Category Archives: Community Stories

Massage Me, Massage My Dog

Dogs love me, and I love dogs. Cats love me, and I love them too. When this massage therapist does house calls, I suddenly find myself surrounded by four-legged fans.

I didn’t mean to, but I have managed to train all of my house clients’ domesticated beasties to expect a mini-massage when I get in the door.

It started with golden retrievers, irresistible big dogs with soulful eyes. Now the list includes Siamese, calicoes, mutts and Cairns. I really don’t mind, sort of, because they are such good animals and love to lean on me and get all glossy-eyed.

Animals instinctively love massage, which shows their superior tastes and energies as far as I am concerned. Nothing in the world beats a good belly rub, be it a dog or feline. People who don’t like tummy massage should learn from their pets.

It struck me by surprise, but I recently learned from a client that she knew I was the one massage therapist for her family when the dog liked me. Apparently dogs and cats are a screening method for more than just boyfriends and future in-laws.

Once I have passed the pet-TSA, I get invited to pet-pat, pet-sit and pet-feed. My book is a little too full to take on many of these offers, but I do appreciate them as a sort of badge of acceptance.

I have made the occasional exception. A married couple brought in their new foundling, a micro-chihuahua who barely weighs one pound. They hadn’t been able to get to the movies for a few weeks, as the little guy is being dropper-fed and is way too little to leave near their big dogs.

They went to the flicks and I got the little carry-bag with the pee pads, special vitamins and puppy-food mix. I put his nibs on my shoulder and the little guy immediately snuggled into my shirt and stayed there. My little implant.

Last week I asked a client if I could take his cutie-pie terrier home. He looked at me in surprise.

“Take me instead,” he said. I replied: “Do you roll over and put your hands and feet in the air?”

“I can learn,” he said.

Another lesson gleaned from our companions.

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Adding New Skills

One of my massage therapist friends had a good bit of extra time on her hands when she first started her practice, so she picked up a Spanish book and taught herself to speak it.

My therapist friend has not used her knowledge of Spanish much in her day spa, but it has come in handy many times when out and about in Southern California, where the number of people more comfortable speaking Spanish than English is fairly significant. Learning another language was a good brain stretch for her.

Spanish is also good to know in a therapeutic setting, especially in medical massage, with many staff therapy aide jobs preferring bilingual.

Thus I had been thinking a bit about trying to learn at least survival Spanish, the kind that can help you find a fire exit or a bathroom. At the hotels where my day spas were located, most of the staff was more comfortable speaking Spanish.

I often sat at the large round table in the cafeteria where the house-workers had lunch, trying to follow as much as I could of the conversation, which went on at about 450 miles per hour. I picked up a few verbs and phrases with a little coaching, and felt a little more confidence in my language abilities.

My motivation was something else as well. During the height of the recession, I decided to limit the amount of time I spent banging my head against the wall trying to book clients. I needed something to stretch my brain, too.

If you have ever watched TV there are about 500 commercials on about 500 channels for a language immersion course on computer. I didn’t do that. I picked instead some cd’s that I could play to and from work in the car. Old-fashioned, yup, that’s me.

Months into my cd experience, I decided to try my Spanish out at the local Mexican restaurant. My mother-in-law orders in perfect New-Mexico Spanish all the time. I thought I would try my luck. The staff at Bahia’s is famously bilingual, slipping from English to Spanish and back to English with ease.

I carefully ordered what I thought would get me a combo with a little cerveza.

Our server looked at me in complete surprise.

Aha! She can tell I am speaking excellent Spanish, I thought.

After a pause, she leaned over the table and looked me right in the eye.

“WHAT?”

My mother-in-law explained, in Spanish, that I was trying to speak Spanish. We all had a good laugh. Me, my folks, the people in the next booth, the entire wait staff and the lady seating customers.

Despite much urging, I declined to repeat my order and pointed at the menu.

Just Lucky, I Guess

Sometimes during a massage a client will ask me how I got into the business of doing massages. I don’t really like to take that question seriously. I have a serious answer, but I don’t like to share it. I’d rather say that it just happened that I noticed one day that I had a knack for massage, or if the client is getting a deep tissue massage I’ll say that the Inquisition wasn’t hiring so massage seemed like the next best thing.

Flippancy isn’t really an answer, though, and I would like to say what happened, except it might just be a bit too much like real life, a bit bumpy and all the seams showing.

How did I get into massage? It was the only thing that helped me.

I was working at a large metropolitan newspaper, no not that one, and I was having more and more frequent migraines, shoulder pain and neck problems. After years of cradling the phone in my neck, running around on deadlines and parachuting into tense situations, I did not feel very good.

Mostly I was stiff, but I had trouble with weakness in my hands, pain running from my neck down to my hands, and a definite sense that the longer I stayed swirling in the news vortex the less good I would feel.

