Load-bearing backs and DVLA extras

 When I took my penultimate driving test (there were a few) I found myself wondering if the DVLA was in the habit of paying extras to create a bit of additional complexity for wannabe drivers to navigate. I kid you not, anything you can put on wheels sailed past me on the housing estate I was traversing including a kid on a pogo stick, a space hopper and someone in a mobility vehicle giving at least three close friends and an out-sized speaker a lift. If you’re wondering why I failed the test it was not on account of that lot. No, the examiner had to use the emergency brakes when I failed to stop at a zebra crossing for a woman who, I maintain to this day, was quite clearly not going to have taken both feet off the pavement before I nipped past. 

Anyway. I do sometimes wonder if they’ve lined up the most challenging customers for me at the reablement centre when I go in on Friday afternoons to give massage. You would not believe the things I’ve had to navigate because I can hardly believe it myself. 

Last week, a lovely woman with no end of complexities - I can’t list them all because I didn’t have space on my form to get them down as she reeled them off - but she  was in constant pain, didn’t respond to painkillers, couldn’t feel her fingers or toes, had had heart attacks, stomach this and that. And severe halitosis to boot. I mean, it made my menopausal niggles seem almost irrelevant.  She was also so lucid and intelligent. I suppose I mention this because people who are in pain so often shrink inside themselves. She talked about how hard it is, living with invisible ailments when inside you’re screaming. People offer more love and compassion when they can see what you’re dealing with. 

Needless to say, I don’t think the massage I gave was particularly effective. It wasn’t the first time that I felt the service I was offering was that of a listening ear and a bit of kindness. 

We started sharing stories. Dementia came up. You know why I can’t say too much on that subject. Turns out her husband had it. We managed at giggle at that being one condition she’d managed to avoid. We went into a bit more detail. Turns out he’d also had one leg. I forget why. She described how she used to carry him around on her back. To get him upstairs. In and out of the car. She mentioned this in passing. I was thinking WTAF? She said it was easier than the faff of getting him in and out of his wheelchair. Sometimes the wheelchair didn’t go places they needed to. I had an unhelpful image of them visiting a beach on a Greek island. I mean, wow. That’s a whole new level of ‘for better and worse’. And now he has passed. And she’s dealing with so much. 

I don’t have a cleverly-composed rounding-up comment. I’ve been thinking about burdens we all carry. Especially as women. I’m trying to get a job, keep the balls in the air, single parent (pretty much, or ‘double-parent’ as some of my friends call it), manage the emotional distress that comes with the complex illness of a parent, and keep track of how much cheese is in the fridge. (We perpetually run out of bread, milk and toilet paper.) I still experience, to some degree, the metaphorical load of my ex-partner. But the literal load? No words. 

I suppose one thing I can add is this: massage does, if only temporarily, lighten this load. Helps one to let go. 

A surprise expedition

For some months now I’ve been visiting a local reablement centre, offering guests there free massage on Friday afternoons. This, in my capacity as a trainee practitioner. 

Guests are people who have left hospital but are not yet ready to return home; usually (but not exclusively) because of mobility issues; often because their homes need some adjustment in order for them to go back; and although I’m not given much of a back story I can piece together from the things I’m told while I work, that there is often a bunch of intersecting additional complexities influencing what happens next. The guests tend towards the older end of the spectrum and some have dementia which I find particularly poignant, for reasons that readers who know some of my own back story will understand. 

There is so much I could say about what I’ve witnessed and learnt. In fact I’m basing the client study assignment I need to complete on this setting. 

The power of touch impacts so greatly on both parties involved in a massage; as a practitioner it is something akin to supporting a client in recreating pathways to remembering who they are. I’ve learnt about layers of sensation that start outside the body; about how compressed these can be, and how the application of even the gentlest of pressures can be transforming in unsticking them. 

But when your clients are clothed, and seated, and in pain, and sometimes in a day room rather than their own space, finding an entry point to offer some relief is a whole different ball game to when you have someone in their underwear and draped on your massage table at home. 

Notwithstanding, I’ve been amazed at the potential for fostering connection. How ready people are to receive what you can offer and find pockets of peace in the space you create with them. (I should also note the potential for abuse this creates, especially when so many people have moved into what I think of as ‘patient mode’)

I’ve had to navigate leg braces, neck braces, broken limbs and a zillion other less visible conditions. Bodies that are curled over, others that feel like a jumble of broken coat hangers under your hands. I do what I can to breathe and press some warmth and movement into the gaps between them.  Some people respond by telling me about their lives. Others close their eyes and melt into the movement and sensation. Most have in common - apart from their desire to get home - a desire for company and connection. Some I know have not received touch like this for a very long time. I know I’m lucky to have friends and my sons to give me hugs when I need connection myself. Imagine not being able to lift your arms to receive one? Or walk to see a friendly face?

Last week I did my first laughter yoga session at the centre. I was a bit apprehensive because I usually incorporate breathing and gentle stretches into my sessions. And I knew a couple of the guests are very deaf and would need to go with the flow when we were miming having a drink from the jug of joy. How would guests with dementia respond? (No-one is obliged to take part, I should make clear.)

The benefits of laughter yoga are multiple. Fostering connection between people and supporting wellbeing, releasing happy hormones, lowering blood pressure and supporting relaxation - it can literally help you live longer. And you can fake it till you make it. Your body doesn’t need to know why you’re laughing, it’s enough that you are. 

We started in a circle. Did some gentle breathing and then some deeper breaths with loud exhales: AhhhhhhhHaHaHaHaHa.  Rewarded ourselves with a piece of imaginary fruit from the basket I’d brought with me. Even got cheeky and chucked a few grapes around. It’s hard not to join in and laugh. 

I took us off to a desert island. We breathed deep, enjoying the sunshine on our faces. Splashed around in the imaginary shallows. An imaginary monkey threw a coconut on my head. We rested on the warm sand, enjoying feeling the imaginary sand under our feet. Unpacked a picnic. And then it was time to go. 

‘Do you want to good news or the bad news?’ I asked? Mixed views. ‘We’ve got to row ourselves home!’ I explained. ‘Does anyone know how to row?’

A guest with dementia who’d been observing the proceedings, more than joining in piped up. ‘I used to scull on the river when I was a girl!’

‘Brilliant!’ I said. ‘We’re in your hands. Bring us home, Molly!’ (Not her real name.) 

I started to count and she started to row. Gradually the others joined in. Gently, curiously, until we got into our stride and managed to get our strokes in time. It wasn’t easy. There was a lot to navigate, including broken bones. But we laughed. Out loud. All the way to the shore.