Just Myrto

by Laurie Gray

  “Not yet,” I replied. My mind carried me back to my childhood to a faint memory just before my mother’s death. “I remember putting my hand on my mother’s belly when her time was near and feeling the baby punch and kick. Once I even saw the movement.”

  “Was it a boy or a girl?” asked Lamprocles.

  “A boy,” I said softly.

  “I didn’t know that you have a younger brother, too.”

  I shook my head. “He died at birth.” I paused. “And mother went with him,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. Tears filled my eyes. I could not stop them. I did not want to stop them. They streamed down my cheeks.

  Lamprocles looked frightened. He took my hand. “How old were you?” he asked.

  “Twelve.”

  After a long silence, Lamprocles said, “I don’t want you to die, Myrto.”

  I gave him a hug. His acceptance of me and my child might mean a safe place for both of us eventually if Socrates were to die and Lamprocles were old enough to be the head of the household. And brave enough to stand up to Xanthippe. I pushed these thoughts from my mind and focused on the present.

  “Would you be willing to read a book on midwifery with me?”

  “What book?” he asked.

  “A book by Theano, wife of Pythagoras. Your father has it at home.”

  Lamprocles nodded. “Let’s study that next.”

  16

  I COULD HARDLY contain my excitement as we walked to the Agora the next morning, Theano’s book in Lamprocles’ satchel.

  “Father, tell me about your mother Phaenarete,” Lamprocles inquired.

  “Ah,” Socrates responded with a knowing smile. “She was a woman of wisdom, but she would have loved and indulged you beyond measure.”

  “When did she die?” I asked.

  “Soon after Xanthippe and I married,” answered Socrates. “My father Sophroniscus died long before we were married. Neither of them lived to see the birth of their first grandson.” He smiled at Lamprocles.

  “That’s because you waited until you were 50 years old to marry!” Lamprocles laughed. “I was lucky to be born at all.”

  I wondered whose idea it was to name Lamprocles after Xanthippe’s father rather than Socrates’ own father, Sophroniscus. Despite the warmth of our conversation, I shivered in the chilly morning air. Our walks became increasingly brisk as the days grew shorter and the sun ceased to be an early riser. Socrates must have noticed because he removed his own cloak and wrapped it around my shoulders.

  “Why didn’t you become a sculptor like your father?” I asked. “Your marble statue of the Graces stands as a testimony to your talent.”

  Socrates chuckled. “That was truly a gift to my father before he died. Sophroniscus could look at any amorphous hunk of stone and see a beautiful being, a living form within.”

  “And you?” I asked. I could feel heat radiating from Socrates’ body to mine, even though I was bundled and he was barefoot and wearing nothing but a light tunic.

  “My father trained me in the family business when I was young, but I never had his vision for sculpting,” confessed Socrates.

  Lamprocles nodded in my direction. “Mother says more often than not Father seemed compelled to chisel and pound away until nothing remained but a pile of dust and gravel.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true, my dear,” Socrates agreed. He drew me in even closer to the radiating warmth of his body. “I did a little better when my father at least told me what he envisioned for the stone as he did with the Graces, but we all knew that I wasn’t born to be a sculptor.”

  “What were you born to be?” I asked, ready to pursue this topic further. But we had reached Piraeus Gate, marking the end of our morning walk and our entrance into the city.

  “Father is a born lover of wisdom,” offered Lamprocles before our conversation vanished in the crowd. Socrates did not disagree.

  At Lamprocles’ urging, we left Socrates in the Agora and walked toward the Parthenon. But we did not stop at the Parthenon. We continued walking south with the sun rising over our left shoulders, leaving Socrates and the crowds far behind.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. My mind remained fixed on the book in Lamprocles’ satchel, and I was anxious to begin our studies.

  Lamprocles responded in verse reminiscent of Homer’s Hymn to Artemis:

  When Artemis is satisfied

  Her huntress heart well-cheered

  She journeys to her brother’s house

  And slackens her great bow.

  Oh, Muse! Oh, Grace! It’s time to dance

  With her dear Twin Apollo.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked impatiently.

  “It means that if we are to study midwifery, we must find a place pleasing to Artemis,” said Lamprocles. “The Acropolis is a place for men. We must seek out another place—a place of women, inspiration and wild beasts.” He pointed to the pine-green Hills of the Muses. “There.”

  We walked in silence to the very top of the tallest hill and found a small clearing that overlooked the Parthenon. Finally, Lamprocles removed the book from his satchel and handed it to me. “Now,” he said, “let’s read.”

  I began. We did nothing but read the whole day through. We read reverently without discussion, taking turns whenever one voice grew weak. A growing sense of wonder engulfed me as we read about the mysteries of the female body and the miracles of life and healing.

  Theano showed no disrespect for the gods, yet they were oddly absent from the actual cause or cure for illness, injury and disease. Hygeia, Panacea and Iaso, goddesses of cleanliness, prevention and healing, responded to all equally. There were no stories about how Apollo saved their father Asclepius by cutting open the womb of Koronis or how Asclepius grew in the art of medicine, using the sacred power of snakes for healing.

