Life: Fate (Part 2 of 2)

Circa 2nd century CE, Athens, Greece

Sophia’s husband, Lycus, hung a freshly plucked olive branch outside their door, informing the neighborhood that Sophia had bore a boy. Despite a difficult labor, Sophia had recovered well, succumbing neither to fever nor heavy bleeds. She spent the first week with her son entangled in affectionate embraces, stroking his newborn skin with her fingertips, filling his face with a flurry of kisses, and feeding him milk from her heavy breasts.

Lycus’ relationship with his child was of a very different nature. He spent no time coddling the newborn, preferring to stare at him from a distance with a scrutinous eye that spoke more of skepticism than love. While it was the burden of the father to determine an infant’s worthiness in the first seven days after birth, Sophia found his treatment harsh in view of the circumstances—their child was neither illegitimate, unhealthy, nor deformed, and he was male. It was a blessing. Still, Sophia worried, for even on the day of their son’s birth, her husband had taken on a strange demeanor that foretold bad tidings. She prayed that by the seventh day, Lycus would smile upon their son.

The first week of life was a period of uncertainty, the burden of birth and life outside the womb being too heavy for many infant hearts to bear. For this reason, seven days were allowed to pass before newborns became recognized as individuals—bestowed a name during a family festival around the hearth that signaled their inclusion into the family and society. For infants who survived, and who were deemed worthy by their fathers, the festival was an occasion of great merriment.

Sophia imagined their home’s exterior being covered with olive branches. Friends and relatives would arrive once daylight had faded, bringing gifts of cuttlefish, marine polyp, and wine. Sophia imagined herself, along with her mother, sisters, the midwife and her attendants, undergoing a purification ritual, ridding themselves of the pollution of birth. Sophia would then dance around the family hearth, lifting her newborn on high, presenting him to the gods above, while the name of the child would finally be said aloud. Sophia imagined all this with intense longing, but in actuality, she could do nothing to help these events transpire for her son’s thread of life had already been drawn.

At the moment of each man’s birth and in counsel with the gods, the Fates—three sisters kneeling beside the throne of Zeus—busily draw man’s thread of life. The first sister, who oversees birth, spins out his thread from her distaff onto her spindle; the second sister, in charge of life, measures his thread with her rod; and the third sister, decider of death, cuts his thread with her shears. And in this way, the sisters, relaxed in white robes, spin, measure, and cut each man’s thread the moment he is born, determining his fate—his birth, his life, and his death.

Sophia sent innumerable prayers up to the Fates, hoping they would greet her by the hearth on the seventh day. But it seemed her prayers were muttered in vain. Lycus ordered their son be immersed in ice-cold water, so testing his temperament. “If he remains silent, he shall be called my son, but if he cries, he is not worthy,” he said. As the infant began weeping, Sophia shed tears to match, draining her bottomless grief.

“He is to be exposed,” Lycus ordered. Sophia opened her mouth to protest, but could only produce shrill shrieks from the depths of her throat. She threw herself onto her son, defying his fate, but Lycus promptly ripped her off.

“Stop your mad freak, woman!” he said, enraged. “Expose him, now!” he roared.

The family’s attendants quickly placed the child in a clay pot, carried him to the outskirts of town, and deserted him along a roadway—common practice for those not wishing to keep their babies. In this way, the parents bear no responsibility, for the child dies of natural causes—dehydration, exposure to the elements, or an attack of wild beasts. Some exposed infants were rescued by passers-by, adopted and raised as children or as slaves, though many were left for dead.

When he returned, Lycus found Sophia splayed out on the floor, patches of hair missing, having been ripped from her head in a show a grief. In whispers, she issued abuses against the gods, her voice growing bold as she addressed the Fates themselves. “His thread was cut almost as quickly as it was spun!” Sophia cried aloud before falling silent, lying limp and defeated.

But her temper was unwarranted, for her son’s thread of life was not cut short. A traveling caravan, having spotted the clay pot, took the infant into their care. They intended to raise him as a slave, though they would find the child so enjoyable he would, in time, become their adopted son.

Lycus would wonder for years to come whether the gods, insulted by Sophia’s slanders, had ordered the Fates to redraw her thread, for Zeus was known to intervene in the pre-ordained fate of man from time to time. But he surmised the gods knew she would react in such a callow manner and that, in fact, Sophia had died that day of a broken heart. For on the day her son was exposed, she had fallen to the floor, overcome by her sorrow, never again to rise. “It was her fate,” Lycus would say.

