My
appointment finally comes around. The
office is located on a trendy street in North Asheville not far from the Grove
Park Inn, a famous resort. The massage
therapist’s office is in an older single story cottage. I am met at the door by the therapist, a
middle aged woman with a warm smile.
After exchanging pleasantries, she escorts me into the outer
vestibule. Here, I take a seat and fill
out the requisite forms - who am I, what is my profession, next of kin, how did
I hear of them, and what am I here for today.
Throughout my exploration of alternative medicine, I often waffle on how
to answer this second question - what is my profession? I don’t like to lie, but I also don’t want to
be too truthful. Perhaps if they know I
am a medical doctor, they treat me differently and cheat me out of some of the
alternative experience. I signify that I
am a “writer” hoping this will not lead to a host of difficult questions: “what have you authored?” “Have I read any of your works?” Fortunately, when reading the form, she says
“a writer, hmm . . . you must be hunched over a computer quite a lot,” to which
I say, “yes.” And then, she moves on to
other things. My alias is not blown. I tell her about my headaches and back pain,
and she smiles and tells me that CST should be just the thing to help me feel
better.
Next,
the therapist leads me into an octagonal room with a massage table in the
center. It smells of incense (the
calling card of alternative practitioners).
The room has carpeted floors and dark wood walls. There is a lava lamp - yes, they still do
exist - sitting on a side table. There
is a framed illustration of a man and a woman with their muscles and skeleton
exposed. Also included on the diagram
are labeled acupoints and lines of meridian - another commonality that spans
several alternative disciplines including massage, crystal therapy, and
acupuncture. Soothing music plays in
the background; it sounds like a didgeridoo from Australia. I succumb to the moment. Let the healing begin.
I
remain fully dressed and lie face up on the massage table. The therapist’s hands meticulously feel along
my scalp, apparently palpating the suture lines between my cranial bones. I wonder if she can feel subtle movements of
my cranial bones or perhaps even deeper movements in my brain. She then places her hands at the base of my
skull in the back of my neck where I imagine she is feeling for cerebrospinal
fluid (CSF) pulsations. She jams her
thumbs into this area at the base of my skull while encouraging me to relax my
head back. It is not the most relaxing
position, but I try to channel my inner Buddha. After a few minutes, she moves to the foot of
the table and pulls gently on my feet and applies pressure with her hands over
my knees, thighs, pelvis, chest, and shoulders.
She then returns to the base of my skull for a while. During the course of the visit, she spends
time pressing gently along my skull, ears and face. Fortunately, she does not enter my nose - I
have had enough of the inner nose manipulation by my Rolfer. Periodically, she reassesses the rhythm of my
CSF by probing the base of my skull. I
close my eyes throughout most of the session.
The combination of her warm hands on my scalp, the background music, and
the dim light put me in a near comatose state.
It would be even better if she were massaging my scalp, but just having
someone manipulate and probe your scalp is pretty soothing in its own right. I lose track of time. I am surprised when she
turns up the light and announces that the session is complete. Where did the hour go? I tell her how relaxing the session was, and
that I normally have a hard time letting go – in line with my Type A
personality. My admission of being Type
A surprises her, probably because I am wearing my most hippie appearing
clothes, I am unshaven, and I claim to be an author. She comments that when she first was feeling
my CSF pulsations, they were very frenetic and irregular, but now at the end of
the session, they are nice and rhythmic.
Next Post: Do my rhythmic CSF pulsations translate into results?