Table Talk: Failing Bodies

     I became domesticated. Already I was doing more things at his house than I ever imagined: cleaning up after the dogs, mowing the lawn, pulling weeds, even cooking. These were helpful to Michael, of course, but I wanted to do more, something to help him feel better.

     Michael’s illness was advancing too rapidly. I remember when I started to feel my time with him was really limited. I realized I might not have many more chances to express my love or to do nice things for him. I had met Michael when he came to me for a massage. The connection between us was instant and mutual. Before long we were meeting for coffee, talking and laughing together. Then there were small gifts: a magazine from him, a candle from me. I prepared him some artwork; he fixed me a wonderful meal. I still hoped for new and enjoyable experiences with Michael. I wanted him to feel my love, concern, and humor. I wasn’t ready for him to leave me and decided I would do what I could to make our remaining time together enjoyable--even with the pain, grief, and fear. Nearly every day I rubbed lotion on Michael’s dry back and arms and often massaged some sore spot on his body. He loved my touch. Finally, I realized that my most distinctive and comforting gift was the same gift I had first given him. “Maybe I can give Michael a massage tomorrow morning,” I thought.

     Recalling this, I think of other clients of mine. Kevin is having a harder time. Pat‘s liver is failing. Judy has cancer. Connie feels confused. Still others are experiencing decreases of energy, increases of motor problems related to peripheral neuropathy, memory loss. I hope to help them deal with their difficulties by the massages I give. More than one client has told me, “Phillip, you’re the only person who touches me.”

     These failing bodies prompted me to choose Saint Mary Magdalene as the patron of massage therapy. I find especially helpful the story of her anointing Jesus. A woman often identified as Mary comes into the banquet room and anoints Jesus’ feet with an expensive ointment. There is criticism: “The oil could have been sold and the proceeds given to the poor.” There is innuendo: “Don’t you know the reputation of this woman?” Jesus counters the arguments. “She has done a beautiful thing. She is anointing me for my burial.” His death was still weeks or months off in the account. The story seems all too apt. No one else was preparing Jesus’ body for his death. Perhaps the others were focused on trying to prevent his death or in denial of its inevitability and approach. Whatever else may have been happening, Mary was the one who touched Jesus’ body. The Gospel paints a picture of intimacy, caring, love, extravagance, and much more. Mary stooped over Jesus’ feet, applied oil, massaged it in, wiped off the excess. I imagine Jesus’ relief, thankfulness, and pleasure.

     Something similar occurs in my massages at the AIDS clinic. I anoint failing bodies. My work values them with touch. While the client may have to deal with the ongoing failure of systems within his or her body, I have the luxury and the task of working with what medical people call the presenting problem. I don’t carry into the massage the memory of a healthy body. I simply greet the person and start my work with questions like: “Do you have any particular aches or pains you want me to address?” “Do you prefer a light or heavy touch?” Where I sense pain, I ask how much it hurts, and, following my work, I ask if the client is feeling better. I value the present person through the quality of my touch, hoping to communicate love and my own valuing of their body.

     The body’s breakdown often leaves persons with remembered images and an elevated sense of loss. Some of my clients have lost their stamina and with it their jobs. Some have had to quit working out. Others can barely make it to their many medical appointments. Such losses erode self-confidence, self-image, self-reliance. Not only have they lost the ability to do what they used to do when they had better health and stronger bodies, but they also realize they will never be able to accomplish all their hoped-for activities. Their bodies are failing them; their lives may end soon. They have difficulty valuing the body that is betraying them.

     I knew Michael less than nine months. He had been HIV infected for several years and was already on disability when we met. He was pretty skinny, living with some unlovely side effects from his medications, but still able to enjoy eating out, to take short trips in the area, to tend flowers and vegetables in his garden. I saw a spare, even gaunt beauty in his face and frame. I appreciated, touched, and enjoyed every part of his body. I was unwilling to give up any part of it even as I watched it betray him. I saw him lose more weight, heard his roars of anguish at his pain, and steadied his shaking body. I realized I was watching him die, but still I loved him, all of him, even those parts that weren’t working well.

     Michael readily agreed to my suggestion of a massage. We drove to my apartment. I helped him climb the stairs. In the massage room he undressed and got onto the table. I covered him with a blanket. As Michael relaxed, I loved him with my hands. I stooped over his failing body, rubbed in the oil, removed the excess. I anointed him in his life and in preparation for his death.

Mixed media art by Phillip Hoyle