grave, empathetic, and slightly uncomfortable. Mulugeta’s features hadn’t changed. His quiet eyes sent the message that his mind was at work on some secret matter; the same expression he always wore.
“Good evening, Urige,” my father said gently.
She blinked and gazed up at him.
“It is nice to see you again.”
Mrs. Mulugeta blinked a few more times.
It was always a challenge to give her the Eucharist, but she took it eventually, and then they conversed for a few more minutes before Mulugeta, ever the elegant host, walked my parents to their car and waved as they drove away.
“She didn’t light up for you today,” my mother said. “She always lights up when you talk to her.”
“She’s getting worse,” my father said.
Mulugeta met his wife in his early twenties. They were engaged, and for the next seven years he paid for her schooling and living expenses, after which point they married. They raised three children and a number of orphans together, travelled to China, Greece, Italy and Scandinavia, and eventually settled in the United States for the betterment of their family. She contracted Alzheimer’s in 2007, and has since been reduced to a blind and mute mass of blankets, the charge of her husband.
When microscopically examining the brain of an Alzheimer’s patient, two abnormalities will be evident. The first are plaques, bundles of protein that collect on the outside of brain cells and impede cell-to-cell communication. The second are tangles, which debilitate the nutrient transport system of the cells. This system utilizes a protein called tau, which is twisted into abnormal shapes when confronted with Alzheimer’s, resulting in tangles. Both tangles and plaques are responsible for the death of brain cells.
These cells are killed off at a measured pace, resulting in the many stages of symptoms exhibited. Initially, a patient will experience mild memory loss or confusion. These symptoms will persist until familiar names, personal history and everyday objects are forgotten. Personality changes include social withdrawal, delusions and distrust in others. The last stages of the disease disable speech, movement and any ability to recognize one’s surroundings. There is no cure.
I have never met Mulugeta's wife, but when I look at him that is who I see. She is the dominant personality, the headline event, and he carries her around with him, trailing behind his trench coat as he shuffles to his pew. She fascinates me, and therefore he fascinates me. I have spent a wealth of my own brain cells formulating his life – his real life – and what it means and who he is, now.
He is afraid. There is nothing more terrifying, after all, than a clock. Sharks, thunder, spiders and death itself bow before that methodical little tick, because you know what's coming, and you sit and you wait, as with each beat it takes one step closer. Except here, nothing is coming. If you watch your adversary approaching and know there is no escape, you may at least trust in your strength to save you; some last-stitch effort that may be just enough to disable the enemy. But what do you do when every moment that passes takes something away? Hold on, and it will vanish from between your fingers. Do you try and follow?
Mulugeta knows better than to hold on. He knows better than to follow, and this knowledge feeds his fear. He cannot follow, because there is quite literally nowhere to go. When someone leaves the room or the house or the country, we say that they are gone; of course they are not really gone, but simply somewhere else. If his wife was simply somewhere else he would have hope, because even if he never saw her again, never knew exactly where she'd gone, he was a strong and confident man and he would hope that she was happy and whole. That she was. But Mulugeta's wife is not lost or displaced or somewhere else. In the realest and emptiest sense of the word, she is gone.
This fear must eventually give way to either insanity or acceptance, and he chose the latter long ago. But now he finds that he himself has lost something. She co-authored the pages of his life – whole chapters belonged to her. For so many years she dictated his personhood. Now when he flips through those pages there are sections missing, and he needs a reminder, something to bring those words back. Before he could consult the owner, but she isn’t taking calls anymore. And that is just it, really: he gave her himself, for safe-keeping. He locked himself away in the safe of her heart, and when she disappeared, she took the key with her.
Yet he loves her. Here is where my pondering has ended, or perhaps it has just begun in a true sense, because I cannot seem to move past that statement. He loves her. Does he?
How do you love someone who is not someone anymore? A good person can be loved, certainly, and even a bad person can be loved, as hard as it may be to love them. But what of a person who has lost all personhood? Who is, in essence, a memory. Can a memory be loved? It can be missed and mourned and longed for, but can it be loved?
