Rubbed Down and Lifted Up

Kate worked at the massage parlor on Main Street where I’d been given a coupon for an hour-long massage. I was assigned to her when I called to schedule a time to redeem it, and we met yesterday at the appointed hour.

After filling out the appropriate information form, I tromped up the creaky, steep stairs in the old Victorian home-turned-business to a quiet bedroom where Christmas carols played softly. I slipped between the sheets and was soon in la-la-land as Kate worked her magic. Her hands were like agents of mercy that transferred her heartfelt desire to me: R-E-L-A-X. I felt my mind go somewhere else - I honestly know not where - while my body responded to her trained touch.

After our session there was not a stiff joint left anywhere, or so it seemed, and my brain felt almost woozy, like a jiggly bowl of Jell-O. Although I barely knew Kate, I sensed caring/serving were her true colors, and asked for her perceptions knowing she’d obviously discovered some deep knots in my neck and shoulders.

“You’re very, very tight – VERY tight. No doubt you tense up automatically as a defensive mechanism against your tinnitus,” she explained. “Your neck, shoulders, and even your arms (wow) are – well – incredibly tense. It’s probably become a lifestyle and you don’t even know what it feels like to relax anymore.” I could see it written all over her face: I WISH I COULD HELP YOU.

I asked her, “So what’s the most rewarding and challenging part of your job?”

She stretched her arms over her head and gazed at the ceiling; she seemed to look at both questions through rose-colored glasses tinted with compassion. “Most rewarding - well - I love being able to help people.”

“That’s only half – what about the most challenging part?”

“Sometimes I can’t help them. That’s a bummer.” Still a rosy view, I thought, from the motive (wanting the best) point-of-view.

Interesting. I told her I’d like to stick her in my hip pocket and pull her out every now and then for a quick rub-down when the tinnitus noises started throwing their rotten eggs at me. She smiled gently and her eyes sparkled as if to reflect an inner fire: sincere mercy. I felt encouraged, even fleetingly, as if I’d found someone who understood and cared about the rotten egg-y-ness from my point of view.

Somehow it’s easier when you know you’re not alone. That reassurance was almost as valuable as the massage itself, and the after-glow lasted all evening and even into this morning. I wonder if she knows she ministered to my soul as well as my body.