Around this time last year I treated myself to a BOGO deal at Hand and Stone and got two massages for the price of one. I used the first one right away, but held on to the second until today, since massages are something of a luxury for me.
I called on Thursday to book a massage for Friday, but when I arrived, there was no record of my appointment. Of course, I was both disappointed and annoyed. I was looking forward to (and desperately needed) a good massage, it was a bright spot in an otherwise bleak existence lately. They offered up the next available appointment, which was 1:00 on Sunday. I graciously accepted it, my disappointment tempered by the free upgrade on my massage…score!
I arrived on Sunday and met my massage therapist, a lovely young woman named Johanna. I had no idea we were about to share a most extraordinary spiritual journey that neither of us expected, but both of us needed so very much.
I’m usually pretty quiet during a massage. I like to focus on the tranquility of the experience and talking usually interferes with that. However, once Johanna noticed my tattoo, a conversation started. She was quite taken with it, and kept looking at it, searching for words to describe how it made her feel, but all she could really say was, “Wow,” and, “It’s so beautiful.” This kind of surprised me, because although I often get complements on my tattoo (pictured here) it’s pretty simple and not especially unique. My tattoo artist (Timmy of Timmy’s Tattoo in Huntington, NY) did do an excellent job capturing the gentleness and freedom of the birds in flight. It’s body art I wear proudly.
She went on to say that as a massage therapist, she sees many tattoos but this one was so special. Still, she couldn’t quite articulate just why she loved it. I felt compelled to explain its significance. I explained that I had lost my only son to suicide and that I got this tattoo on the second anniversary of the loss. It helps me remember that he is always with me, and is free and happy now. The swallows are a symbol of faith and return home. I told Johanna I’d recently realized that the birds are flying directly toward my heart. My son lives there always.
For me, the tattoo is a piece of Nico that I can hold on to, kind of a snapshot of his soaring spirit. I needed something tangible because the toughest part of his death was losing the (physical) person. I’ve come to the understanding that it was Nico’s soul that I loved, I just came to know it through his body.
Johanna, of course, expressed her condolences, and almost immediately shared that she had recently suffered a crushing loss, a miscarriage. Perhaps that’s why the tattoo intrigued her, perhaps she somehow sensed its significance. I told her I was so sorry for her loss, and that people don’t understand how devastating a miscarriage is. You have lost a child, but people tend to brush it off as a less legitimate death than a full term child. The loss is huge, and made worse by people who minimize it. The grief is complicated by the loss of the child’s future, and all the things she will never experience. These are “secondary losses” and a very difficult part of the grieving process. (See posts 50 Shades of Grief, The Stigma of Suicide).
Johanna had indeed experienced these things and it was hard, but she was trying to move through it. I told her about my blog, and how I try to use my experiences to help others. I shared what I’ve learned about riding the waves of grief and not beating myself up when I feel better then feel intense grief again. Grief is a shape-shifter, changing with the ebb and flow of one’s life. It never completely goes away, but time does make the pain different, less crippling. For more on these ideas see these posts: My Constant Companion, Is There a Right Way to Grieve?
Johanna and I talked about how uncomfortable loss makes people, especially suicide and miscarriages. They tend to brush aside your loss awkwardly or insensitively because they just don’t know how to deal with it, making the grief process even harder. We vented about how frustrating and hurtful it was. It felt good to talk to someone who understood how I felt. (See post The Stigma of Suicide)
I shared many of my “Nico Stories” with Johanna. Stories of how Nico shows up and sends signs and communications not only to me, but family, friends, and even strangers who’ve heard the stories. Nico makes his presence known… He gets around! Johanna was truly touched by the stories and I believe they brought her some comfort, I hope so. (Posts here, and here on Nico’s signs).
We talked and talked while she gave me the most awesome massage, time flew by and she remarked that she felt uplifted by our conversation, “I feel like I’m the one getting a massage!” she joked. There was a great spiritual connection between us, one that I’m certain her lost child and mine conspired to create…
Johanna felt it was a sign that we met today because she does not usually work Sundays. When I told her that I only got this appointment because my booking on Friday had mysteriously disappeared, we both got chills and cried a bit. We knew there were other forces at work today. Forces of loved ones trying to comfort us.
And as if that weren’t enough, Johanna said that when she saw my name, she felt it was a sign. She began to say with sadness, “You see, Victoria was…” I was overcome with emotion and interrupted her, “Oh! You lost a little girl! You were going to name her…” “Victoria,” she finished. We cried and clasped hands.
It was so beautiful to connect with a stranger like that. I know our loved ones who had passed brought us together so we weren’t alone in our grief. Feeling alone and isolated is such a huge part of the sadness, something I didn’t realize until now… But we weren’t alone today, we were two moms grieving our lost babies together and giving each other comfort. I know I felt them around us. I think she did too.
We had lost all track of time. In this little massage room, the spiritual air was thick, and we definitely left earth for awhile to travel in the spiritual realm. A journey we were happily hijacked on.
As we said our goodbyes, I felt like I needed to hug Johanna. I sheepishly asked if it was okay if I gave her a hug. She hugged me like a long-lost sister, a long, tight embrace that all at once transmitted our shared grief, hope, and deep love for our lost children.
It was incredibly healing.