The massage
I never realize how much I need it until it is over. My monthly massage. I was never a "massage" type of person. I always said that I didn't plan to get naked with someone unless I was going to sleep with them or they were going to operate on me.
And then I found out that I had rheumatoid arthritis. I was 35. My body ached. A friend suggested that I get a body massage. I rolled my eyes. The pain worsened. I went to a massage therapist.
My first therapist was a woman downtown who had an office that required a 30 step steep trek straight up. I made it up the steps but my joints were screaming. She asked to look at my tongue. I showed it to her. She gave me some pills, called them "joint calmers." I asked her what was in them. She said, "Nothing illegal. Chill. You have to trust the process or it won't work." She then lit some incense that made my throat burn, told me to strip down to my underpants and lay under a towel. I did this. She came back and started to roughly sort of....roll....my body back and forth. I did not feel like a person. I felt like bread dough. And it sort of hurt. I asked her to please be more gentle. She sighed and did that but told me in a scolding voice that if it didn't hurt a little, it probably wasn't going to "take."
It didn't. I didn't go back. The pills went down the toilet bowl.
I didn't see another massage therapist for several years. Then, a co-worker talked me into seeing her massage therapist. Let's call him Ken. Because he looked like a living Ken Doll. This was a little better. Ken was both an acupuncturist and a massage therapist. He stuck a lot of pins in me. His massages were gentle, but too oily for my taste. He wasn't a talker, which was fine with me. He was a....well...a crooner. He didn't really talk. He just sort of crooned. Sometimes he whistled a little tune. But mostly he just...well...crooned. He sounded like the wind sounds on a very windy day when one of your windows isn't closed properly. He was gentle. But, I never felt better after a massage and he was very expensive.
More years passed with no massage.
And then I found out that I had breast cancer. I had a bilateral mastectomy. Physical therapy. Chemotherapy. Radiation. I was still in pain from my rheumatoid arthritis but now I also had other pain. I was nauseated nearly constantly. Fuzzy brained. Everything ached. All. The. Time.
Another friend suggested that I see Cindy. I was dubious, but feeling a little desperate. The pain was keeping me up at night. I no longer felt as if my body were my own. It felt like my body had been kidnapped in the middle of the night and replaced with this recalcitrant one. I didn't feel as if my body and I were in sync. I felt angry at it.
Walking into Cindy's massage studio was peaceful, yet no nonsense. Sort of like a monk's cell. No pithy sayings on the wall. Yet, the colors were inviting. The floor was gleaming oak and all surfaces were uncluttered and smooth. And this was just the waiting room.
The massage room has come to feel like Mecca to me. It is a place of peace and power. The room is warm and softly lit. It smells of lavender but doesn't reek of it. The scent envelops you softly, it doesn't invade one's nostrils. The massage table is roomy with soft white sheets and petal pink and tan blankets.
But the real pièce de résistance is Cindy herself. A tall, willowy woman with a modulated voice. Nothing sing-song or gooey about her, just melodic. She wears her gray hair tucked behind her ears and simple capris with a cotton tee shirt. Sometimes she is barefoot, sometimes not. Her hands hovered at first over my body. I could see her concentrating. It was as if she were feeling my vibe. And then, the massage.
I have never felt more safe in another person's hands with the exception of my wife's loving touch. There is nothing gentle about her hands. They are strong and capable. Yet, they are also soft and tender. They knead expertly where I need pressure and softly where the aches are too close for comfort.
We talk. We've talked right from the start but there are no polite niceties, no disingenuous intents in our words. We just talk. We aren't careful with each other but we are respectful. We are often on the same page. We laugh frequently as her hands work. Sometimes, when she massages an area where there is just too much....whatever....I cry. I never feel embarrassed for this. The first time it happened, she explained that the body carries memories, old feelings, etc. and when it is massaged just so, something releases and causes an emotional reaction. Little by little, my body and I have re-connected. I feel a tenderness towards it, sorrow for all it has endured, a need to protect it, to cherish it again.
The hour flies. She always ends at my head. She steadies my scalp with surety and massages my facial bones deeply with her thumbs. This will sometimes give me a sense of clarity that is nearly astonishing. I will feel a rush of good will. A sense of duty, of peace, of rightness.
Afterwards, after I dress, she provides me with a cup of cold water and we set up my next appointment. She smiles and says, "See you next time!"
