Forbidden

He asked, Is this OK?

Photo by Milan Popovic on Unsplash

His hands moved rhythmically across my body. His massage was firm. He was in control, yet yielded to the response from my muscles. Fatigued. Beaten by yesterday’s relentless marathon swim.

I felt 25 in the water, but was soon reminded I was 30 years older and with a lot of life lived in this body.

My body has been beaten by cancer, torn ligaments, and 26 surgeries. Scars cover my chest and bisect my abdomen. I’m reminded with the perfect precision of the scapel that both hamstrings were reattached, Achilles, bilateral shoulders, and lower back.

Behind the cancer veil of survival hides the real story. The body parts that snap because there is no more estrogen. The fatigue that sets in out of nowhere. And survivor’s guilt that somehow acts as a ticket to restlessness and stupidity, while at the same time, paralyzing with remorse for simply outliving a diagnosis that was never invited.

I scheduled the massage so that I would be able to move and lift my arms overhead after the swim.

Everything about the massage was normal from beginning to end. He asked what I needed. I told him: legs, arms, pectoral muscles, and upper back. I started with my face in the cradle. We chatted. He asked me if the pressure was OK. He began on my feet, moving to my back and arms. He asked…