Day 140: Being Touched Again

I had a massage today. Probably doesn't seem like a big deal, but it was.

A few weeks after Gareth died, some friends in Korea pooled some money and went in on a gift certificate including a manicure, pedicure, and massage for me. It was so thoughtful- this idea that I may enjoy what is typically considered the top-tier self-indulgence for many people.

I was to call the massage lady and set up a time. "Have you called her yet?" my friend asked me.

"Oh, no...I'm sorry. It's slipped my mind."

A week or two later my friend inquired again. "Have you called her yet? I'm not trying to bug you, but I told her you'd be giving her a call to set things up."
"Oh, geez! I totally forgot. I'm so sorry. I'll call her today." The evening would come and again, no call made. What was going on?

"Maybe you're not ready," a friend suggested. "Maybe the idea of someone else touching you is too much right now. You don't have to go until you're ready." And the wave of tears confirmed her theory. I collapsed. I could feel it. The ache. I couldn't imagine anyone else's hands on my back, my arms, my neck. These were sacred spaces and sacred touch reserved for Gareth.

Here I am a few months later, vacationing in Portland, Oregon, and I get a message (from a friend back in Korea, actually.) "...if you need a mind blowing massage, a friend of mine lives [in Portland] and is very skilled, you should find her and let her melt some stress!"

Maybe I was ready. Why not? I'm on vacation. I made the appointment.

I'd already gotten some nice Gareth reminders: yet another 111 (the number Gareth's heart rate went to when I spoke to him in the hospital- I've been having this number pop up frequently and in the strangest of places), a nice sign in a small shop that read "A true love story never ends," and the Tracy Chapman song ("Promise" from 1995) that I selected to play at his memorial in Korea playing in the coffee shop I walked into this morning. Did Gareth do all of this? Depends on what you believe. What I can say is that I'm comforted each time by the reminders of him and felt like that reminder- that presence- would be with me today if I chose to follow through with the massage appointment.

Came across another 111 as I walked through the city streets in Portland.

Some comfort came from seeing this sign in a small shop. 

I showed up for my 11:30 appointment at Muscle and Bone PDX, a cute little place tucked away on historic Mississippi Avenue in NE Portland. I opened the door to a 1-room well-lit and nicely decorated space to find Isadora (Izzy), the therapist I'd booked time with. I liked him immediately- (no confusion here- Izzy is in the process of transitioning F to M and is keeping his birth name.) We talked a bit about what was going on and worked out a plan to help me feel at ease.

This morning before leaving the house, Maud and I talked about the idea of me getting a massage and again came the tears. The sadness specifically seemed to be around being touched on my back. I have a fairly large floral design tattoo down the left side of my back and Gareth not only was completely taken by it (it inspired a truly lovely poem), but he is the only person to have seen it, touched it, in an intimate way. It is my back. It is my tattoo. But in some way it feels like it belongs to him, too. It was there for both of us to enjoy. It was something we shared. It was a symbol of something deeply personal that I chose to expose to him. I didn't (and don't) want someone else running their hands along that design. Along my back.

I miss Gareth.

Izzy asked what areas may be comfortable for me. My feet. My hands. My arms. My head. Extremities. Stay away from my core. My cage of ribs. My heart. My chest. The places where I could feel the weight of him. Stay away. Let me get used to the weightlessness. Let me wait for the return of his weight until I accept it's never coming. Don't interrupt my waiting.

He suggested I lay on my back, facing the ceiling. In this way, my back, our tattoo, was protected. Hidden. Safe. This helped.

It also helped that Izzy was incredibly easy to talk to. He has a keen sense of humor and was open to my questions about his transition. (How long have you been taking testosterone? Why aren't you changing your name? Being raised as a girl and taking in all those messages about what a girl's body should be, is it hard to let yourself gain weight? How will you go about changing your gender on your license? Do you eat more now?) I'm curious by nature and am thrilled to know someone else who has the freedom and support to become who they really are. We chatted about my friend's son, Shane, who has openly gone through this same process. We chatted about how Isadora really wants an impressive beard, like the friend who referred me to him, Tony. We chatted and chatted and meanwhile Izzy was working the stress out of my neck and head.

Izzy. I'd recommend him to anyone visiting Portland.

We chatted and laughed. Izzy was able to handle my death thoughts (which are frequent throughout the day and don't scare me a bit anymore now that I realize they are just my subconscious's way of constantly looking for an escape route from the pain as opposed to an actual suicide plan.) "So, let me just say, if you happen to dislodge an air bubble while massaging me and it floats up and explodes in my brain and I die on your massage table, I just want you to know that is totally ok with me."

