Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life - Posts Tagged "touch"
In touch
My son gleefully squeezed harder at the knotted muscle in my shoulder, with a ‘Now I’ve got you’ as I groan in agony. We have established and agreed that he has a sadistic tendency where I am concerned. It may have something to do with my knack of getting just the right spot on the painful muscles as we got his body working again. Day after painful day, for months on end. So now it is payback… and he’s enjoying it. He still manages to lay the blame squarely on my aching shoulders, muttering something that sounds vaguely like ‘Hereditary’.
Of course, he is a little more squeamish than I. His face screws up in horror as my wrist bones crunch back into place as he applies traction. It is, however, nice to regain freedom of movement occasionally. So, being what you might call a true sadist, I make him do it from time to time. I, on the other hand, had no compunction when it came to stretching his hamstrings using my entire bodyweight, such as it is.
There is a lot to be said for the healing touch of hands. In the hospice I worked with, the staff was trained in Reiki and a room set aside for alternative therapies. The Matron, a wonderful woman, was kind enough to offer me some therapy when I was going through a particularly rough patch some years ago.
Not only was it both unusual and lovely for someone to take time and care for me at that point, it was a beautiful experience in its own right. Oddly, though I had learned Reiki myself, it was the first time I had really been on the receiving end. The room was quiet, the garden visible through the window, the light soft. I Whether it was what she was doing, the ambience of a place where so much care was given, or simply the possibility of release in the intimacy of such a moment of care, but I remember sitting there with tears streaming down my cheeks.
I had learned the value of touch while caring for my late partner through severe arthritis and cancer. There was a period where we were warned that massage was not a good idea for cancer patients as it might encourage it to spread through the stimulation of the lymphatic system…but there came a point I was told it was okay. Which brought its own grief in the knowing.
Our physical relationship had suffered very badly. It is a common thing in chronic illness, but seldom spoken of, so I will speak of it here. It was one of the greatest griefs of his illness that loving each other as we did he was so weary and in so much pain most of the time. Afraid of raising emotions and a desire he could not meet for either of us, he withdrew from me physically for a very long time. We no longer even cuddled or held hands, there was no contact other than at a therapeutic level… or when I reached out my hand every morning before opening my eyes to see if he was still with me, still warm, still breathing.
Then one day, on his way to the kitchen, he squeezed my shoulder in passing. So precious was that simple touch that I burst into tears. That opened the floodgates for us both and the intimacy of touch and tenderness was restored. For the little while we had left together.
Touch was the last thing we had too. I was yards away from him when he died at home. I closed his eyes and washed his face, composed into lines of peace. I spoke to him as I made him ready for the medics that had to come. When he finally lay in our bed I kept vigil with him for a little while, a last while, performing those final services of care as the warmth of life left his body. Then I kissed him goodbye.
The value of those final moments to lay him to rest cannot be described. My younger son, then 12, had crept in to sit with him, speaking to him softly and stroking his face. Saying goodbye and seeing the life that had left with no fear of death, only love.
I remember even further back, assisting at the birth of my little brother. I was ten years old and my mother had chosen to give birth at home. No doubt many today may frown on the idea of a child watching her own mother in labour. To me it was simply the most beautiful thing to hold that scrap of humanity, still wet, as he took his first breath while I watched in wonder and the tiny hand grasped my finger. That touch too was full of love. Touch, after all, is the simplest and most beautiful communication.
I was chatting with a friend about some of this last night. More specifically we were talking about how sanitised dying has become in our cultures and the way we have become divorced from the natural process of passing out of life. And into it for that matter. We are encouraged to be born and to die in hospitals, rather than at home, and no matter how wonderful the staff there is a constraint and a lack of intimacy.
I have told elsewhere of the death of one of my great grandmothers, when I was a very little girl. I do not remember her funeral at all… but I remember the solemn gathering around the great bed and the goodbyes. There was no fear. Death was acknowledged and life marked with respect. Grieving began gently and had time to unfold, instead of being, as is all too often the case these days, rushed through a rapid time slot of a funeral and leaving those left behind with a sense of disbelief as well as loss.
These natural transitions become shrouded in mystery and often fear, when they are kept behind closed doors in a sterile environment. Yet in the intimacy of these first and last moments touch is so important, welcoming and saying goodbye. It is a healing in its own right.
I think we shy away from touch a lot generally. Particularly in England with its stiff upper lip. Outside of a close relationship we do not like to invade another’s personal space uninvited… and we seldom have the courage to invite when we feel a need to be held. I can only speak for myself here, of course… because it is so seldom spoken of. But there are times when all I want is a shoulder on which to lay my head or the touch of a hand, the warmth of another human being who is aware, and who cares enough to reach out to a friend.