Life: Caesarian (Part 1 of 2)

Circa 2nd century CE, Athens, Greece

When Sophia keeled over, clutching her belly while calling out to Artemis, goddess of childbirth, the household immediately knew what was to come. Sophia’s mother and sisters quickly began smearing the house with black pitch to protect against evil spirits; her husband sought out the midwife and her attendants who would oversee the delivery, and also informed their physician, Soranus, who would be called in case of emergency.

“I pray I do not hear from you again today,” Soranus said.

The day was a blessing Sophia feared would never come. She had surmised herself a woman of barren womb, having been betrothed for three years with no signs of a rounding belly. And besides, she possessed a smaller than average-sized head (for she was a woman of petite stature) and, upon closely inspecting her features in a mirror, she noticed her forehead protruded, albeit ever so slightly—these were both markers of infertility.

When Sophia consulted Soranus, lamenting her inability to conceive amid a gush of tears, he calmly explained the inner workings of her body, noting that all the body’s canals opened to the stomach. He advised her to conduct a fertility test, one devised by the pyramid-building Egyptians, which entailed inserting a piece of garlic into the vaginal canal.

“If your breath does not reek of garlic by morning,” he said, “then you may have a blockage inhibiting conception. But if the smell of garlic emanates from your mouth, a baby you can bear.” The following morning, to her delight, Sophia’s lips smacked of garlic.

Three months thereafter, Sophia believed herself pregnant, having exhibited traditional signs of pregnancy—shivering after intercourse, a heaviness of limbs, swollen and tender breasts, and a cessation of menses. She was overjoyed and immediately called back Soranus to help her determine whether she was, indeed, pregnant. He had her drink a solution of honey and water at bedtime; a distended belly and cramps indicated pregnancy. Though the aftereffects were mild—her belly appeared slightly bloated, and she felt minor discomfort in her abdomen—a wide grin overcame Soranus.

“Be of good cheer! You are pregnant!” he said. Sophia burst into salvoes of shrieks and laughter, happiness bubbling out riotously from her every limb.

“Excite not too much,” Soranus quickly warned. “You must take precautions in order that your husband’s seed not dislodge.” Strong emotions, including her current jubilance, as well as sudden movements such as coughing, sneezing, and falling down, were all forbidden. She was also warned not to sit on hard chairs, leap, or lift heavy weights.

As Sophia entered into the second phase of her pregnancy, which began at forty days, Soranus told of bizarre food cravings that typically inflicted his patients—a desire for charcoal, earth, tendrils of the vine, and unripe fruit. And when the third phase of pregnancy came, he prescribed increased exercise, food, and sleep in order to build up Sophia’s strength. He also wrapped linen bandages around her belly for support, which she removed only to take baths of wine and sweet-water, said to calm the expectant mother’s mind.

When the pangs of labor began, in Sophia’s 42nd week of pregnancy, the household was well prepared. The midwife came equipped with an array of tools for delivery: olive oil for lubrication, goose fat for injection to soften the genitalia, warm water and sea sponges for cleansing, wool bandages for swaddling the infant, strong smelling herbs in case of fainting, and a birthing stool.

After a half day of laboring, the baby had begun its descent. Sophia was given a drink sprinkled with powdered sow’s dung to help ease the pain, and she drank it with haste. She was then placed in the birthing stool, a backless seat with a crescent-shaped hole through which the baby would be delivered. One assistant stood behind her, acting as a back support against which Sophia could comfortably push. The midwife, covering herself with an apron, stood before her. Sophia clenched the armrests and, once it was time, pushed. And she did so for three hours while the attendants pressed down on her abdomen, and the midwife spoke words of encouragement, offering instructions on breathing and pushing, and massaging her genitals to help ease the pain of delivery.

When, after the third hour of pushing, the baby’s head was still not in view, and Sophia looked pale and fatigued, her limbs shaking violently, Soranus was called to assist. He rushed through the door, looking most concerned, and feared the worst for his patient. He took Sophia’s husband aside and spoke in whispers of a procedure called a Caesarian that entailed cutting into the abdomen of the mother in order to rescue the baby, its name having derived from the great emperor Julius Caesar himself who was said to have been delivered in this manner.

“This procedure is typically done in cases where the mother has died, though it has been performed on living mothers who are in grave danger. None that I know, however, have survived,” he frowned. “Though the baby will surely be saved.” Sophia’s husband slumped in anguish.

Many centuries before, when the Greeks dominated the globe, they refused to perform such procedures, despite their god Asclepius having been extracted from the womb. The same taboo existed for the Romans. Shortly after the founding of Rome, a law had been passed requiring a mother to be dead before cutting a child from her womb. In time, however, Caesarians were performed on living mothers, but only in the final month of pregnancy, the danger to the mother being so great. As Rome came to rule the Greek-speaking lands, Caesarians became acceptable in places such as Athens as well.

