"You know that space movie?"
From the "More words and phrases you don't particularly want to hear from your physical therapist" department.
I've long since trained my massage therapist N to be comfortable speaking sentences to me that start "In normal people..." but in yesterday's session she was really struggling for words to describe what was going on under her hands.
"It's like... It's like... I don't know how to say it nicely," she struggled.
As always I encouraged her to express herself as she wished.
"OK," she said, and managed to surprise me with her next words, "You know that space movie? Where she's got something under her skin trying to burst out? But it doesn't and you can see it moving under the skin?"
"That would be one of the Alien movies with Sigourney Weaver," I supplied helpfully, but not without a measure of apprehension.
"That's it! It's like you've got an alien thing moving around under your skin and I'm chasing it," she concluded. She continued to work my back. It took me a moment to respond.
"That's new," said I, slightly muffled as always from my face-in-the-hole posture. I believed her assessment, for earlier we'd been trying to pin down the new sensation and I'd got as far as "writhing worms" although she also reported that it was as if every muscle fibre was shivering under the skin. "No wonder you're tired if you do this all the time."
But wait, there's more. At some point later the alien creature responded to the treatment and became discorporeal (no, it did not burst from my chest and fly about the room), and we had another round of put-the-wierdness-into-words.
"It's not like the usual random muscle electrical activity," she said (otherwise known as 'chickens'). "When we have chickens it starts out chaotic then concentrates into one spot and then gets released in one big twitch." And how. I think of it as an electrical storm grounding out through a lightning strike. Or a bunch of panicked chickens being herded into one spot. One of those. "But this is more like a ball of pure energy--not muscular, not fascia, something else--and I'm pushing it around. I don't know what to call it."
Now this is a very serious massage therapy practice. Yes, you get soothing music, candles and aromatherapy on request, but they don't shove whalesong and essential oils down your throat, so to speak. It's all good solid (or in my case somewhat deviant) human biology.
She continued to struggle to explain it, and I decided to put her out of her misery. "Look," I said, "why don't we just call it a ball of Chi and get over the embarrassment?" She agreed that was for the best. It was not mentioned again.
I'm actually a great believer in Chi, but it's not something I usually bring to the massage table on these occasions, and N doesn't swing that way in her treatment strategy. It was an interesting session. I'm actually toying with the idea of acupuncture again, but it could very easily go very badly indeed. Stay tuned.
I've long since trained my massage therapist N to be comfortable speaking sentences to me that start "In normal people..." but in yesterday's session she was really struggling for words to describe what was going on under her hands.
"It's like... It's like... I don't know how to say it nicely," she struggled.
As always I encouraged her to express herself as she wished.
"OK," she said, and managed to surprise me with her next words, "You know that space movie? Where she's got something under her skin trying to burst out? But it doesn't and you can see it moving under the skin?"
"That would be one of the Alien movies with Sigourney Weaver," I supplied helpfully, but not without a measure of apprehension.
"That's it! It's like you've got an alien thing moving around under your skin and I'm chasing it," she concluded. She continued to work my back. It took me a moment to respond.
"That's new," said I, slightly muffled as always from my face-in-the-hole posture. I believed her assessment, for earlier we'd been trying to pin down the new sensation and I'd got as far as "writhing worms" although she also reported that it was as if every muscle fibre was shivering under the skin. "No wonder you're tired if you do this all the time."
But wait, there's more. At some point later the alien creature responded to the treatment and became discorporeal (no, it did not burst from my chest and fly about the room), and we had another round of put-the-wierdness-into-words.
"It's not like the usual random muscle electrical activity," she said (otherwise known as 'chickens'). "When we have chickens it starts out chaotic then concentrates into one spot and then gets released in one big twitch." And how. I think of it as an electrical storm grounding out through a lightning strike. Or a bunch of panicked chickens being herded into one spot. One of those. "But this is more like a ball of pure energy--not muscular, not fascia, something else--and I'm pushing it around. I don't know what to call it."
Now this is a very serious massage therapy practice. Yes, you get soothing music, candles and aromatherapy on request, but they don't shove whalesong and essential oils down your throat, so to speak. It's all good solid (or in my case somewhat deviant) human biology.
She continued to struggle to explain it, and I decided to put her out of her misery. "Look," I said, "why don't we just call it a ball of Chi and get over the embarrassment?" She agreed that was for the best. It was not mentioned again.
I'm actually a great believer in Chi, but it's not something I usually bring to the massage table on these occasions, and N doesn't swing that way in her treatment strategy. It was an interesting session. I'm actually toying with the idea of acupuncture again, but it could very easily go very badly indeed. Stay tuned.