When I leave, I feel like maybe the world will be okay after all.
And then I found out that I had rheumatoid arthritis. I was 35. My body ached. A friend suggested that I get a body massage. I rolled my eyes. The pain worsened. I went to a massage therapist.
My first therapist was a woman downtown who had an office that required a 30 step steep trek straight up. I made it up the steps but my joints were screaming. She asked to look at my tongue. I showed it to her. She gave me some pills, called them "joint calmers." I asked her what was in them. She said, "Nothing illegal. Chill. You have to trust the process or it won't work." She then lit some incense that made my throat burn, told me to strip down to my underpants and lay under a towel. I did this. She came back and started to roughly sort of....roll....my body back and forth. I did not feel like a person. I felt like bread dough. And it sort of hurt. I asked her to please be more gentle. She sighed and did that but told me in a scolding voice that if it didn't hurt a little, it probably wasn't going to "take."
It didn't. I didn't go back. The pills went down the toilet bowl.
I didn't see another massage therapist for several years. Then, a co-worker talked me into seeing her massage therapist. Let's call him Ken. Because he looked like a living Ken Doll. This was a little better. Ken was both an acupuncturist and a massage therapist. He stuck a lot of pins in me. His massages were gentle, but too oily for my taste. He wasn't a talker, which was fine with me. He was a....well...a crooner. He didn't really talk. He just sort of crooned. Sometimes he whistled a little tune. But mostly he just...well...crooned. He sounded like the wind sounds on a very windy day when one of your windows isn't closed properly. He was gentle. But, I never felt better after a massage and he was very expensive.
More years passed with no massage.
And then I found out that I had breast cancer. I had a bilateral mastectomy. Physical therapy. Chemotherapy. Radiation. I was still in pain from my rheumatoid arthritis but now I also had other pain. I was nauseated nearly constantly. Fuzzy brained. Everything ached. All. The. Time.
Another friend suggested that I see Cindy. I was dubious, but feeling a little desperate. The pain was keeping me up at night. I no longer felt as if my body were my own. It felt like my body had been kidnapped in the middle of the night and replaced with this recalcitrant one. I didn't feel as if my body and I were in sync. I felt angry at it.
Walking into Cindy's massage studio was peaceful, yet no nonsense. Sort of like a monk's cell. No pithy sayings on the wall. Yet, the colors were inviting. The floor was gleaming oak and all surfaces were uncluttered and smooth. And this was just the waiting room.
The massage room has come to feel like Mecca to me. It is a place of peace and power. The room is warm and softly lit. It smells of lavender but doesn't reek of it. The scent envelops you softly, it doesn't invade one's nostrils. The massage table is roomy with soft white sheets and petal pink and tan blankets.
But the real pièce de résistance is Cindy herself. A tall, willowy woman with a modulated voice. Nothing sing-song or gooey about her, just melodic. She wears her gray hair tucked behind her ears and simple capris with a cotton tee shirt. Sometimes she is barefoot, sometimes not. Her hands hovered at first over my body. I could see her concentrating. It was as if she were feeling my vibe. And then, the massage.
I have never felt more safe in another person's hands with the exception of my wife's loving touch. There is nothing gentle about her hands. They are strong and capable. Yet, they are also soft and tender. They knead expertly where I need pressure and softly where the aches are too close for comfort.
We talk. We've talked right from the start but there are no polite niceties, no disingenuous intents in our words. We just talk. We aren't careful with each other but we are respectful. We are often on the same page. We laugh frequently as her hands work. Sometimes, when she massages an area where there is just too much....whatever....I cry. I never feel embarrassed for this. The first time it happened, she explained that the body carries memories, old feelings, etc. and when it is massaged just so, something releases and causes an emotional reaction. Little by little, my body and I have re-connected. I feel a tenderness towards it, sorrow for all it has endured, a need to protect it, to cherish it again.
The hour flies. She always ends at my head. She steadies my scalp with surety and massages my facial bones deeply with her thumbs. This will sometimes give me a sense of clarity that is nearly astonishing. I will feel a rush of good will. A sense of duty, of peace, of rightness.
Afterwards, after I dress, she provides me with a cup of cold water and we set up my next appointment. She smiles and says, "See you next time!"
When I leave, I feel like maybe the world will be okay after all.
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