Kneading love into broken bodies and minds

In a cubicle in a darkened ward, I heard a murmur behind drawn curtains around my neighbour’s bed. It was two nurses changing the soiled bed linen. As they worked in the semi-darkness they whispered about the nightclub jaunt and they had been on the weekend before. I could make out the muffled laughter as they describe the events. Not a word from the patient on the bed.  Only a grunt of pain as they turned the dead weight between them. Sores develop when bodies lie too long on one spot. Nursing staff must regularly turn their charges like bacon on the grill, to avoid the burden of a bed sore. The patient, now immobile, cannot turn themselves to find relief. They await the mercy of others.

These two nurses giggle as they work quickly to complete their tasks. Their rubber gloves allow cleaning to be brisk and impersonal. Job done and with a laugh, over her shoulder, the gloves were discarded in a nearby container. Hand wash was dispensed and then they both emerged from behind the curtain. One whispers to the other, “it was awful crazy that last dance, I could barely stand!”

Her co-worker sniggered something I could not hear. Whatever it was, it triggered an outburst of hysterical laughter. In response, the inert figure groaned again from the bed. They left whispering confidences down the long corridor, shoes squeaking annoyingly.   

I remember having my first massage aged 50. I had waited half a century but it was worth it. As my cousin and I lay in opulent luxury at a lovely spa I was amazed what a good massage can do. These hands soothed muscles taut with stress and even penetrated deep tissue. Finding the points where pain lingers and working them free as if untying a knot.

It is an art form this craft. Masters of the trade can do real magic with their hands. I was delighted, inside one week, to be given a second voucher to a different spa.  Anticipating the same treatment, I was disappointed. It was obvious this masseur did not want to touch me. I felt her disdain through her fingertips and voice. My skin screamed its dislike of this touch. Every time her hand poked or prodded me I wanted to withdraw into the couch. To disappear completely from view or touch. It was such a relief when it was over. A long, long hour that felt as long as the 50 years that preceded it. Feeling foolish and frankly abused I left. I’d learned a lesson of sorts just not sure what?

Then this week, 10 years later I got some insights on the whole business.  Fourteen language students visited our home for a meal.  The eldest was in his 30s and was an Italian masseur with his own business in Sicily. I asked this professional about my experience at the hands of these two different masseurs.

He happily explained that physical touch conveys so much. Even one’s mood! A bad attitude is transferred to a client immediately through touch. As I described my horrid experience and its mechanics he nodded knowingly. “When you begin a massage”, he explained, “with a client and touch them you should never let go of that touch until the complete massage is over”. Apparently, touch is so personal and private you cannot afford to discard physical contact with them and then with touch intrude again. Instead, when moving on to massage a leg or arm you leave one hand always in place and only having touched and stroked the new area allow the remaining hand to be removed. The sudden withdrawal of touch in the midst of a massage is interpreted as neglect/antipathy for the client who is aware of everything through your fingertips. Care or indeed indifference is conveyed through the hands as effectively as fingerprints on a crime scene. He pointed out that the hands of a masseur should be warmed before being applied. As he spoke of how emotion can be conveyed through simple touch the vital importance of respect became clear. That it has to colour every interaction. The tone of one’s voice, respect for privacy and always permission sought for each physical interaction.

It made me think of a famous doctor who has made a medical examination into a kind of art form at Harvard. Taking care to perfect his physical examination with practice and reflection he now teaches these forgotten skills to other doctors. At a time when blood tests and scans dominate their methodology, he believes in the power of the doctor’s touch. This physical touch during medical examination, he is sure, should be an expression of concern, gentle but perceptive and can provide a deep reassurance that comforts a worried or ill patient.

It made me think of that silent patient groaning behind the curtains on the darkened hospital ward. Lifted and turned with such cavalier indifference. I know our staff have so little time, understaffed and overworked. I understand all that, but I really wish the importance of touch was taught to all. How to do it with love and respect. How spirits are soothed by the presence of mindful hands. When voices are silenced and patients withdraw beneath their skin how wonderful if loving hands caressed that wounded spirit and kneaded love into broken bodies and minds.

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