Bababozorg

Today is the seventeenth anniversary of my grandfather's death. He was over 96 years old when he passed, so what I say may sound funny, but his death was sudden and unexpected.

Until three weeks before he died, my grandfather was healthy and active. One June morning, he woke up complaining that his back hurt. My grandmother, who had lived with him for sixty-eight years and had never heard him complain about any pain, was shocked and immediately called my uncle. Soon after, he was taken to the hospital to see a doctor. Sadly, my grandfather never made it back home.

I didn't know any of this at the time, though, because my grandmother had forbidden my family to tell me about it. She knew we were very close and she didn't want me to worry since I was, at the time, living “on the other side of the world” and there was no reason to disrupt my life.

What I know is that one Thursday morning I woke up earlier than usual from a disturbing dream. It involved my grandfather, a hospital bed, and a crowd around it. After my shower that morning, I called my grandparents' house and my grandmother picked up the phone right after the first ring.

I chatted with her for a few minutes, as I did about once a month or so, and then asked to talk to my grandpa, whom I called Bababozorg. She said he wasn't home at the moment, but that she would tell him I'd called. I thanked her and lied that I would call back the following week. I knew something was very wrong. Seven o'clock in the morning for me, in California, was about seven in the evening for them, in Iran. My grandfather would never go anywhere at that time without my grandmother, and I was aware my grandmother often kept secrets from me and ordered others not to communicate bad news to me.

So I got creative and called my aunt's house. My cousin picked up. I avoided all chitchat, saying, “Hi. It's Noosha. What's the name of Bababozorg's hospital?” My trick worked because the urgency I created caused him to immediately give me the name of the hospital, to which I just replied “Thanks!” and hung up. It was then that it hit me. My grandfather was really ill, in a hospital, and it had to be serious because they were hiding it from me.

I got ready for work, and right before I left the house, I called my uncle in France who was at work. He answered the phone knowing there had to be something important for me to call him at that time when I knew his work schedule. He hadn't been to Iran in many years and didn't have any plans to visit any time soon, so I thought if he didn't know, he should.

After delivering the news to my uncle, I drove to work thinking about what I should do next. I had to take time from work and, to do that, I had to find a substitute for my classes. I also had to get a plane ticket as soon as possible, but it was too early in the day to call my travel agent. First, I had to talk to my supervisor.

A few hours later, I had gotten my supervisor's approval, found a sub, written her detailed instructions on what to do with the students for each class for a whole week, and gotten my ticket for Saturday, returning the following week on Sunday. My ticket was to Tehran, though, and I needed to go to Mashhad. It was only a one-hour flight, but Mashhad being a holy city, getting tickets to go there is always a challenge. I called a friend of mine in Tehran and asked for her help.

My friend was at the airport waiting for me when I landed in the middle of the night. She had the ticket to my connecting flight in hand. I had two hours to kill and we hadn't seen each other for a few years, so we went to a coffee shop and chatted a little. I realized then that I hadn't even called my dad, who lived in Tehran, to tell him I was going to Iran. So, after my friend left, I called my father from the airport, even though it was only five thirty in the morning, and told him that I was in Tehran, knew about Grandpa, had a ticket to Mashhad departing in a few minutes, and looked forward to seeing him in a few days, on my way back. He said he himself had been going back and forth, and he had just returned from visiting my grandparents the night before.

Since I hadn't told anyone I was going, nobody had come to the airport in Mashhad, so I took a cab to my grandmother's house, and she was shocked to see me appear at her doorstep at seven in the morning. I, on the other hand, was pleasantly surprised to see my uncle was already there from France. Apparently, after talking to me on the phone, he had gone home, picked up his passport, and gone straight to the airport. He'd arrived the following day, less than twenty-four hours after I'd told him his father was ill, while it had taken me three whole days, due to the longer distance. I put my bag down, showered quickly, and only a few minutes later, we were on our way to the hospital to see Bababozorg.

I stayed in Mashhad five whole days and was at the hospital with my grandfather all day, every day. He had good days and bad days. On his good days, he would say he was fine and ask when we were going home. On his bad days, he couldn't even remember my name. I tested him every few hours, asking him who I was. Sometimes, he would say, “Thank you, Noosha, for coming all the way to see me.” Other times, he looked in my eyes as if to tell me that he knew me, but he wouldn't answer, and when I insisted he say my name, he would say, “Love... Your name is Love.”

I eventually saw all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins, who came to visit my grandfather at different times of the day over the next few days. Each visit was short, but I was glad I got to see everyone in my family. After five days, I went to Tehran and spent a little time with my dad, who had been unable to go back and visit Bababozorg because he had to give lectures at some international conference that was taking place during those days.

On my way back to California, I knew I would never see my grandfather again. He and I had a special bond. We never needed to talk much to communicate. He understood me and supported me all the time in everything I did. He had been my rock ever since I was a child. I knew my life would never be the same without him in it, and I was right.