  Nor was it all about the female body and childbirth. There was a strange mixture of male and female and the body’s own healing power when kept clean and properly nourished. I studied Lamprocles’ body as he read and marveled at how his hands held the book for his eyes to see and his mind to comprehend and his mouth to voice the words aloud. Each part worked together as a whole with such natural ease. It was no harder, really, to accept that each of us holds within us the ability to re-balance the four humors of blood, black bile, yellow bile, and phlegm.

  We read about using citrus to reduce phlegm, how the crushed leaves of lemon balm can be rubbed on the skin to repel insects or brewed into a relaxing tea. We read that dry treatment of wounds is best, and we should only use water or wine to clean wounds when absolutely necessary. We learned the importance of keeping our fingernails trimmed and clean and the meanings of different fevers, pains and excretions. We began to understand the implications of subtle changes in complexion, movement and pulse and the value of keen observation.

  Both light and darkness shimmered in each word, with shadows looming behind every moment of enlightenment. The book told of the need to survey carefully the patient’s environment and to listen closely to all family history. Theano even recommended measuring a patient’s pulse as she talks to discern when she is lying. There were instructions on using pessaries of lemon, pomegranate, fig and even sea sponges to preserve the honor of a mistress and prevent the birth of a child.

  In the end, Lamprocles did much more reading, and I did much more listening. He devoured the book with voracious appetite while I quietly opened my heart to its meaning. The text answered question after question I’d never thought to ask, and when that first day was done, we had not even begun to learn about childbirth itself. We did, however, make a pact to memorize, recite and keep the oath that Theano required for all midwives:

  “I swear by Apollo, Asclepius, Hygeia, Panacea and Iaso to keep according to my ability the following oath: I will consider dear to me as my parents she who taught me the art of midwifery. I will look upon her children as my own sisters and teach them this art.”

  “I will never do harm to anyo
ne, but will act for the good of my patients according to my ability and judgment. I will preserve the purity of my life and art.”

  “In every house where I come, I will enter only for the good of my patient, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction. All that may come to my knowledge through the exercise of midwifery which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and never reveal.”

  “I will keep this oath faithfully so that I may enjoy my life and the practice of my art, respected by all for all times.”

  As we descended from the Hill of Muses, I breathed in the cleansing odor of pines. Lamprocles and I were not merely stepson and stepmother or simply fellow students in the art of midwifery. We had sworn an oath that would forever bind us together as brother and sister in the eyes of Apollo and Artemis.

  17

  WE RETURNED TO the Hill of Muses day after day to study midwifery. The earth awakened from her slumber, and winter’s cool dampness faded away. As our studies moved from general health into graphic details of labor and childbirth, Lamprocles insisted that we discuss every sentence in depth. At times we would spend an hour on the meaning of one word. There are countless ways for things to go wrong during the actual birthing; I died a thousand deaths in my heart as we read about each one of them.

  Some parts were comforting, however. For example, the midwife should ask the woman what she believes will help. “Do not argue with her or attempt to dissuade her. Always acknowledge her requests and address her concerns. It is more important that she believes you are doing as she asks than to actually do it, especially when the requested treatment would be particularly odorous, bloody or dirty.”

  This idea appealed to me. “What do you suppose she means by that?” I interrupted as Lamprocles read.

  “Hold on, she’s going to tell us,” he replied impatiently and continued reading. “There is no value to using earthworms, powdered sow’s dung, canine placentas, newborn goat membranes or spider webs during labor and delivery. It is better to keep the birthing area clean.”

  “Thank you, Hygeia!” I said, leaning over Lamprocles shoulder to read this wonderful passage with my own eyes.

  Lamprocles laughed. “Yes,” he agreed. “We should give thanks to the goddess of cleanliness!”

  Gradually each new fear subsided more quickly until my entire well of fears ran dry. I began to enjoy our discussions again. I would not be at the mercy of an inexpert midwife and her foul treatments. I had choices. I could kneel or stand or squat on my heels or sit in a birthing chair, whatever felt most comfortable to me. Socrates would surely honor my wishes.

  “Do you suppose Socrates still has Phaenarete’s birthing chair?” I asked.

  “I don’t know that she ever owned one,” Lamprocles replied. “And if Father has it, I’ve never seen it.”

  “I’m sure you never looked for it,” I teased.

  “And I’m sure I would remember a chair with a big hole in the center of it whether I was looking for it or not!” Lamprocles shot back.

  I noticed my back and shoulders were growing stiff from sitting for such a long time. As I struggled to my feet, Lamprocles set the book aside and jumped up to help me.

  “I just need to walk around a bit,” I said, grasping my shoulder with my hand and stretching my neck.

  “That’s good,” Lamprocles nodded. “Walking is good. So is massage. Would you like me to massage your neck and shoulders?”

  I laughed. “I know, I know. A healthy, well-nourished mother-to-be should take regular walks and receive relaxing massages to avoid complications during delivery.” I continued walking and stretching. “I’ll ask Leda or Socrates to massage my belly and back with warm olive oil when we return this evening.”

  “The baby will be less likely to drop in a breech position.” Lamprocles reminded me. The larger I got, the more serious Lamprocles became, but the more inclined I was toward laughter.

