Chapter 13
They next made their way to a small Tibetan medicine factory. There was a larger one in the capital, along with a famous medical school, but this smaller one had a special charm. Large rooms filled with machines created round balls about half the size of a marble. Some were a little larger, and some were a little smaller, depending on the particular medication. In the not too distant past these pills were rolled by hand. Everything was very clean and orderly.
They left the factory itself and, across a large courtyard, went up two steps into a long and low structure of one floor that housed the Tibetan medicine pharmacy. Several rows of people were lined up in front of a long counter, with Tibetan pharmacists at the head of each line on the other side of the counter. The people in queue held slips of paper in their hands--Tibetan prescriptions that were being filled. Each left contentedly with his or her bags of herbal medication from the factory. Some left with raw herbs which would be taken home and cooked into a gloppy, inky, perhaps odorous liquid that would be consumed by the patients.
The atmosphere was cheerful and compassionate. There was no smell of alcohol and no public address system.
“This is not at all unlike a Chinese pharmacy,” Francis thought out loud, “except that the Tibetan patent medicines, the round prepared pills, are on average larger than Chinese ones.”
“I understand,” said Flo, “that folks take the medicine home and break them up in a mortar and pestle so they’re more easily consumed.” Francis nodded, but his mind was still on the mysterious note that he had received yesterday.
It was time to go to the local Tibetan medical school. As they drove in, the campus of buildings looked more like a monastery than a medical school. A lovely lady explained that she was the Director of the medical school, also a Tibetan trained physician, while greeting them at the main entrance. She took them into the library, which housed a thousand books within and appeared quite Western.
On opening the books, however, the contents were very different. Most were written in Tibetan, some in Chinese. Other Asian countries such as Nepal and Thailand were also represented in the collection. They moved on to a large display room.
On all four walls were Tonkas of various sorts. Some of them were very old and just about falling apart. Others were fairly new. On some of the Tonkas were depicted the creation of life, the union of sperm and egg, in such detail that it boggled the mind because these concepts had obviously been taught long before the development of microbiology. About six rows of glass display cases housed every sort of botanical and animal medication possible.
Mani was a bit repulsed. “What are dried animal parts doing in a collection of herbal medicine?” she asked Francis.
“In the Asian tradition,” Francis responded, “there are animal parts, as well as minerals, which are all considered part of ‘herbal medicine.’ I avoid the use of those things in my practice. Westerners just cannot handle the idea of eating something derived from a praying mantis egg case or dragon bone, really from dinosaurs, to help them heal.”
Flo was eavesdropping. “I can’t imagine why,” she joked, “we always gave it to the patients in our hospital back in Pennsylvania. That’s why I moved to Kentucky!”
In the hotel that night, Francis was in his room alone trying to organize his life. He had plugged in the heater, tapped it with a sandal a few times, and ran into the bathroom before the thing exploded. After his shower, the room was peaceful and warm. He emptied out the contents of his backpack in order to organize it for the next day.
Scraps of paper, pens, and several samples of Tibetan medicine rolled out onto his bed. A book about Chinese medicine, along with his Walkman and a few tapes and spare batteries, tumbled out as well. One more shake of the Jamesway purchased backpack produced the colorful bag handed him by the monk at their earlier monastic visit. He heard the cushioned sound of a metallic clank.
Slightly reminiscent of a gift box packed within a gift box, and used as a joke when giving a present, a bell measuring approximately seven inches rolled out of the cloth container. The bell looked to be very old and well worn. What a meaningful gift, Francis thought. He picked up the colorful cloth bag and realized that something else was in it.
No, it couldn’t be. He gently reached into the bag and extracted a Dorje.
Everyone was fatigued at dinner that night. It had been an extremely full few weeks, few days, and present day. Francis and Krishna lingered over their tea in the dining room after the others in the group had said their goodnights. Francis shared with Krishna the contents of his gift.
In college he had taken two semesters of a lab course called “The Experimental Analysis of Behavior” in which he used machines called “Skinner Boxes.” These Skinner Boxes were used to “shape” the behavior of lab animals. The operator could press a button and the pigeon, rat, mouse, or monkey, would be fed a pellet of food or given a drink. This feeding was only done when the animal had performed the kind of behavior the experimenter wanted, much like reinforcing a dog in obedience school after it had done well.
“I get it,” Krishna offered. “The notes and gift are shaping our behavior on this journey, leading us to where someone wants us to go.”
The next day in Xigatse was filled with a trip to several shrines, a few small clinics, and the like. Francis needed some time and space to himself, and so spent most of it in the hotel or walking in the neighborhood. Remarkably, the hotel had a steam room and some exercise equipment. Francis treated himself to a good workout and steam bath. These things invigorated his aching musculature from the bumpy van ride to this part of the world.
That evening at dinner, Francis shared with the rest of the group the story of his strange gift from the former prisoner monk. David reminded the group that this part of the world is replete with Dorjes and bells. They would need to check things out to see if this particular Dorje is the stolen one. That could be done when they returned to Nepal the next morning. Hopefully, Ang would still be there and hopefully his mother would be recovering.
After an early breakfast, and carrying their trusty bag lunches, the group braced themselves for the nine-hour ride back to Lhasa. The majestic rolling mountains, the beauteous lakes, the peaceful yaks, with nothing else to disturb them, was refreshing and restful, and a good counterpoint for the failing shocks in the van.