I tried different types of therapy, mostly physical therapy, and I would feel a little better for a while and then back to daily pain. Lucky for me, the symptoms were never bad enough to suggest surgery. At the time I didn’t know it, but that was dodging a big-caliber bullet.

One time at physical therapy I was assigned to a therapist who was doing trigger point therapy. I had no idea what she was doing, but after a few minutes of pushing on my neck, I felt a lot better. It seemed like it was the only thing that worked very well. At me next appointment I asked her to do the treatment again. She told me that once treated, trigger points were gone and did not need to be done again.

As I did my exercises in the common room, exercises which I knew would make everything hurt again, I felt motivated to investigate what worked for me.

Being a journalist helped a lot. I really knew how to look things up in a library. I spent a few hours at the medical library and emerged with an idea for a new career. Not only did I understand a lot more about trigger points, I also understood why they were not being treated properly. Trigger point therapy requires warm-up massage strokes, experienced treatment followed by soothing massage and repetition over several sessions to break the pattern. It was all very hands-on and required focus and dedication. The kind of service massages therapists provided.

After a while, I gave up on p.t. and went for massages. My insurance and health savings account did not cover massages, but since they worked, I was happy to pay for them. Feeling good was important to me.

Which leads me back to my other flip answer. When asked how I got into massage, sometimes I’ll rub my neck and say: “Just lucky, I guess.”

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Massage School Memories

Going to massage school, this massage therapist learned a lot about dealing with “tense” situations and people. The other day my local association asked for some massage schools memories and it made me laugh.

Warm Fuzzy? More like shrieking students levitating on the practice tables.

My first scream came during the first class. We were supposed to practice a simple effleurage of the leg. My practice partner, whom I had just met, swooped up my inside leg, aimed right for my crotch and at the last possible second – and I mean the last possible second – swooped laterally to finish the stroke.

“That was very uncomfortable,” I recall saying.

“I have to do the whole muscle,” she said.

That night our first student quit. He didn’t want to take off his necklace for a demo, and the teacher said he had to.
“I never take it off,” I recall him saying, as he backed out of the room, never to be seen again.

Some classes later, what was left of us were learning face massage. My practice partner this time was a very talented Asian man who had been doing acupressure for years and was kind of annoyed by the namby-pamby Swedish stuff we were learning.

Suddenly two hands formed a V and thanars pushed straight across and down across my cheeks, with what felt like the full weight of his upper body. The next day I had a business meeting in Los Angeles. I felt like I had a fiery helmet glued to the front of my sinuses. I did not think harmonious thoughts of world peace.

I will admit I performed some of the mayhem as well. Something large, rubbery and unmoving presented itself in the upper trapezius of my victim. I pushed on it with my ulnar, steamrolling down toward the spine of the scapula. Move, I thought. Move!

My practice partner’s shoulder came up off the table and pushed back right into my arm.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I have a right to protect myself,’” she said.

Somehow, come graduation about 18 months later, our hardy group was able to stand and walk to the stage to get our certificates. Our horrors had become vignettes.

“Remember that time I said your stomach was just like Play dough?” one of my classmates whispered to me.

“Yes,” I said. “Just remember, next time I do an effleurage on your leg, I might just ‘have to do the whole muscle.’

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Family Matters

Holidays bring out the best in people – and the visiting relatives. I have just moved the office and the massage therapy room still looked a little bit like a MASH unit. My phone message, for a change, said I was off for two days before and after the holiday – but the calls just kept coming.

Despite a long history of scoliosis, this client had never had massage for the condition. She had enjoyed the occasional vacation massage here and there.

Holiday massages tend to be emergencies, anyways. This time I had a referral from a client. This was a young lady with mild scoliosis, who between funny positions on the couch and airplane rides and long conversations with the parents had woke up to find that turning to the left was impossible. O Joy.

While going over her intake, I suggested she do regular massage to keep discomfort in check and possibly to help prevent the scoliosis from getting tighter. “How do I find a massage therapist who specializes in scoliosis?” she asked. I felt a bit surprised by the question. I explained that so many massage clients have slight to mild scoliosis I consider scoliosis therapy part of the mainstream of therapeutic massage.

Perhaps look for a more therapeutic massage person, I suggested. I felt on thin ground. All massages, in my mind, are therapeutic, even the ones where intent is solely to relax the person while on vacation. That is a pretty awesome skill.

This client comes from an area of the country with very minimal requirements for massage licensing. It is also known for having lots of people who are into a kind of flower-child view of life and massage.

“I don’t really mind that stuff as long as it is not the only thing in the massage,” she said. “I would also like to get some work done on my problem spots.”

Oh heck, I might as well dive into the pool. “I understand what you are saying,” I said. “I’ve had those massages where the person giving them is off on their own trip and not that into why you are there. It is no guarantee, but if you look for someone with boards or more education than the minimum, you have a chance of getting someone into therapy.”