We speak about staying in touch. About how we feel. So many of the words we use to describe our emotions are the same ones we use about the sense of touch. I do not think that is a coincidence. It is the simplest, most basic human need in many ways, from the very moment we enter this world to that final closing of the eyes and the kiss in loving blessing as we enter a new phase of existence. I have to wonder how often we miss the unspoken signs and fail to offer the simple magic and tenderness of touch.
Of course, he is a little more squeamish than I. His face screws up in horror as my wrist bones crunch back into place as he applies traction. It is, however, nice to regain freedom of movement occasionally. So, being what you might call a true sadist, I make him do it from time to time. I, on the other hand, had no compunction when it came to stretching his hamstrings using my entire bodyweight, such as it is.
There is a lot to be said for the healing touch of hands. In the hospice I worked with, the staff was trained in Reiki and a room set aside for alternative therapies. The Matron, a wonderful woman, was kind enough to offer me some therapy when I was going through a particularly rough patch some years ago.
Not only was it both unusual and lovely for someone to take time and care for me at that point, it was a beautiful experience in its own right. Oddly, though I had learned Reiki myself, it was the first time I had really been on the receiving end. The room was quiet, the garden visible through the window, the light soft. I Whether it was what she was doing, the ambience of a place where so much care was given, or simply the possibility of release in the intimacy of such a moment of care, but I remember sitting there with tears streaming down my cheeks.
I had learned the value of touch while caring for my late partner through severe arthritis and cancer. There was a period where we were warned that massage was not a good idea for cancer patients as it might encourage it to spread through the stimulation of the lymphatic system…but there came a point I was told it was okay. Which brought its own grief in the knowing.
Our physical relationship had suffered very badly. It is a common thing in chronic illness, but seldom spoken of, so I will speak of it here. It was one of the greatest griefs of his illness that loving each other as we did he was so weary and in so much pain most of the time. Afraid of raising emotions and a desire he could not meet for either of us, he withdrew from me physically for a very long time. We no longer even cuddled or held hands, there was no contact other than at a therapeutic level… or when I reached out my hand every morning before opening my eyes to see if he was still with me, still warm, still breathing.
Then one day, on his way to the kitchen, he squeezed my shoulder in passing. So precious was that simple touch that I burst into tears. That opened the floodgates for us both and the intimacy of touch and tenderness was restored. For the little while we had left together.
Touch was the last thing we had too. I was yards away from him when he died at home. I closed his eyes and washed his face, composed into lines of peace. I spoke to him as I made him ready for the medics that had to come. When he finally lay in our bed I kept vigil with him for a little while, a last while, performing those final services of care as the warmth of life left his body. Then I kissed him goodbye.
The value of those final moments to lay him to rest cannot be described. My younger son, then 12, had crept in to sit with him, speaking to him softly and stroking his face. Saying goodbye and seeing the life that had left with no fear of death, only love.
I remember even further back, assisting at the birth of my little brother. I was ten years old and my mother had chosen to give birth at home. No doubt many today may frown on the idea of a child watching her own mother in labour. To me it was simply the most beautiful thing to hold that scrap of humanity, still wet, as he took his first breath while I watched in wonder and the tiny hand grasped my finger. That touch too was full of love. Touch, after all, is the simplest and most beautiful communication.
I was chatting with a friend about some of this last night. More specifically we were talking about how sanitised dying has become in our cultures and the way we have become divorced from the natural process of passing out of life. And into it for that matter. We are encouraged to be born and to die in hospitals, rather than at home, and no matter how wonderful the staff there is a constraint and a lack of intimacy.
I have told elsewhere of the death of one of my great grandmothers, when I was a very little girl. I do not remember her funeral at all… but I remember the solemn gathering around the great bed and the goodbyes. There was no fear. Death was acknowledged and life marked with respect. Grieving began gently and had time to unfold, instead of being, as is all too often the case these days, rushed through a rapid time slot of a funeral and leaving those left behind with a sense of disbelief as well as loss.
These natural transitions become shrouded in mystery and often fear, when they are kept behind closed doors in a sterile environment. Yet in the intimacy of these first and last moments touch is so important, welcoming and saying goodbye. It is a healing in its own right.
I think we shy away from touch a lot generally. Particularly in England with its stiff upper lip. Outside of a close relationship we do not like to invade another’s personal space uninvited… and we seldom have the courage to invite when we feel a need to be held. I can only speak for myself here, of course… because it is so seldom spoken of. But there are times when all I want is a shoulder on which to lay my head or the touch of a hand, the warmth of another human being who is aware, and who cares enough to reach out to a friend.
We speak about staying in touch. About how we feel. So many of the words we use to describe our emotions are the same ones we use about the sense of touch. I do not think that is a coincidence. It is the simplest, most basic human need in many ways, from the very moment we enter this world to that final closing of the eyes and the kiss in loving blessing as we enter a new phase of existence. I have to wonder how often we miss the unspoken signs and fail to offer the simple magic and tenderness of touch.
