It's My Cancer and I'll Cry if I Want To

Devoted bloggees may recall that on day one of my southwestern spa mindfulness trip, I overhead a discussion at the spa pool and realized that I wanted to cry. 

Not right at that moment, but at some point during the week. There are many kinds of crying: crying in pain, in grief, in sadness, in joy, and as a release, to name a few.  I think I wanted to cover several of those types.

On day two, I had an outdoor therapeutic deep tissue massage, which I had really been looking forward to.  My stress--like many of us--builds up in my neck, shoulders and back.  I am fortunate to have a fantastic massage therapist at home and to know what a good massage feels like. Unfortunately, this was not it.  "Deep" to me means, well, deep.  Dig into my back; find the knots; press on them; touch that pain sensation and drive it away.  For 30+ minutes of the massage, I repeatedly requested "deeper, harder, there . .  no there . . . )  It was frustrating for me and likley unpleasant for the massage therapist (MT) as well.  I had advised MT of my cancer--because the area where my port is (left chest, below collarbone and above bra line) is a no-touch zone.  The rest of me is completely touchable.  I couldn't help but wonder if she was scared to touch me harder.  Afterwards, I felt no relief; I felt like I had wasted precious time.  I was torn . .  do I say something to spa managment? complain? or just remain disappointed? I sat there in my spa robe for a bit, silent tears running down my cheeks.  I ended up talking to the spa manager.  It was all very quiet and discreet, and he offered me another massage the next day, with a super MT named L, known for her strength and deepness.  Kudos to Miraval and to the spa manager for handling this so professionally and compassionately.

MT L and I had a great session on day 3. She had already been given a heads up about my port and my desire for depth. We connected, muscularly and oherwise--a book she suggested that I read is the exact book I was already reading (for the second time actually--"When Things Fall Apart", by Pema Codron--I highly recommend it.)  My back and shoulders began to open up, and other parts seemd to follow.  MT L suggested that I try Thai massage, as that would go ever deeper into the kinks, knots, and  stored up gunk.

By day 5, my  final day at Miraval, I was relaxed and rejuvenated.  I told lovely daughter (LD) that I loved our week, in that every day I woke up happy and went to bed happy.  But some part of me still wanted more, deeper.  I still had not truly cried, and since the "Equine Experience" had not triggered tears, I wasn't expecting it at this point.  Little did I know.

I went to a session called "Mindul Stress Mastery."  That session had my name on it!  I thought it would be a lecture of sorts, e..g, "five ways to reduce stress and reach optimal health".  In fact, it was far more raw and honest.  About 10 of us sat in a circle, propped up by meditation chairs, pillows, and blankets.  Stress expert MG (SEMG) led a discussion of what we all stress about, how we deal with it, how to deal with it better.  We each revealed a  small bit about ourselves, and yes, I talked about my cancer, and how my stress emerges with small everyday occurences, often in parking garages. 

SEMG guided us into a walking meditation . . . just around the room, each at our own pace, in our own space.  I was cold and wrapped a large, soft red blanket around me as I slowly walked through the room.  I came face to face with a wall and stopped.  I started crying, still silently, but more abundantly, tears streaming down my face as I stood with my face to the wall, clutching my blanket.  I realized that what I was doing with thr blanket was hugging myself. And that what I really wanted more than anything was a huge bear-hug, from a large, protective, male human, with arms around me, assuring me nonverbally that  everythng would be OK.  And I wanted that hug without asking for it.  And I realized that I didn't know where a gentle giant hug like that might come from, or whether it would ever occur.

Then I pictured my Dad.  Dad passed away in 2004, just a few months before my Mom.  Some cousins said at the time that he was a rock in all of our lives.  Dad was also a great hugger.  I cried more silent tears as I thought about how much I miss him. 

After the walking meditation, we returned to our circle, and SEMG asked us to lie down, as she would then guide us through a body scan.  A body scan??  I smiled through my tear-stained face, and asked "will this be covered by insurance?" I remained aware as she talked us through the scan of the right leg, then left, and then I drifted off into that lovely zone between wakefulness and sleep.

My Thai massage was moments later.  I told Thai massage person M about my port, and he replied "I'm not scared of cancer."  I liked that.  He proceeded to push into my nooks and crannies with his feet, stretch my arms, legs and hips in varying directions, and generally turn me into a pool of mush.  I shed a few tears, and then I was blissfully done with my crying game.

Tearfully yours,

Cdiva