Since my days as a world class athlete, I have been a huge proponent of massage primarily because the average athlete is really good at flexing their muscles on command and in unison, but letting them go tends to be a challenge. A good massage therapist with knowledge of musculoskeletal and nervous system anatomy can greatly enhance the performance of the highly trained athlete. Massage, adequate hydration, and stretching are the appropriate prescription for overtrained, overtired, and overused body tissues and increase an athlete's ability to push the envelope at the peak of a long season.
Let's face it, my world class athletic performance days are OVER and I am now in the midst of a new challenge: My 40's. The unfortunate reality of my world is my brain still thinks it's driving an 18 year old body with all the benefits of fast recovery, sinewy strength and limitless recoil. My 44 year-old body begs to differ. Despite pushing my muscles and connective tissues to their limits, there are many moments when they scream "uncle" by forming little balls of toxic waste in the fibers of my overused muscles. I am therefore unable to recruit those fibers. Instead, I am often sore, stiff and left for dead. It used to be that I could pack myself in ice, throw down some vitamin I (a.k.a. Ibuprofen) and recover in a short time period, but being 44 years old ups the ante. Without stretching, hydration and excellent nutrition, returning to a max effort with stiff, sore muscles puts an "old girl" at risk for a major injury. Unfortunately, I have learned the hard way. I need more recovery time and if I have any hope of staying active and not destroying my body in one foul swoop, I better start being a lot nicer to it. My friend Eva refers to this revelation as trying to make a U-turn with an 18-wheeler. Old habits die hard and are more than likely to get you jack-knifed on a residential street. This is why one must turn to the professionals.
In our sleepy little town, there is a pocket of peace and tranquility known as "In-Depth Massage" and it is attended by a small, unassuming woman of immeasurable strength. She is firm in her beliefs and practices yet respects the differences of others. She is attentively contemplative as you share your physical woes and it is almost as if she knows your issues better than you do. She is guru- or llama-esque when it comes to ascertaining your pertinent physical problem and she frequently surprises you by starting in exactly the opposite part of your body that you just told her was bothering you. For example, if I tell her my lower back is giving me trouble, she digs in to my shoulders. It's almost as if to distract me from the real issue which is rooted in the fact that my life is far too busy and I am too stressed out. I am thankful she refrains from pointing out this obvious fact despite my poor efforts to change it. She is not a large person despite the force she is able to generate. She is quiet, peaceful, receptive, and kind and I presume that she is often underestimated. She goes by "Alice" and I am selfishly reticent to share her gifts for fear of losing my appointment slot.
Over the last few years, Alice has dug in to the mysterious maladies of my right lower extremity. Once thought that my issues were related to a prior broken femur, or multiple broken vertebrae, she helped me to isolate my aches and pains to my right hip by means of deductive reasoning. For example, after digging in to my psoas muscle (painfully and effectively), reducing my quadriceps to a puddle of mush and transforming my quadratus lumborum into a submissive servant of my body's core, it slowly became obvious that my issues of pain, dysfunction and weakness were, in fact, coming from my hip joint. Of course, I had consulted primary care physicians with my groin pain complaints but the process was the same: A right hip X-ray was taken. The joint space was present. There was no visual evidence of degeneration, and the true story of the joint was not told. I was sent home without a diagnosis. My hip was declared to be that of a "healthy" 44 year old woman and hypochondriasis was added to my list of maladies. I questioned my own assessment skills. Was I imagining it? Was I being a weenie? Perhaps I needed to work harder at getting stronger? Alice said no. Something was going on but neither of us knew what.
Perhaps piriformis was acting up? We suspected some sort of soft tissue thing given that the X-ray appeared normal. Maybe something was disconnected from my crash of 1987 and was never recognized? Over the long time it took me to find answers, one thing remained consistent. Massage therapy was effective in supporting the muscles and connective tissues that were splinting my hip joint. Despite my insistence on abusing these tissues, Alice magically kept them in operation while we played detective.