Good advice, I thought, for a person looking for therapeutic massage. But as a therapist, I felt pretty uncomfortable. Rarely, I have had great massages from people with little education or experience. But the norm is I get a bad massage from someone who has no idea what they are doing.

It is very controversial in our field. Is a great relaxation massage at a resort not therapeutic? Is a highly trained therapist capable of being clueless? What about those folks who chant and tap in to the energy of the universe? Are their skills just different?

The answer, I think, is client by client. If clients want a massage therapist to focus on their scoliosis, they need to find someone they believe will help them. Oh heavens, I’ve said the famous “good fit” cliché.

Clichés, however, tend to be a bit truthful. “Finding a massage therapist is like finding a dentist,” I told her. “You can do all the research, look at qualifications, get referrals, but you won’t know if you like them until you are sitting in that chair.”

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Moving Grumbles and Sage Advice

This massage therapist thinks she is organized. She thinks she has a good grip on where things are and handy when needed.

Ho, Ho, Ho, delusional again.

Moving is a drag under the best circumstances. This circumstance was a Wednesday. I had clients on the book. Ho, Ho, Ho. Mistake again.

When we got to the new office, two blocks away. The furniture was dusty, and all the boxes were labeled “Mom’s dolls.” I had to work not knowing where anything was.

At least it wasn’t too hard to get the table up and find bins with sheets in them. I had the oil sitting in the front seat of my car, on top of my schedule book.

The clock was in one of the bins marked “Mom’s Dolls,” so I used my cell phone to track the time. In the middle of a massage, it started vibrating with an incoming call.

I could not find any of the aromatherapies either, so I took my plain oil and ventured forward. The fellows had to unpack the rest of the truck without me while I was in session, so I came out of the therapy room to a nice huge pile of boxes and stuff.

Pier One Imports had room dividers on sale. Eureka. I hid half the pile behind the divider and got back to work. Then I noticed there were two sheets of toilet paper left in the bathroom. Off to the market.

My phone kept buzzing. Everyone wanted appointments. I wanted to lie down.

At the hardware store later that day, I found a nice shower curtain to cover the rest of the pile. The clock was still in the pile somewhere. My phone rang again. Every time it rang I looked at it in terror.

Well, sometimes you cannot do too much about how the schedule goes. Rooms aren’t ready, landlords do demolitions, clients want in. I wondered how my clients felt about the jumble.

“I couldn’t wait to move out of my office,” my first client told me. “The landlord was a total pill, the place was too expensive and it didn’t fit my business anymore.”

I am lucky enough to have people who understand.

“By the way,” she added. “Don’t let any of the guys pick the paint.”

Sage advice, literally. We went With Mountain Sage and celery, with a celadon for my therapy room. And I found my clock – a week later.

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Touch and the End of the World as We Know It

Stress comes in all forms, and I feel it on my massage table. Most likely it is a personal issue, a problem, a challenge in life or relationships. But a lot of people get their biggest stress from work, most specifically the feeling of being out of control, powerless, voiceless.

It is a tall order to unwind all that. I try. Massage therapy is not going to change the world, of course, just our reaction to it.

One of my regular fellows has been stressing for months about the national election. He has told me straight out on a number of times that if his candidate did not win, or more importantly if the other guy didn’t lose, that he would be out of business overnight.

Long hard years of work and dedication down the drain. Mentored employees adrift. An entire sophisticated market kaputz, with the eventuality the ruin of the quality medical care in the United States. Instead of working on the important stuff, he might just be trying to come up with the next Sham-Wow, while sitting in an old rv somewhere trying to stay one park ahead of his creditors.

Ok. That is pretty dreadful.

Well, the national election didn’t go too well for his guys. On top of that, Californians, apparently insane from overdoses of Twinkies and silicone, actually voted to raise their own taxes.

And you just don’t talk politics with clients. I can mumble a sympathetic “that’s terrible” here and there, but otherwise it is a game out of bounds for massage therapy.

I was thinking, though, that it has been my experience that if someone tries to frighten your vote, they are on thin ground. I don’t vote that way and never have. Well, that’s an opinion I kept to myself.

I felt somehow that the blow could be softened. I suggested that it would be best to let the political process play out. If the industry was on a precipice and ready to be demolished by new taxes and regulations, surely the major economic interests involved would make themselves heard. Those in government, ever mindful of the power of money, jobs and investments, will certainly listen. Give it time, I said.

“I s’pose,” he said.

Solace? Perhaps I can offer just a little candlelight at the end of a long hard-fought campaign….

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Boundaries and the Fine Print

Independent massage therapists (like myself) have a few extra duties to perform during the course of their careers. One of the least fun is leasing space.

