Grandfather nods, admitting she’s correct.
Grandmother smiles at him indulgently before returning to the book she’s been poring over. We’re in the pharmacy, which smells of herbs. Three pearwood medicine chests the color of warm amber, each with dozens of small drawers and three large drawers along the bottom, sit side by side within arm’s reach. Characters in fine calligraphy describe what herb, mineral, or bone each drawer holds. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with earthenware jars, baskets, and tins occupy a side wall. On the opposite wall, anatomical drawings show meridians from the front, sides, and back of a body, head to foot. Beneath these, a row of chairs stands in a straight line for patients who come for treatment. A high table in the center of the room allows my grandparents to stand when they weigh and mix formulas. The tea table is small, but it’s where they spend most of the day. They share love, respect, and work, with no cross words between them.
“I’m thinking about your nephew’s wife,” Grandmother says, officially changing the subject. “Lady Huang is pregnant for the sixth time, but she’s been bleeding and she’s having trouble passing urine.”
Lady Huang. I’m not sure who she is. Like all married women, including my grandmother, she goes by her natal family’s name.
“Are you positive Lady Huang is with child?” Grandfather asks.
“Men think it’s difficult to diagnosis pregnancy, and sometimes it is. But two months ago, just to make sure, I gave her a tea made from lovage root and mugwort leaves.” Grandmother juts her chin. “The lady drank it, and the baby moved as it was supposed to.”
“Leave Lady Huang alone to grow and deliver her baby in peace,” Grandfather declares. “It is my belief—and that of other scholar-physicians—that birth is best when it is natural. When the blossom is full and the melon is round, they drop of their own accord. We see this in gardens, but we also observe it in animals. One never hears of monkeys dying from difficulties in giving birth. Therefore, this should not occur with women. A complicated birth happens only when others try to manage, control, or hurry it.”
Grandmother sighs. “Only a man who has not endured labor would say that.”
“Perhaps a formula to cool her qi—”
“Cool? For a woman having trouble in her child palace? Rarely.”
It is said—truthfully, I’ve been told—that Grandfather married Grandmother because she came from a family of hereditary doctors. After all, everyone benefits when a wife can see to the medical needs of the women and children in her household. As an imperial scholar, Grandfather also had an interest in medicine. Just as every wife must give her husband at least one son, it is a man’s duty to ensure the family line. The best way to accomplish this is to see that wives and concubines not only get pregnant and give birth but also survive. Grandfather, even as a young man, liked to read ancient medical texts. When he served as Grand Master for Governance, he worked in the secondary capital of Nanjing, where he was an official on the Board of Punishments. He continued his personal studies even as he spent years away from home, traveling to perform his duties—just as my father might if he passes the next level of imperial exams. When Grandfather returned from his years in Nanjing, he was recognized as a ming yi—a “famous doctor”—in the tradition of literati physicians. His learning comes from reading books; Grandmother Ru’s training comes from following her parents, who learned from their parents, who learned from their parents, and so on.
“Then what do you suggest?” Grandfather asks. He is not just a man of distinction but also the headman of our clan. His word rules, and we are all to obey. That said, he respects Grandmother’s expertise and often follows her advice.
“I’ll examine her first before I decide,” she answers.
Grandfather nods slowly.
“In a few days, Midwife Shi will come to see Lady Huang,” Grandmother adds.
At this, Grandfather pauses and looks sternly at Grandmother. “You know I don’t approve of midwives.” When he turns to me, I know I’m about to be tested. “Tell me why.”
I don’t want to answer, because whatever I say will irritate Grandmother. But what else can I do? “There is no place for the Three Aunties and Six Grannies in a gentry family’s home,” I recite, my head down so I don’t have to see Grandmother’s reaction.
“And who are they?” he asks.
I stare at my slippers, torn between the two people who care for me. A finger lifts my chin. Grandmother says, “Answer your grandfather.”
“The Three Aunties are Buddhist nuns, Taoist nuns, and fortune-tellers. The Six Grannies are matchmakers, shamans, drug sellers, brokers, procuresses, and midwives.” I recite the list from memory without knowing what some of those on it are.
“Respectable families don’t allow religious women into our homes because we follow Confucian ideals,” Grandfather says. “As for the others, they are snakes and scorpions to be avoided at all costs.”
“Husband, you know perfectly well that—”
“Beyond this,” Grandfather grumbles, “midwives are linked to wicked deeds like abortion and infanticide. Who hasn’t heard of the sort of midwife who, when confronted by a baby who refuses to leave the child palace, cuts off its arm so she might bring it into the world?”
Grandmother shakes her head. “This happens on the rarest occasions and is done only to save a mother’s life—”
“Their standing is further lowered,” Grandfather continues, “because they’re often called upon to check a woman’s virginity in court cases and perform corpse inspections in instances of unnatural deaths—”
“Husband!” Grandmother snaps. “This is too much for Yunxian to hear.” She turns to me and modulates her voice. “Child, look at me,” she says softly. “Respect your grandfather in all things but know as well that midwives are a necessity. A more pleasing phrase we use for a midwife is she who collects the newborn.” Her eyes glide back to Grandfather. “You do not touch blood. I do not touch blood. We consult from afar. I might attend to a woman in labor—giving her herbs to speed delivery and make the baby slippery—and after birth provide the decoctions that will rebuild her vitality, but I would never try to catch an infant—”
“Confucius made clear that any profession in which blood is involved is considered to be beneath us,” Grandfather agrees. “A midwife’s contact with blood places her on the same base level as a butcher. Furthermore, midwives are disreputable. They are too much in the world.”
“Perhaps.” Grandmother sighs. “But since we physicians acknowledge blood as corrupt and corrupting, then how can a woman give birth without the aid of a midwife?”
“Peasant women—”
“Work in the fields all day, have their babies in the corners of their shacks, and then cook dinner for their families,” Grandmother finishes for him.
“So—”
“So nothing!” Grandmother is starting to lose her temper. “Have you seen that with your own eyes? Maybe those women have a mother-in-law in the household who helps them. Maybe there’s a midwife who works in the village. Maybe—”
Grandfather holds up a palm in an effort to make peace, but Grandmother isn’t done.
“Do men die in childbirth?” she asks. “No, they do not! Even the empress is attended by a midwife. So don’t tell me that a woman can just give birth by herself! If giving birth is so easy and painless—”
“I never said it was painless—”
“If giving birth is so natural,” Grandmother continues, “then how is it fated that labor and delivery put life at risk? A woman is the only animal on earth who should not deliver her offspring alone, because the baby comes out facedown, making it nearly impossible for a woman to pull it out by herself. A midwife is indispensable, whether you like it or not.”
“Indispensable,” Grandfather echoes.
“And midwives can receive great rewards—”
He nods, finally giving in. “If one is lucky enough to attend to imperial women in the Forbidden City, she is rewarded on a level even men like me can envy.”
“Land, gold, titles—”
Still trying to make peace, he adds, “We could also say that two families cannot be joined without the consultation of a matchmaker.” But, since he’s entitled to having the last word, he can’t stop himself from finishing with “That doesn’t make these women any less unsavory.”
Grandmother gives him a quick look but remains silent. Feeling he’s won, Grandfather brightens. He once again addresses me. “Tell me about qi.”
I recite in the same way I do poems, couplets, and the rules by which a girl should live. “Qi is the material basis and life-sustaining force of all existence within the body—”
“A parrot can say words,” Grandmother interrupts, still irritated, it seems, by Grandfather’s views on midwives, “but does it understand their deeper meaning?”