Last night I gave my father a long overdue massage. Im not sure how much he weighs now but it cant be more than ninety pounds. Its easy to knead the crevices of his shoulders, the back of his neck, the base of his skull, his bony protruding rib cage, and all along his spinal column---theres not one ounce of fat on his ninety year old skeletal frame. He moans his gratitude for my strong, healing hands, over and over again. That feels so good, Suzan, he says, as I dig deeper into the tense knots of his shoulders. As I massage him Im reminded again how important it is for people at all stages of life--most especially at the end stage--to have the tension of life massaged out of their body. The human body tenses instantly --but it takes time to let go. The ancient fight-or-flight response still has a death grip on the modern body. Its good to be quiet during a massage but this is also the time when my dad and I have our best conversations. As I touch his bony body, I marvel at all hes been through. As a child growing up in Indonesia, he climbed tall coconut trees and walked barefoot through the lush green landscape. Then there were the starvation, torture years of World War II. Almost every time I massage him he comes up with a new horror story and he actually laughingly tells me, Ive seen it all, Suzan. Ive seen it all. Theres nothing I havent seen. Im acutely aware of how hard my dads body has worked. After we emigrated to Ojai, before he had a desk job at Thacher School, there were many years of hard, manual labor, building rock walls, digging ditches, weeding, and shoveling shit. My dad worked twelve hour days, seven days a week, with the exception of church on Sunday morning. As the oldest daughter, I often followed him around to various survival jobs, including shoveling shit at a chicken farm on Thacher Road, working for Dr. John Bee at what is now Matilija Veterinary office on Bryant Street where we fed the dogs and cats, cleaned the cages, and mopped the floors. As I write this my mind flashes back on how I helped my dad mix giant cans of KalKan dog food with dry dog food in giant mixing bowls and how we would scoop this appetizing mixture onto folded newspapers after which I would carefully shove the folded paper into the cage before the dog escaped. While holding the above series of jobs, my dad also did orchard care jobs, all kinds of gardening jobs, including helping Beatrice Wood and working for Happy Valley School (then located near the Ranch House). On top of this, my dad cooked Indonesian dinners for east end residents. And one summer we worked at a cotton candy or hot dog booth at Ventura County Fair. In the midst of last nights massage, my dad expressed his disappointment with the lawsuit of a tenant living in one of the rentals on our family compound. Its unusual for my dad to be angry anymore about worldly affairs but I can feel his body tensing up as he ponders the injustice of suing. Its blood money, Suzan, he says, blood money. We agree that Ojai is so small its almost incestuous. If we drew an Ojai family tree and connected lines to all the different ways that each person is connected to someone else we might well discover that everyone in Ojai is somehow connected either through extended family, mutual friends, current and ex boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, or theyve somehow met through a doctor, lawyer, teacher, hairdresser, dog groomer, baker, or candlestick maker. A little later, as my dad relaxes and lets go of his earthly concerns, he tells me again how hes ready to die, how hes not afraid. Im not afraid to die Suzan. My conscience is clear. As I wipe the lotion off my hands and finish massaging the soles of his feet, he tells me once more how hes looking forward to heaven and being reunited with his mother, who he never saw again after being taken as a prisoner of war at age eighteen. Somehow I must reorganize my Life so I can massage my dad more often, while hes still here.
Posted on: Thu, 02 Oct 2014 06:25:06 +0000