How positive touch heals me
A lighthearted conversation with my massage therapist during a session.
My focus this month is on the body. One of the reasons I wanted to share with you some of my writings on this is that the last five years have been an intense period of growth in my life. Both complex and acute trauma truncated my ability to be “in my body:” to recognize its signals for basic needs, like hunger, thirst, or sleep. Driven as I’ve been for the last forty years, it took almost losing my life to passive suicidality before I learned how to listen to what stories my body was telling me. And the stories it wanted to tell through me. That’s my personal version of embodiment, and this piece is a slice of a conversation with my friend and massage therapist one day. The intention here is to illustrate how safe human touch is both healing and empowering.
“I have a client who’s a caregiver for her husband, her sister, and her niece. All of them are disabled in some way,” Megan began, as I flattened my body in prone position on the massage table. “Coming to get a two-hour massage is her only ree-spite.”
Did she mean respite? As in, short sound on the i? But she said it like a long vowel i. And long e instead of short e. Have I been mispronouncing this word for years?
“Oh, really?” I mumbled after a brief pause, scooting myself lower for comfort. “That sounds like a lot for her. I can’t imagine anyone taking on that much.”
“And she’s in her late seventies,” Megan added. She didn’t see my eyes widen, since I was staring at the floor. “Her sister-in-law was just put on hospice. She’s not at the end, but she’s…”
“Close,” I said.
“Yeah. Like not so close that she’s…”
“On death’s door,” I offered.
“Exactly.”
“Sorry I’m finishing your sentences for you,” I said sheepishly through the filter of a bed sheet.
“As long as you give me enough pause to correct you if you’re wrong, I never mind it.”
Megan pivoted to a new subject, while she focused on the left side of my body, kneading the tissues and skin like leavened bread. “One of my friends—who’s the youngest person I hang out with, she’s twenty-six—just told me what it’s like to try to date these days, and I have to say, I’m so glad I’m out of the dating scene. I don’t think people know how to date, ya know? When they feel bad, they just end up texting forty people to see who will respond in the way they need the most. It’s hard for me to con-joor that in my mind.”
Did she mean conjure? She made it sound so French: con-jour! Like it rhymed with bonjour.
“I agree,” I told her, “especially since I was just talking to a young woman who used to nanny for us. She’s in her early twenties and said she hates dating apps, because all people want to do is hook up for sex.”
“Yeah, it’s like they end up totally clueless about how to talk to people and build a real connection by the time they’re thirty, ya know? What about introducing yourself? Asking for someone’s number? Engaging in some meaningful conversation? They aren’t virgins, but they’re…”
“Relationship virgins,” I finished.
Megan chuckled. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”
“Ouch. Ow-ow-ow-ow!” I winced. Megan released pressure with her finger and shifted her angle of approach. “Let’s try it this way. You just let me know if this is painful,” she said, and poked her pointer finger on some gnarly tissue I didn’t realize had knotted up.
“That’s better,” I sighed. “But tell me—what’s your theory about why only one side of my body is such a mess?”
Megan said, “Well, it could be a micro-injury, like maybe you just stepped wrong and slightly twisted your ankle. You know, at our age, the body has been through decades of wear and tear. It’s different than when we were kids. Except, I do feel sorry for kids who are, like, eight years old and have already sustained too much bodily harm, ya know? That means they’ll be worse for wear by the time they hit midlife.”
“Mm hmm,” I muttered. “It’s a bit tough for me to talk through these sheets.”
“I know. You don’t have to explain anything. Just let your body relax into some positive touch. Maybe I can show you the different types of hugs when you leave.”
And she did—Megan demonstrated that placing one of your arms around the other person’s neck and the other arm around their waist positions both people chest to chest, which is the “closest you get to synchronizing your heartbeats,” she told me.
Since that day, I never hug any other way.
Your financial contribution helps supplement our family’s expenses and offset the costs of ongoing medical care for our daughter Sarah that requires 20 hours of unpaid caregiving on my part. I want you to know how much your support means and how it helps our family.
Such a delightful article. I really loved reading this! The body speaks in its own language. And gosh, that language can be difficult to decipher. Sometimes we need another person to help translate what our bodies are trying to say. That physical touch, that safe space, allows for a deeper kind of listening and healing. Such a delight 🩵
Oh, I just love that. "Different types of hugs." Why were we ever so silly as to think there was just one way to hug? The owner of our yoga studio in Tennessee used to hug cheek to cheek and heart to heart. I bonked her in the nose several times trying to rush the hug in the wrong way as I came flying in from the parking lot almost late to class. She would calmly put her hands on my arms and back me up to try again, whispering in my ear as she did so "Cheek to cheek and heart to heart." It almost brought tears to my eyes every single time. Positive touch. So meaningful.