The Massage Man, a gentle giant--tall and imposing, yet approachable with a presence that immediately puts you at ease--appears out of the mist: bringing clarity, hope, and relief for that (literal) pain in the ass.
I was a bent and crooked woman.
Unable to move without an unattractive grimace. (No--that isn't my usual expression!)
Unable to go to the bathroom without wondering how I can withstand the pain of the required physical position (not to mention the oft-taken-for-granted gymnastic ability needed to properly wipe and dispose of wiping material).
Unable to lie in a bed to sleep.
Unable to sit on a sofa or chair to sleep.
Okay, unable to sleep--period.
Somehow, I found the strength to reach for my phone and send the modern smoke signal for help: text The Massage Man and pray that he answered with a day and time to address my pain and dysfunction.
Massage Man did not disappoint. I received a prompt reply that he would be swooping in to save the day tomorrow at 2pm.
In the meantime, I stayed strong. Employing all means at my disposal to survive until Massage Man arrived. I used the percocet prescribed for my Shingles to dull the crippling pain radiating up and down my right side from the apex in my lower back. I took frozen hashbrowns and iced my inflamed area (hey--it's all I had!). I heated up my neck pillow and alternated it with the hashbrowns on my lower back. I took ibuprofen. I drank wine. I drank water. Wine felt better. I took a bath.
I made it.
At 1:45pm, there was a confident knock on the door. I schlepped my way to the door; disheveled and with tell-tell sleep creases on my cheek (I sneaked a nap before my massage--some may call it overkill, I call it self-care). I opened the door and was blinded by the bright glow radiating from the figure standing in my doorway. As my eyes adjusted, the image of Massage Man came into focus, and my whole being took a collective sigh of relief.
Like Santa on Christmas Eve, he set straight to his work; opening up his massage table, asking relevant and concerned questions about my current state, rearranging my furniture to accommodate his work.
Massage Man excused himself to wash his hands, enjoy some of the light reading left out for visitors in my guest bathroom, and wait for me to disrobe (to my level of comfort) and get situated on the table. (BTW, my level of comfort is the full monty--it's very common and not just for Europeans!)
As Massage Man laid his hands on my pain-riddled body, I relaxed. It was the first time I had been in this much pain and felt this much relief (I have suffered from the occassional 'old lady back' since I was 27, and usually it has left me out of commission for 3 to 5 days with nothing but time making it better).
Massage Man touched my muscles with intention, compassion, and healing. And his care didn't end when the massage was over. He took the time to show me stretches (and yes! I have stretched several times today, including before the start of a manager's meeting), to recommend the right behaviors (water--not wine) and to rearrange my furniture (even the lovesac that my daughter dislodged) before heading off into the sunset; as rogue heroes often do.
I slept through the nite.
I was able to tote my luggage and laptop with minimal discomfort.
I slept through my flight.
I disembarked the plane with ease.
Even now, as I write this, I can barely sense a whisper of the debillitating pain that was paramount only 24 hours ago.
Thank you Massage Man! You are a blessing! You are a gift! You are a human conduit for a miracle of healing!
To find out more about Massage Man, or to schedule your own miracle, contact me via modern smoke signal at firstname.lastname@example.org. You, too, can find relief!!