"That's good to know."

"Probably won't happen," I add, "but you know, if it does, know that I was thinking 'Finally!'"

"Yeah, but I have a few more clients today, so..."

"Well, just, you know, call the ambulance and put me in there and then get back to work."

"Yeah, but there's the whole paperwork thing. I'd have to fill out paperwork."

"Oh, right. Sorry about that." I give it some thought. "Oh! Wait! You have my credit card number! How about you just charge me for, like, three clients, and we can call it even?"

"Deal. Verbal agreement. You got it."

I felt happy not only thinking about a bubble traveling up my arm to my brain but also that I was in the presence of someone who GOT IT. He was no more concerned or put off by my talk than if I was asking him to talk about movie preferences. Somehow, he got it. I felt totally understood without having to explain it.

"Or," I said, "what if, like, you have some kind of massive testosterone surge, and you simultaneously grow a massive beard and accidentally rip my head from my torso at the same time in some kind of super-human man strength?"

"Oh! That could work!"

"You'd be like, 'Dang! Look at this awesome beard!" and then you'd see my head with the bloody stump part and you'd be like, "oops!"

"Yeah, but I'd have an awesome beard!"

"See? Everybody gets what they want!"

"I'm seeing this as a movie. Where this massage is happening but your death fantasies are being animated. We should ask Tony to animate it."

"Great idea. And it can be called 'Everybody Gets What They Want."

"I'm in."

"Me, too."

Post-massage. I do actually kind of look not with this world anymore. Sorry about that. Not my intent.

And when the tears came, and they did at the feeling of my hand being held and massaged by another person's hands, it was ok. I had warned Izzy that I may cry. I had likened myself to a pregnant lady who may have some mild contractions while there. I can't help it. I really can't. The tears still come about 2-3 times a day.

Two days ago my friend and I were in a little market picking up flowers to accompany us to a dinner invite and someone's house. Our checker was a young dark-haired girl. "I can get somebody to wrap these up for you!" she chirped and she picked up the phone to call for assistance. "Oh really? She went home? Ok. Well...I can do it." She brought our flowers over to the abandoned floral department, asked us what color ribbon and tissue we'd like, and then got to wrapping. Standing by the case of red roses was enough to bring on a wave- Gareth so loved bringing roses to me. And they had to be simple. Wrapped in twine. Brown twine. None of the sparkly stuff that Korea tends to do with flower arrangements.

Standing next to those roses, the tears came quietly at first and then exploded into the kind of wave that comes with throat noises and the inability to breathe normally. I'm used to these now, these waves. They don't last nearly as long as they did and I recover from them quickly, whereas months ago, even weeks ago, a large wave could require a long nap afterwards.

Maud gave me a nice hug (a special skill of hers) and our bright-eyed checker turned flower-wrapper noticed me crying. "Are those happy tears or sad tears?"

"Sad ones," I managed to get out.

"Oh...why is that?"

"My boyfriend died."

"Really? Mine, too," she said. Her face got it. Her expression got it. She got it. "When?" she asked.

"March 4th."

"March 8th for me."

And this is how it works, these connections.

I asked about her boyfriend- something that people can be weary of doing but something that almost always makes those grieving feel better. It feels like our loved one is being invited back here. Tell me about him. What was his name? What did you call him? Where did you meet? We traded stories and smiled about these men we loved. Her love dead at 24 and mine at 34. "I hate that you get it," I said, "but I'm happy to know you. My sister. My grief sister." We hugged.

The day before that I met a woman whose son died in an alcohol-related death three years ago. And I met a man whose son died this past April. Alcohol-related.

Why couldn't they have stopped drinking? Why couldn't they have a horrendous story that's now part of what became a "wake-up call"?  I want Gareth to have a wake-up call story. I want him to still be here. I'm sure these parents want their boys here, too.

This morning Maud and I were getting ready to leave the house. "Oh! Look at your skirt! It's so...YOU! It's so perfectly you!" She touched the fabric that somehow seems to be a perfect expression of who I am in skirt form. I can't argue with that- nor can I really explain how this is. I just agree with her.

"Gareth got it for me," I told her. "He'd do that all of the time. He'd see something that's so me and he'd say, 'I knew you had to have this."

"Wow. Seriously. This skirt is...BRIDGET! He really got you," Maud said. "He really, really got you."

"Yep. He did."

With Gareth and the skirt that I "had to have" according to him.

Wearing the skirt today in Portland- here, outside of the public library.