“The crown!” the midwife yelled.

Soranus rushed to the midwife’s side. Together they encouraged Sophia to push with all the might she had left.

“Wrap your hands in papyrus or cloth, whichever you have brought with you,” Soranus said to the midwife. “Lest the slick newborn slip right through your hands!”

The midwife did as she was instructed and, after a few more pushes that left Sophia drenched in sweat, the baby was born.

“It is a boy!” yelled Soranus with delight. The room came alive with merriment.

The midwife swaddled the infant and cut the umbilical cord. She cleansed the baby, sprinkling him with a powdery salt to soak up the birth residue, and then rinsed the child thoroughly. All the while, the attendants cleared mucus from the nose, mouth, and ears. They smeared olive oil on the infant’s eyes to clear away any remaining birth residue, and placed a piece of wool soaked in olive oil over the umbilical cord stump.

With Soranus peering over her shoulder, the midwife inspected the boy, looking for deformities, ensuring the child had a robust cry, and then made the assessment that the child was healthy. Over the next seven days, however, Sophia’s husband would further inspect their son, making the ultimate decision on whether to keep the boy, or expose him.

To be continued…

Seeing the Light

360 BCE, Athens, Greece

“Shut your eyes. Make certain your lids do not flutter; let no light seep in. I want you to imagine on a black canvas, envisioning the tale I am about to unfold against an untainted backdrop,” Solon said.

Cyrus closed his eyes without a flicker of hesitation. He relished in Solon’s philosophical parables, learned while attending the exclusive Academy of Athens where he studied among giants such as Plato, Aristotle and Eudoxus.

“Darkness abounds,” Cyrus said with an air of impatience.

“This tale was conceived by Plato himself. I am certain that, upon hearing it, you will gain a deeper understanding of our nature, and the nature of the universe.”

“Carry on, then,” Cyrus insisted.

“Very well. Imagine people living in an underground, cave-like dwelling deep beneath the earth, its mouth open to the sky,” he began, lowering his voice in a theatric manner. “These people have lived there since infancy, held captive by heavy, iron chains, their stiff backs fixed against a wall, their heads and necks fettered so they can see only straight ahead, never side to side, their dispirited stares constantly fixed upon the wall before them.

Above and behind them, an enormous fire constantly burns, and between the prisoners and the fire lies a dirt path with a tall ledge. Now imagine, behind this ledge there are people carrying a menagerie of objects—statues of people and animals made from wood, stone, and every other sort of material. These people hold their objects above their crowns so, while they themselves are hidden by the ledge, their objects rise above it. In this way, they are like puppeteers holding up their puppets. With the fire blazing behind them, these objects cast shadows on the wall before the prisoners, creating a fantastic shadow play, the figures moving and talking as their puppeteers move and talk.

All their lives, the prisoners have watched shadows cast by men whom they cannot see, and they have listened to their echoes—this world of shadows is the only world the prisoners know, for they have never seen anything besides. It is reasonable, then, to conclude that the prisoners would believe that the truth is nothing other than those objects shadow-playing on the wall, is it not?” Solon asked.

“That is a reasonable conclusion,” Cyrus nodded.

“Imagine, then, what would transpire if one of these prisoners was released, set free from his fetters, and ascended out of the cave. Upon seeing the light, he would be cured of his ignorance.

He would wish to tell his friends, but when shouting down to them from the mouth of the cave, he would appear as a grotesque, unfamiliar shadow on the wall, his echo bouncing about the cave, its sound strange and muffled. The prisoners would not recognize their friend, nor comprehend what he says. And because they will not make the same ascent out of the cave, they will never know the truth of the world—they will never see the light. But, though they will not know that world, it is not any less real.”

“That is certainly so!” Cyrus said with exuberance.

“Herein lies the lesson,” Solon said. “Now listen close. The prison dwelling represents the material realm. The material world consists of the things we apprehend with our senses—but like the shadows in the cave, it is not the real world. It is a mere reflection, a cast of shadows, whose existence can be attributed to something much greater, namely, an unseen world. This unseen world can only be accessed through an upward journey of the soul, like the prisoner’s upward journey out of the cave from darkness to light, and comprehended not by way of our eyes and ears, but through our intellect.

And this is our truth, my dear Cyrus: Seeing the world’s material shell alone is like living in darkness, never apprehending the world’s true essence. And so, we must all strive to see beyond the material realm to grasp the true nature of things, to see the world itself rather than its shadows, and hereby, we too will see the light.”