I had a massage the other day. One of the “perks” offered at the cancer hospital are free massages during cancer treatments or up to 6 months after a last treatment. It is supposed to relax the body. A relaxed body receives treatment better and recovers faster. Currently, my feet are numb making my calves tight, my knees click and my hamstrings are tighter than guitar strings. I was really looking forward to this. I met the masseuse. As I was changing out of my clothes, I smelled something. Oh, shit. Literally. I should NOT have trusted that fart. I’m now in panic mode to quickly clean up before my massage. I find some tissues and that almost does a good job. Now I’m paranoid my diaper is going to stink. Kinda like having a toddler in diapers. Grrr, I hate my butt problems. I finally settle on the warm massage table and work to relax my mind and my frustration. A light conversation begins. And then more conversation. And now my masseuse is telling me about her almost ex-husband who is sleeping with another woman at his work and the amount of affairs which happen at his place of employment which you wouldn’t believe and the higher ups lie about what is really happening. She is pretty sure the new fling is pregnant because he is not wanting to pay child support even though he begged her for a third kid. Begged her. Meanwhile, Tim McGraw is crooning overhead and while I don’t mind country music, it is not my calming music of choice. All this while my masseuse is aggressively rubbing my upper neck area or right below my skull on my left side. To the point where I am straining away from the pressure because an almost immediate headache is triggered. By this time we are talking about the masseuse’s two older girls and the youngest girl struggling to understand the culture of a sport. Do I have any tips? I offer a few out of politeness. Back to the massage, my legs are finally getting massaged. They are so tight. Then, I am asked if I have heard of the Graston technique. Umm, sorry, no. The who? In layman’s terms it is scraping. My body does an involuntary shutter at this. In college, my shins were often scraped because I frequently flirted with shin splints bordering on stress fractures. I would cause a scene as I held on to the table while uncomfortable laughter and tears streamed down my face. I know scraping hurts. Back to the massage table, I know the purpose is to help but dammit, I just want an enjoyable massage. The masseuse scraped my IT band on both legs, my hamstrings, my quads. Like nails on a chalkboard. And yes, I was bruised the next day. Relief washed over me when the allotted massage time was over. I politely thanked her with no intention to return. 

I had high expectations of a nice, relaxing massage only to be disappointed but perhaps I was more disappointed by my own lack of voice. Even though it was a free massage, I could (and should) have said no thanks to the scraping. Or maybe figured out a way to change the topic about the masseuse’s cheating almost ex-husband. Sometimes help is not always helpful. Just because something is free does not mean it is the best option for you. So I keep learning. Learning about my boundaries. Learning how to use my voice to better advocate for myself. Learning that no can be okay. 

Liz