My first office was a pretty simple deal. I rented two days in another therapist’s office and we had a handshake deal. I paid once a month and kept the place tidy while I was there. The biggest challenge was making sure we did not “borrow” each other’s supplies without at least a note and a replacement and or payment. Boundaries. Pretty easy stuff.

My next venture involved renting space in two local hotels. I had to come up with a contract that protected them, protected me and kept the business model viable. The first hotel signed the contract I wrote with the help of an attorney. No sweat. The second hotel wanted me to indemnify them from any negligence on their part with any of my clients and to pay court fees, etc. We went round and round for months. The hotel manager and I wanted the deal, the attorneys “got in the way.” We ended up changing the wording just enough to make it look like it was in compliance with corporate but did not really put me on the hook for anything beyond my massage room door. Whew.

A third facility was a negotiation nightmare. The corporate folks had in-house attorneys make up a “standard contract” for everyone that fit far better for a salon (and their toxic chemicals) than a massage center. The proposed contract ended up with about 20 paragraphs that were checked “does not apply.” Corporate would put the stuff back in. I ended up walking away from the deal rather than get hooked up with the “robo-lease.”

I learned to negotiate, a difficult skill for any businessperson, and I also waxed nostalgic for my handshake room-share lease. Keeping good boundaries, as in massage practice, is never easy.

By Sue Peterson

Adventures in Super-Mobile Massage

Nothing makes fear quake in many massage therapists than the entrance of the super, hyper-mobile client. I too, have experienced the fear, the trepidation and the surprise.

For the record, in Gumby folk symptoms of troubles are completely different than my true forte, people as stuck as me. What I would normally assess test with simple range of motion, these folks will cruise through with exceeding ranges. All orthopedic-based tests are useless. Symptoms are backwards, upside down and inside-out of normal trigger point problems.

The needle is not in the haystack. It may be on the next farm.

As much fun as working with ballerinas and gymnasts may be in terms of their fearlessness, I need a lie-down after they leave.

My latest venture involved a very athletic, very hyper-mobile volleyball player. Good heavens. The assessment symptom was a “cord” pulling the shoulder blade. Normally I would run to the rhomboids or the serratus, but oh no, here was a subscapularis that knew no bounds. She can do anything with these shoulders. They just hurt.

I figured out the problem by following my nose. What do volleyball players do a lot? Hit the ball. Hopefully with hands or forearms. It had to be subscap. Or I am going back to school to take auto mechanics.

And it was a subscapularis of epic proportions. Adhesed and anaerobic yet mobile. Gentle cross-fiber yielded whimpers, adding slow motion got a scream. Would I ever see this client again?

A week later she came back, admitting she wanted to kill me for the first two days and then she felt better. Oh good.

Then my next mobile-as-heck client came in. No sports, no exercise to speak of, just one horrible accident years ago with some seat belt bruising. “I feel like I have a cord pulling my shoulder,” she said.

Hey, it worked once. Gentle cross fiber. Motion added. “That hurts but it seems to be fixing it,” she said. Thank you, patron saint of the hyper mobile for the inspiration. I hope the ballet is not in town next week.

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The Waiting Room

This week I spent a lot of time sitting on some uncomfortable vinyl chairs on the surgical waiting room at St. Joseph’s Hospital. I have been there before, waiting on friends or family and often working on medical articles for the local paper.

I thought I knew my way around, but hospitals change constantly. The winding hallways lead to the same places, but exits are gone, entrances appear, and the hospital grows around itself a building or two every 10 years.

I’d been waiting, as uncomfortably as the lady next to me, for about three hours, my little orange sticky tag on my shirt, my cell phone silenced by the hospital’s blocking system.

A worker walked by toting a cart full of papers and stopped by to see the lady next to me. You cannot help but eavesdrop in these places, there isn’t enough room not to. They started talking, and I learned the lady with the cart was a long-time social worker now semi-retired. My waiting room neighbor was a nurse who had worked at the facility for more than 20 years.

I learned that she was waiting for her husband, who was having outpatient surgery. She had been hoping to retire, but had to put that off because her husband is so sick and disabled. He was suffering from liver failure.

“We didn’t expect to be doing this at this age,” she said. “I was looking forward to retirement and taking it easy. Now I am working harder than ever.”

For just a moment the social worker touched her shoulder to let her know she understood. She did not have to say anything.

“I have so many regrets,” the waiting lady continued. “If I had insisted that he do something about his drinking earlier. If I had been more firm maybe things would be different.”

Just then an aide wheeled her husband out from the surgery. His head was hanging, his skin drawn and a mottled tan-yellow.

For just a moment the social worker touched her shoulder to let her know she understood. She did not have to say anything.

I had a glimpse of these lives, up close and uncomfortable, and I had seen, in the briefest moment, the incredible healing power of touch.

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