Masajear la Cabeza

Another client story:

Deirdre* is young.  Barely out of childhood young.  She has a rare cancer, which, in her body, showed up in an even rarer form. This massage appointment is a gift from people who can't stop telling me how rare and remarkable she is.  She greats me at the door with a knit cap on her bald head, tape over her port, and the biggest, most open smile I have ever seen.  She hands me her completed intake form -- she is so close to school that she turns it in and asks for feedback as if it were something I was going to grade.

Deirdre tells me the story of her cancer so far.  Diagnosis received while out of town for vacation ("I thought I felt sick because of all the partying I was doing.") Confirmation that her cancer was a very rare presentation ("I guess I'm rare and special.") Description of how debilitating her first round of chemo was ("I was completely out of it, and it was my birthday.  But if I wasn't in the hospital, I would have gotten wasted on my birthday anyway, so it's alright.") She tells me this story with her big, open, gorgeous smile.  She apologizes for how much she sweats as a side effect of her treatment.
I talk to her about oncology massage, and I ask her if she wants me to massage her scalp.

She puts her hand to her knit cap.  "My scalp?  You can massage my scalp?"  I nod.  I didn't think it possible -- but her smile gets bigger as she pulls off her knit cap.  "I never thought I could have a scalp massage."

She settles into a comfortable position for the massage.  Deirdre's mother comes into the room and folds blankets around her.  Deirdre smiles at her mother and tells her, in the language they share, that she is going to have her head massaged.

Deirdre keeps her eyes open at first, taking mental notes like the good student she so recently was.  As soon as I cradle her head in my hands, though, she closes her eyes and breathes.  Her hand rests gently over her tumor site.  Without her knit cap, bald head exposed,  Deidre's features emerge in stark, gentle purity.  Her head radiates heat into my hands as I hold it.  

I try to be neutral about my clients' prognoses.  They are with me to experience what it feels like to have a comfortable present.  That respite, that moment out of time, is my honor to provide.  Deirdre, though, with her face too young for lines and smile too open for tragedy -- she makes me hope.  Maybe, just this one time, a rare and difficult cancer could end in a rare and special cure.


*--name and identifying details have been changed

Sweetness in the Belly

I started this blog because so many lovely and amazing things happened with my clients that I found myself just wanting to tell stories whenever I got together with friends.  And also because some of those things were very emotional, and writing has always been a place where I could untangle emotional things.  I had a couple of new client experiences recently that are making me glad I started this blog.

This one came out in the form of my first writing love, poetry:

I kneel at her side, my two hands cradling her one,

catch sight of the book on her nightstand —

Sweetness in the Belly —

a bookmark tucked about 100 pages in.

Pages left unread that her eyes will never see.

I’ve seen skin like this before.  

Papery, tinged with yellow, fading bruises in a path from foot to head.

I’ve seen eyes like this before.

Sunken back into dark sockets, withdrawn and piercing in their largeness,

no eyelashes soften the steady gaze.

Animals know.  

The dog curled at her head, still as breath,

looks up and right at me.  

He dips his head, raises it, settles back to sleep —

This is good.  What I am doing is good.  

Her almost-adult daughter plays with attitudes.

Looks over my head —“Does the massage therapist know not to go in there yet?”  

Avoids eye contact, moves like she’s wearing a chain maille helmet.  

Later I hear her voice, muffled, to her father:

“I can’t do this.  I can’t put up with this any more.”

Her husband rides up in the elevator with me.  

“She’s not exactly, you know, compos mentis right now.”

He takes another asthmatic breath.

“We are nearing the end of the road, you see.”  

Yes.  I do.  

Between a Smoke Shop and a Cemetery

This was the location of the wellness center where we were teaching the oncology massage workshop -- smack dab between a smoke shop and a cemetery.  The business itself was impressive -- a well-organized staff, therapists always busy, a personal trainer and chiropractor both seeing clients in fully-equipped spaces.  All this built and managed by a powerhouse of a woman.  I was impressed and inspired and I told her so.

My co-teacher and I looked forward to three days of open exchanges and a great workshop experience that only happens when the participants are already comfortable with each other.  Within the first hour, though, it was clear that this would be different.  Every time we asked a question, everyone in the room looked at the owner before they answered.  On every break, the owner spent time shifting and arranging the room, or telling her therapists about tasks they needed to do once the workshop was over.