One thing was for sure: there was no way I would ever challenge this woman to a thumb war. For anywhere from 60-90 minutes, Alice dug in to the little balls of muscle that popped up in a session in a manner that resembled the "Bop-a-Mole." No sooner would she get one little muscle ball to release, than another would pop up on the opposite side. It was like chasing gophers. Yet calmly and serenely, Alice was never thwarted by my muscles' attempts to derail her focus. She was determined, and persistent and would not let my pesky muscles have the last word. I often felt guilty that she went the extra mile. I enjoy movement and pushing my body to its limits whether kayaking or climbing or playing soccer with my kids. I'm always confident Alice can fix just about anything, along with an extra liter of hydration and a well-placed ice bag. Hey, at least I'm making SOME effort to take care of myself....
When it came to my hip and groin pain though, we were both stumped. I was often frustrated and even slightly pessimistic from time to time. I would go see Alice and the calmness and the patience she exuded would reform my outlook. Her healing hands gave my musculoskeletal system a boost and built me a bridge that kept me from falling into the abyss of despair.
One week after my surgery, Alice came over to my house to pick me up and take me to her studio. Despite the swelling in my right leg, a fairly nasty-looking incision, and my lack of cat-like reflexes, Alice agreed to revitalize my traumatized limb.
"Are your kidneys working properly?" she asked prior to my appointment.
This is just another example of her expertise. Had my kidneys not been working, putting a significant volume of interstitial fluid back into circulation could have very dangerous effects on my post-surgical heart and lungs. "Woman drowns in living room" would read the next day's headline. I did not wish this to be my epithet and was thankful that Alice had this base covered.
Alice performed a 60-minute massage, focused on increasing lymphatic drainage. I was somewhat skeptical that there would be actual "drainage". I was there because I needed an outing and the rest of my body was in shambles. Massage is not only effective but it feels REALLY good. I should have known better about the effective part though. After molding my back, arms and legs like putty with her iron thumbs and unforgiving elbows, I crutched out of her studio feeling 4 inches taller and vertically straighter. When my husband brought me home, I felt like my bladder was going to burst. As it turned out, that lymphatic thing was the real deal! I must have unloaded an entire gallon of fluid! Most importantly, I felt great! I felt like whatever toxic substance was making me feel like a slug was now gone and I was renewed once again. That, and I felt about ten pounds lighter. Another small victory to celebrate and a rekindled desire to jump back on that stationary bike (thus requiring more massage therapy later.....but I digress) Plus, the muscles involved in walking and moving seemed far more capable to continue the job while those that had been traumatized by surgery were left to heal.
I feel like the Holy Grail lives just down the street, and that Alice is my fountain of youth. Alice heals. Not just my overrun musculoskeletal system that I neglect on a regular basis, but also my soul. Every two weeks, I invest in musculoskeletal massage because I am convinced that Alice's healing hands and shared perspective bring me back to center when my world starts to spin out of control with playdates, soccer practices and kid's homework. Alice reforms my physiological systems and my conscious ability to deal with the challenges that present themselves by being a role model of peace, kneading my connective tissues into submission, and reminding me that it's okay to trade in my physical pursuits for more introspective ones. Because of this, I am a better wife, a better mom and a better member of my community. It seems so simple.
At 44, change is similar to recovery: it takes longer and requires more adjuncts for success. In my attempt to change my hammerhead ways, I am frequently unsuccessful and self-critical for falling into old patterns and therefore must rely on others to keep me focused and resolved. Despite my desire to conform to the way of the peaceful warrior, it is clear the process does not occur overnight. I am thankful for healing hands at my time of greatest need, whether they be those of a capable orthopedic surgeon, a professional massage therapist, a caring husband or a precocious daughter. The return of my capabilities seems like the best way to say thank you to the people who go the extra mile for me. The real test will be when it is my turn to return the favor. I can only hope that the lessons of my recovery will not be lost on a short-term memory.
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