Table Talk: Full of Feeling

     Troy is on my mind. I remember feeling so good, so concerned, so bad in connection with him. I met him at the AIDS clinic, but Troy wanted more than the one allotted massage per month. That pleased me. He came for work at my studio with some regularity and always set the next appointment at the end of a session. Then he missed an appointment. I figured with his occasional dementia he had simply forgot. A couple of days later, though, I grew concerned when I didn’t see Troy in the neighborhood. I was afraid that perhaps debt was keeping him away since he owed me money for a massage. A few weeks later as I was walking past Troy’s apartment, he tapped on his window to get my attention. I was so relieved to see him again even though this relief was still tinged with concern. He told me he had been ill and in the hospital, but now he was back home and ready for a massage. Working with him again was a delight. He was full of humor. We laughed together at the funny things he said although I nearly cried when he told me I was the only person who touched him.

     Then I didn’t see him again. Troy seemed to be gone. Not a word, no answer of his phone, no sign of life at his apartment. I recall the insuppressible joy when I saw the light in his window, and I can still feel the drooping disappointment when, looking in, I noticed that his furniture and other things were gone. Was he in the hospital or a hospice? Was he dead? I tried to find out from his case manager but only felt frustrated by the bureaucratic barriers that kept his information from me.

     I am full of feeling. I suppose some of it is residual, related to my friend Ted’s death by AIDS and my being unable to help him at the end. Then I was working more than full-time, and he lived halfway across the country. Now I have the time and am living in the right neighborhood. I want to help Troy like I wanted to help Ted. I prize the massages I have given this man. Where is Troy with his sad body, humorous imagination, and occasional bitchiness? I treasure my memories of sliding my hands over his body, of pulling, beating, pushing, and soothing. I have held his head, mussed and straightened his hair, put oil between his toes, rubbed lotion into his dry skin.

     I feel how Mary Magdalene may have felt when she anointed Jesus--intrigued with his life and anticipating his death. Life is good. I affirm that every day in my writing. I pray that death also may be beautiful. Has Troy died? If so, “Go, Troy. Show the holy oil on your dry skin to the creator of the universe and of the human body. Let the divine light reflect from your own glistening and softening skin. I love you and thank you for presenting yourself to me for anointing.”

     Where is Troy? I need to know. Perhaps this feeling, too, is related to my past. Having worked many years in church ministry, I knew about the deaths of persons I had served or met. I planned and led their funeral services or at least attended them. Perhaps I will have to learn to massage without such a personal connection, but it doesn’t feel good. I have laid my hands on Troy in therapeutic love and want to know his situation. Surely his case manager will find a way to tell me about Troy. I simply want to know whether he is dead or alive.

     If he is dead, I need to mourn him.

     If he is alive, I need to give him a massage.

Urban Power Shileds, mixed media art by Phillip Hoyle