My co-teacher and I knew -- what we had here was the biggest control lover we had ever seen.  And she had assembled a staff who mostly thought, worked and acted just as she wanted them to.  Usually, when we teach this workshop, there is a moment of pure sweetness or deep understanding for most students.  There are times when the whole room swells with compassion and kindness so palpable it feels like a  warm hand on your shoulder.  We kept waiting for, hoping for, trying to create those moments -- but they never happened.  Not even close.

The driving emotion for the therapists in the room was caution.  How do we limit our liability?  How do we make sure no one sues us?  And, unspoken but there, how do we not piss off the owner who is sitting in class watching us like a hawk?

We gave all the energy we had, but not more than we could spare, to that room.  We left hoping for the best, trying to focus on the heartfelt thank you letter we received from one of the volunteer clients.  (I found it very telling that the letter was slipped into my hand at a moment when no one else could see it happening.)  We shrugged our shoulders and said, "Well, I hope some of that sank in."

On the drive home, a colleague sent me a text message to ask how it went.  This was my response:  "We showed that video that makes everyone cry.  Nobody cried."

This remains one of my most unsatisfying teaching experiences.  I don't think it's necessary for someone to cry to demonstrate compassion, but I do think it is necessary to step out from behind caution, control, and the need to be in charge and expose just a little of your vulnerable, beating heart.  Sometimes life puts you in a hard place -- between a smoke shop and a cemetery in a gray midwestern town -- and the only thing that keeps you going is just a touch of softness.

Non-attachment

With my new, most challenging crop of students, I have been thinking a lot about the concept of non-attachment.  Every Thursday, I walk into class feeling that being completely detached is the only way to survive, and also that being completely detached is the worst thing I could do for these students.

Today I came across this blog post about the nature of non-attachment.  In it, Sandra Pawla writes that when you understand non-attachment:

• Emotions arise, but you have space.  You have perspective.  Emotions don’t catch and torment you every time.

That is it.  That is the crux of what I wasn't getting.  I thought cultivating a calm non-attachment in the face of a room full of challenge was to shut it all down, to put my hands over my eyes and get down in a defensive crouch.  But the answer is to open and soften my eyes and stand, strong and flexible and present.  It is a daily practice which begins with a few minutes of awareness of breath every day.  

Last week, I kicked two students out of my class.  One went without argument, clearly upset but keeping it in check for a more appropriate time and place.  The second -- well, she would. not.  leave.  I found myself getting increasingly angered and frustrated that this person was taking up time I should be using to teach to draw attention to herself.  For a moment, I was caught and tormented by anger, unable to handle anything else in the room.  I had it on the tip of my mind and heart to give up, just let her stay and I could struggle through the last hour of class in anger.  I took a breath.  And another breath.  And stood up straight, and repeated, calmly, "Leave."  Then I turned back to the group of students I was helping and continued my work.  She left.  

Although there is no victory in someone disrupting learning enough to be removed from the space, there was a small bit of growth in standing -- strong, flexible and present -- while that little bit of chaos washed over me.  There is also a small bit of growth in the knowing and acknowledging my own sadness and concern about that one human being.  That kind of cry for attention comes from a deep ache, and I can't help but have compassion for her on a human level.  

Still, the gift of non-attachment that draws me into a compassionate place, also gives me strength to do what I feel is the greater good in the moment.  I hope, for the rest of this term, that I don't have to exercise this gift in this way again.

Having It All

Yes, here I am.  Yet another woman musing on the difficulty of "having it all."  I went about my tasks this morning -- eating breakfast, folding laundry, mentally preparing for a busy day -- and as I usually do, I let my mind wander a bit.  And, as sometimes happens with former Literature geeks, I started musing on the real meanings of words.

All.  It All.

What is "it all" anyway, and how do I know when I have it?  And while I'm on the subject, do I really "have" any of it?

This last thought stopped me for a minute.  Having equals holding equals grasping equals fear of losing.  So when I have, really and truly have, I put myself automatically in danger of living from fear of no longer having.




I see this often in my clients, and even more often in my students.  We acquire something -- knowledge, a skill, a new range of motion, and after the initial joy of the thing has faded a bit, we work extra hard to protect that thing, so we stop taking risks.  And we forget that taking a risk was how we got the thing in the first place.