As was their custom on such journeys, the group stopped about half way to their destination, ate lunch, and meditated for a while. Back in the van the group settled into a quite semi-slumber. They returned to the Lhasa hotel as evening was settling in. The twilight created a contemplative atmosphere and the hotel felt like home, since part of their belongings had been left there in storage.
Jasmine greeted the mystery team warmly, like an old friend. Tired as they were, the group was even more interested in finding out what was happening with Ang and his mother. They made some phone calls and found that Ang was staying at his mother’s house and that his mother was neither better nor worse. She continued in her semi-delirium.
The friends shared a quick meal in the dining room, everyone ordering the same thing and encouraging the waitress and cooks to move a little more quickly so that they could visit with Ang and his mother before it was too late in the night to do so.
Krishna went back to the kitchen and talked to the cook in Hindi, which produced some results. The food was served in record time and they were, albeit very tired, soon walking in a ragged procession to the clinic where Tar-chin was being cared for. When they arrived there, Ang was sitting at his mother’s side.
He greeted his newfound friends warmly and thanked them repeatedly for their help with his mother. Ang said that the doctors had still not found any particular toxin to account for her delirium and that all other testing had proved negative. Francis gently and slowly told Ang about the strange gift he had received, and about the even stranger notes left in the two hotels where he had stayed. Ang’s eyes widened considerably and his lips muttered Tibetan prayers for protection.
“Would you please look at the Dorje and see if it is the one that has been in your family for generations, Ang?” requested the monk / doctor.
“I would be happy to, Brother Francis, but I doubt that I would recognize it. There are so many around and it was never of great significance to me, although I respect my distant relative who prayed with it.”
Francis took the Dorje out of the cloth bag and their patient immediately became restless. She seemed to calm down as Ang was examining the Dorje.
“Brother Francis, I can tell you nothing about this. If my mother were alert enough, she would recognize every bit of engraving, every detail on this metal object.”
“There is more than one way to communicate information, Ang. In Chinese medicine we talk about the concept of qi, and about how it contains a great deal of wisdom and information. Qi, as you probably know, is the life force or vitality that flows through everything. With your permission, I would like to place this Dorje in your mother’s hand and see if there is any communication from your mother which may take place.”
Ang nodded in ascent. As Francis moved toward Tar-chin she became more and more restless. It was as if she were a Geiger counter responding to uranium. He placed the Dorje in the older woman’s hand and she clutched on to it with a vice-like grip. She would not let it go.
Respecting the male / female, yin / yang balance, the monk next took the bell out of the cloth bag and placed that in Tar-chin’s right hand. She clutched it with the same ferociousness, responding with increasing agitation as he moved toward her, similar to her response when he moved the Dorje near her.
Flo asked, “Now what do we do?”
“We find something to bring her out of this state,” Francis responded with clarity and determination. “While you people were cavorting in the Tibetan medicine factory I did a little research in the library. I even located a well-respected Chinese medicine reference book in English, and found a pharmacist who specializes in Traditional Chinese Medicine. I asked him for some An Gong Niu Huang Wan.”
David Gold muttered, “I have some in my shaving case.” Everyone giggled nervously.
Krishna added a thought. “I know that ‘wan’ means pill. After that I’m lost.”
“Right you are my friend,” smiled Francis. “The fact that this is in a wan or pill form will be a little challenge to us, but I do believe that it may help our patient.”
Flo asked what such medicine would be called in English.
“The traditional name for this formula in English is ‘Resurrection Pills.’”
There was a jolt of excitement in the room and Tar-chin became agitated once again.
Francis explained further. “A main ingredient in this formula--and Chinese medicinal herbs are almost always given in a combination or formula--is Ox gallstone.”
Mani mumbled, “Can’t we just do some kind of energy medicine thing?”
“We certainly can do medical qigong with this woman but I think that herbal formulas have their place as well and that this is a perfect time to use one.”
“Another name for Resurrection Pills is ‘Calm the Palace Pill with Cattle Gallstone.’” Francis continued by reading from a photocopy of page 416 out of his favorite reference book, Chinese Herbal Medicine: Formulas & Strategies by Bensky & Barolet, published in 1990 by Eastland Press, Seattle, Washington.
“The palace is a compound in which the Emperor resides. It is used here as a metaphor for the Pericardium, which surrounds and shields the sovereign organ (the Heart) in the same manner as a palace surrounds and protects the Emperor. This formula clears heat from the Pericardium and thereby calms the Heart’s spirit.”
The naturopathic doctor continued: “Indications for the use of Resurrection Pills include ‘high fever, irritability and restlessness, delirious speech, impaired consciousness, a red or deep red tongue, and a rapid pulse. Also for coma due to wind stroke or childhood convulsions with a similar presentation, and for stiffness of the tongue and frigid extremities.’”
David Gold observed, “This woman is semi-conscious. How will we get this medicine into her?”
Francis responded, “The Tibetan pharmacy did not have a liquid form of Resurrection Pills on hand, so we will have to liquefy it ourselves.”
While Francis was still speaking, the Tibetan doctor and Director of the clinic walked into the room. “Hello my friends. As you can see, our patient is about the same. We have run every test imaginable but cannot come up with the source of her delirium. Why is she holding a bell and Dorje?