Connecting the dots

There are 208 bones in an adult human's body and 360 joints connecting them. Some days it feels like each and every single one of them hurt. It has been a very long time since I didn't think about them constantly. Having a connective tissue autoimmune disorder is exhausting. But let me tell you about that last time so long ago...

It was a beautiful day. The first really nice spring day of the year. Perfect patio weather. My friend and I made plans to share a pint and go dancing. It was Latin night at the bar. I put on a pretty sundress and some comfortable dancing shoes. I kissed my baby goodnight and headed out with my friend and her boyfriend.

We had appetizers and a pint of beer. We laughed and talked and I flirted with the bartender and enjoyed the beautiful weather. When we got to the club the Latin music made us all want to move. I enjoyed dancing with the men at the bar.

I met one man who I will call John. He was an average-looking man, shorter than I and slightly older as well. He had the most amazing green eyes and an engaging smile. He made me laugh and oh boy could he dance!!

Once we paired up on the dance floor the rest of the room faded away. It looked like we had been dance partners for eternity. We spent the night dancing instead of drinking, laughing instead of talking, and whirling instead of walking. He made me feel beautiful and graceful. He was witty and charming and funny.

It was a beautiful night. When the bar closed the four of us decided to go back to John's place for cocktails. (This was before I gave up drinking and before my back surgery but after my injury that necessitated the surgery. Needless to say, after a night on my feet, in heels, and dancing, I was in pain. But I didn't want to end the evening as I was having so much fun) unfortunately the car ride to his place gave my muscles time to get cold and they had begun to cramp up.

Getting out of the cab seemed like an impossible task, let alone climbing the stairs at the back of the house to his apartment. I hadn't told John about the pain but he seemed to understand the problem anyway. He handed the keys to my friend and told her which apartment was his. He removed my shoes and literally scooped me out of the cab and carried me up the stairs as if I were light as a feather.

Not gonna lie, that was incredibly hot! When we got to the apartment he set me down on the couch and showed my friends to the kitchen with the bottle of vodka and scotch on top of the fridge. He came back to me with a glass of water and a banana and told me to eat. (Yes bananas help muscle cramps if you didn't know) He sat beside me and drew my feet into his lap. Chatting with me while he rubbed the aches out of my feet and calves.

I don't remember everything that we chatted about but when my friends decided to go home I chose to stay and continue our conversation. Eventually, we began discussing pain. Why I had it, what I tried to do to manage it, the fact that I had been on some very heavy narcotics that didn't seem to help it at all.

He talked to me about the intentional application of external stimuli to distract from the internal messages of pain. The way he described it made perfect sense to me and I agreed to an experiment. For about an hour he switched back and forth between massage and impact. Covering every part of the backside of my body. Sometimes lightly, sometimes not. Always checking in, and reminding me to breathe.

At one point my calf muscle cramped up and he slapped it quickly leaving a perfect handprint behind, but also taking away the cramp, rubbing the muscle afterward to make sure the cramp didn't come back.

He gave me water and cuddled with me on the couch, covering my face, and hands, and body with feather-light touches. He didn't try to kiss me. I was sure he'd make a move, and yet he didn't. My body was tired and tingling and warmed by his hands - he probably could have made a move, but he chose not to. Eventually, he got up and drove me home.

I never heard from him again, but I've never forgotten how he took away the pain that night.