08.17.06
Diagnosis: Positive for Husband, Insanity for Me
Yesterday, my husband had a health scare that, well, scared the bejeezus out of both of us. Never one to respond to a health crisis with any measure of poise, grace, or rational thought, I spent the day shuffling around in a haze, shoulders hunched tensely forward, my arms wrapped tightly around myself to keep my heart from flying out. By the end of the afternoon, my imagination and abandonment issues running amok, my body a mass of tension and nerves, I turned slightly to avoid stepping on the cat’s tail and collapsed to the floor in a series of back spasms. As we were just heading out the door for Husband’s doctor’s appointment and as I couldn’t put any weight on my right leg without feeling like someone was stabbing a searing hot knife into my back, my husband had to go to the Scary Appointment alone, while I writhed in agony on the floor, literally unable to walk.
Fast forward to this morning and my husband got up at 5:00 a.m. Having trusted the doctor’s good judgment that it’s probably just a simple benign condition, he slept well and went to work, putting the whole episode behind him. Whereas I spent the night battling my unreasonable distrust of doctors and, well, every other demon I’ve got lurking in the shadows of my soul. In the process of unpacking and examining the contents of every bag I’ve got in my unwieldy pile of baggage, I convinced myself that doing simple tests to begin with could not possibly be good enough because this is not just anybody, THIS IS MY HUSBAND AND I NEED HIM. Had I been physically capable of tossing and turning all night, I would have. Instead, I lay as though clamped to the bed, clutching at my husband’s hand as necessary. Although just yesterday morning I had been in perfect health, that was before my mind unleashed itself on me, and it was I who stayed home from work today, still unable to walk and physically and emotionally exhausted from a sleepless night.
By noon, I was able to get out of bed and into a nice hot bath. After the bath, the back and nervous tension situation was looking even better, so I decided that what would really help me was a massage, as this was, in fact, the only cure the last time I tied myself into knots and my back imploded (two years ago: cross-country move, grieving, thesis, save the date cards).
The massage therapist was kind, concerned, and sympathetic to my situation, squeezing my hand in a motherly fashion when I explained that it was because I had been upset that I had managed to hurt myself. So, at first I was touched by her kindness and it took me a few minutes to notice that things weren’t quite right. While she was ticking off boxes on a questionnaire, I noticed that her smock was filthy. It was wrinkled and grimy, with a distinct grey film on it, along with some food stains. Her pants, too, were rumpled, as though she’d pulled them from the bottom of the laundry hamper, and were also stained in several areas. It was then that I noticed that her hair was unwashed and her teeth yellow; yet, she was so warm and friendly and hopeful that I told myself to put my judgments out of my mind.
As she worked on my lower back, I was able overcome my wariness. I was lying on nice fresh sheets that smelled faintly of soap, so what did it matter what she was wearing? And she was doing a good job: professional, not too much talking, allowing me to relax, only the occasional question to make sure she wasn’t hurting me.
And then, she moved around to my head to work on my shoulders and neck. This is when her nether regions came close to my olfactory senses. It was…she had…yeast. There were the typical BO smells, but there was also a distinct yeastiness, a staleness that could only come from days of not washing.
My head began to swim, my eyes watered, my throat closed with a vague nausea. I couldn’t move my head away and I couldn’t breathe through my mouth, so I began to hold my breath for as long as possible and then had to fight off waves of claustrophobia. With each passing minute, I spiralled into a more frenetic internal panic—I so desperately did not want this person, this unwashed person, to touch my naked body anymore. I kept wondering what her hands were like, did she wash them after the previous client, or, oh God, after she went to the washroom? But how does one sit up, naked, in the middle of what was supposed to be a relaxing massage, bleating at the kindly massage therapist to stop, please stop, because you smell and I can’t bear it any more?!?
By the end of the massage, the smell of the massage lotion had mingled with her body odour such that my mind associated the two. The cloying smell of the lotion lingered and clung to my skin for hours later, making me feel dirty, unwashed, literally putting me off my food, refreshing unpleasant thoughts of the halitosis, the grubby smock, the yeasty smell.
In the end, I drew a near-scalding bath, overfilled it with bubbles, and scrubbed myself raw with a washcloth. I even got my husband to wash my back multiple times, convinced I could still smell the lotion, that it must be coming from my back,where I was unable to reach with the scalding washcloth, convinced, too, that I would never be able to wash off the touch of those unwashed hands.
My back is, in fact, better, but my skin is now tender and red. And although my husband contends there is no lotion smell, I can still smell it. I can still smell it.