  The text completely entranced Lamprocles, but his focus remained on my body and the child inside me. He wanted to be sure we knew what to do under all circumstance. Regardless of the complications, he was determined to learn every appropriate response to save me and the baby.

  According to Theano, first births are the most difficult because women are often bound up with fear. By the second birth, a woman at least knows in her own heart that she can survive. I suppose I should have already known that having survived my own birth and seeing the multitudes of people in the world. It just never occurred to me to face the fear and release it rather than resisting it and encouraging it to grow stronger.

  As we continued, I began to think Lamprocles was more afraid than I. All that changed late one afternoon as we were nearing completion of the book. The anticipation pushed me to read more and talk less.

  “You’re going too fast,” Lamprocles complained when I refused to pause after every word. “Let me read today.”

  Lamprocles clearly did not want the book to end. I lay down in the grass and propped my head on his satchel as a pillow. Why am I in such a hurry? As I relaxed and listened to Lamprocles’ many commentaries as he read, I realized that it wasn’t the book I wanted to finish. I was finally ready for my child to be born. As I drifted along, lost in my own thoughts of holding and nurturing the baby, Lamprocles gave a shout that nearly sent me into labor.

  “Myrto!” he exclaimed. “Listen to this: ‘A midwife must be a person of sympathetic disposition, but need not have borne a child.’”

  I sat up just enough to see him. Still leaning back on my elbows and feeling totally bewildered, I shook my head. “So,” I paused trying to grasp his meaning. “A midwife doesn’t actually have to be a mother herself as long as she’s sympathetic.”

  Lamprocles was on his feet, pacing excitedly. “Not a woman!” he proclaimed. “A person! A sympathetic person!” He was jumping around so much I couldn’t follow his body or his thoughts.

  “Myrto, if you do away with the requirement of having personally given birth, a midwife could be a man!” He was dancing around me in pure delight. “I know that Father has always considered himself a philosophical midwife of men, helping to labor through their thoughts and give birth to great ideas, but I always thought that no man could truly, literally be a midwife.”

  He stopped dancing and sat beside me. He reached out his hand and lifted me gently up to face him. I nodded as his words sank in. “Socrates and I have already discussed that I would rather have him with me when our child is born than the most experienced midwife in the city.”

  Lamprocles face fell, and he turned slightly away so I could no longer see his eyes. “Well, yes, of course, Father,” he stammered. In the silence of his long pause, I suddenly understood. Still I waited to be certain.

  Lamprocles faced me and held my hands in earnest. “Myrto, except for my own parents, you are more dear to me than anyone. The child you are carrying is my sister or brother. If Father were to agree, would you …” He faltered. Surely no man has ever asked to be a midwife. Not in Hesiod or Homer, Parmenides or even Pythagoras who considered all men and women to be equal. The words simply do not exist.

  I nodded. I had already weathered a thousand births with Lamprocles. His presence through the next one would ensure the survival of us all.

  “Do you want to ask him or shall I?” Lamprocles asked.

  “Let’s ask him together.”

  Lamprocles nodded and handed me the book. “Here,” he said. “Let’s finish reading first.”

  18

  AS WE WALKED home that evening, Lamprocles immediately engaged Socrates in a conversation regarding Phaenarete’s work as a midwife.

  “In truth,” said Socrates, “I found my mother’s work much more intriguing than my father’s work as a sculptor.”

  “Did you ever wish you could go with her and watch her work?” asked Lamprocles.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Socrates. Lamprocles gave me a smile and a nod as Socrates continued, “On more than one occasion as a child, I had the
opportunity to watch my mother work and to witness the elusive nature of life itself.”

  “The husband did not object?” I asked.

  “No,” said Socrates. “I was still a young boy.” He laughed heartily. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but I suppose they thought I was just some slave boy there to carry the tools of my master.”

  “What did you witness?” asked Lamprocles. His eyes widened with anticipation, and I could see that he was much encouraged by the fact that his father had attended more than one birth when he was young.

  “I saw children entering this world, wrapped in human flesh, such perfect little people with all of their tiny body parts.” Socrates stopped walking and stared into the clouds, transfixed as though he were actually looking back in time. “I watched my mother hold her own breath, waiting for that first breath of the child to erupt into a cry announcing to the world that a new life had indeed begun.”

  He looked back at Lamprocles. “There is a moment when you really can’t be sure. Sometimes a perfect little creature with all of its visible body parts in place arrives, but never takes that first breath of life.”

  I nodded. That was my brother Acheron. I shuddered with the memory of that midwife, covered in my mother’s blood, holding the lifeless baby boy. Socrates turned to me as if to comfort me and said, “It’s not up to us, you know. Some carry the gift of life within themselves and some do not.”

  We continued walking, but at a slower, more contemplative pace. “Of course, my interest in my mother’s work leaned less toward medical extraction and more toward the emergence and development of a separate being, a living soul.”

  I could feel the conversation shifting from midwifery to philosophy. Socrates continued talking, completely unaware of where Lamprocles and I wanted to go with this discussion. “If this new person has the gift of life, and the gift of life is good, then what might this person do to develop this inherent goodness?” Socrates asked.