I have seen many lovable people not being loved. They possess all the qualities that one needs to fit the bill: beauty, intelligence and a wicked sense of humor. They know what to say in polite company and what to wear to the next social event. They have political and artistic opinions, practical skills and passionate dreams, some attainable and some not. They even have a unique quality about them, whether their obnoxious laugh or their love of macadamia nut ice cream. These lovable people find others who are like them, team up, and spend a substantial length of their lives not loving each other, until they realize how silly they’re being and move on, to not love the next lovable person.
Perhaps the above picture is what is real, and the best we can do is to find solace in the next romantic comedy that hits theaters. Then again, perhaps love consists of the will, what can be done, what can be chosen. And, if so, love’s ability to be enacted must rely on the lover.
I cannot say that Mulugeta truly loves his wife. All I can say with confidence is that he never lets her get cold and he ensures that she receive communion every two months, because he knows there is nothing more important. It is at this point that I always think of Chesterton, who thought that “love means to love that which is unlovable; or it is no virtue at all.” If he is right, then Mulugeta has reached the peak. He cares for her as if she were a queen.
The last time I saw Mulugeta, I was handing him a wedding invitation, and I remember feeling a hint of discomfort as he nodded gratitude and shuffled out the door of the church. Do you invite men with sick wives to your wedding? He couldn’t come of course, and I received his “regretful decline” a week later. I knew why, but I also knew that even if his wife’s caretaker were willing to work a solo shift on a Saturday, he probably wouldn’t have come anyway.
I am getting married this spring. It has been a rushed, last-minute affair, sandwiched between my fiancé’s med school applications, three part-time jobs and two full-time educations. Thanks to the good intentions of Jake’s father, we almost didn’t get through the proposal: Mr. Lambdin works as the administrator of a hospital and one of his coworkers moonlights as the African chieftain of a tribe in Ghana, visiting a few times a year to set his people’s affairs in order. He promised that on return from his next visit he would bring back a diamond. A month later, when the hospital coworker/African chieftain tried to return to the states with the diamond, a guard threatened to extradite him and he left it behind. Ultimately Jake had to propose with a jeweler’s display ring (I said yes anyway), and the mix-up left us with fifteen weeks to plan a wedding. (In other news, the African diamond is being smuggled on a ship, hidden in a carton of fruit. It should arrive in 2 months’ time and is apparently 5 carats).
I am stressed: My 83-year-old grandfather wants to single-handedly prepare food for 240 people. I ordered a wedding dress from a fake Chinese website. When you search “vintage centerpieces” on Ebay, exactly 4,975 results pop up; I could spend fifteen weeks going through them all. “Relax,” Jake says. “They’re centerpieces.” He doesn’t understand that if your decorations aren’t perfect, the wedding is obviously ruined. And when your very good diamond story may remain just that, who’s to say you are loveable enough to make it through the ceremony, not to mention the marriage?
I can only imagine the decorations Urige had at her wedding. Ethiopian marriages are extravagant, drawn-out affairs and include days of processions, music, feasting and a fair explosion of color. I can picture the large white tent and the rows of tables adorned with blooms and colors in a blinding tower. Of course she can’t remember them now, and they are a single drop in an ocean.
The last remnants of that ocean have finally evaporated, and I can see it floating, unnoticed and unattainable, above her. Perhaps if she would just look up, one brief glance from her eyes might be enough to draw a memory down – just one memory out of the millions, to get back. I wonder which one she would choose.
Works Cited
"Alzheimer's Disease." Mayo Clinic. Mayo Clinic, 19 Jan. 2013. Web. 25 Mar. 2014.
"Gilbert K. Chesterton." BrainyQuote.com. Xplore Inc, 2014. Web. 25 Mar. 2014.
"Heritage and Naming Ethiopian Children." Australian African Childrens Aid & Support Association. Australian African Childrens Aid & Support Association, 25 Feb. 2012. Web. 26 Mar. 2014.
Hoerster, Katheryn. "What to Expect from an Ethiopian Wedding." An Aggie In Ethiopia. N.p., 8 Mar. 2013. Web. 26 Mar. 2014.