For me, I have worked very hard and (for me) very patiently to get approved to teach S4OM-approved Oncology Massage Workshops through Greet the Day.  I finally got that approval, and for a while, I just held that approval in my hand.  I had it.

But not It All.  So, now I am taking the risk and reaching out to people I know, trying to create opportunities to teach this workshop.  I have put together a proposal for a formidable former teacher, I have contacted friends and acquaintances in other states, I have said out loud that I am qualified and ready to do this important and scary thing.  The risk of asking will soon (I hope) be overtaken by the risk of someone actually saying yes -- which requires doing.

Which brings me back to my Lit geek headspace -- having it all is an action, always in motion.  It is a goal which shifts as soon as we near it, and rather than frustration, that inspires a new burst of creativity.  Journeying.  Learning.

It is an excellent adventure.

My Guilty Pleasure

I did a lot of driving over the holidays, and a lot of switching around to unfamiliar radio stations.  Formats are similar everywhere, but there was still some regional flavor in the way the DJs interacted with each other and the audience, and in the time of some of the commercials.

Somewhere in between playings of "Dark Horse," I landed on a station playing a teaser for one of their end-of-year "person on the street" features.  The subject was guilty pleasures and holiday season indulgences.  In between the gushing over chocolate and sleeping in, one woman said this: "Massages.  That's my guiltiest pleasure."

What?

Apparently we still have a way to go in the public education area.  Because while a massage may be a pleasure, it should never be "guilty."  I have written in this blog about how your massage really benefits everyone you care for.  I have written about the modalities I practice, and the science behind massage.

Now I think I need to take a minute to address the idea of guilt and massage.  We overuse guilt for many things, but especially for those things which give us pleasure, and even more so if that pleasure involves touch.  Somewhere along the way, many of us learned to associate pleasure with things that were "bad for us" -- the taste of chocolate or coffee, for example.  And somewhere along the way, especially in American culture, many of us were taught that excessive touch was "bad for us."  The truth, as research proves again and again, is that touch is necessary for our emotional health, and really our basic survival.

So, please, stop calling massage your "guilty pleasure."  Where is the guilt in taking care of yourself, and engaging in activities which are necessary for your survival?  And when you hear someone else talking about massage this way, remind them that they are worth the time and the cost of massage.  Because I think that's what the guilt boils down to -- somewhere along the way, we decided that we are not worth it.

But we are.  You are.  

Oncology Massage?

I am in the process of getting all the training and experience I need to teach other massage therapists how to do Oncology Massage. This is one of my specialties, along with Manual Lymphatic Drainage, and one of the things I am passionate about teaching.

When I talk to people about it, usually the first reaction I get is a slightly quizzical look, and a statement like, "I didn't know there was such a thing," or, "Is that just massage for people who have cancer?"

Well, there is such a thing, and no, it is not "just" massage for people who have cancer.  It is so much more.  Anyone who has been through cancer treatment knows that the treatment (not just the cancer) can change and challenge your body in so many ways.  And often the treatment has long term, or lifelong effects.  Oncology massage therapists are trained to ask about these effects and work safely within them.  The Society for Oncology Massage has a great resource for patients and family members here.  If you want to know more about Oncology Massage, or if you wonder why it might even need to be a thing, I highly recommend you check out this link.

For myself, I have been struggling with one of the exercises we give to students in the Oncology Massage Workshop.  We ask students to come up with their own (short) definition of Oncology Massage.  I struggle because I find it difficult to convey all the education and all the mental maturity required to do that kind of work.  I struggle because the second reaction I usually get when I talk about it is, "Oh.  I could never do that.  It would be too sad."  Which puzzles me.  Why is it sad to give someone respite, space to breathe, an hour to reconnect with their physical body as more than "cancer patient?"  And how can I convey all of this in a short statement?

Here's my best attempt.  I'd love to hear yours, if you have one:

Oncology Massage is informed, mindful massage adapted to the effects of cancer and cancer treatment on the body.  It combines all of a therapist's education and training with an awareness of how cancer and cancer treatment change the body so that therapist can use their skills to create a safe, effective massage for anyone with a history of cancer treatment.