If someone derives pleasure from another’s pain, it’s called sadism. But if your own pain brings relief, it’s a massage! 

I came to this realization recently. Having dealt with back issues—stemming from my poor eyesight and postural problems—my back has aged faster than the rest of my body. It grumbles and protests with every movement. After multiple health setbacks over the past year, I finally consulted a doctor. 

One MRI, an X-ray, and two expensive visits later, the doctor declared I had a compressed nerve in my cervical spine. “You may need surgery,” he said ominously, causing my legs to tremble more than my back. The thought of surgery terrified me. “Why me?” I wondered. “Surely I’d be less afraid if it were someone else’s back.” 

Thankfully, my long-time physician of over 30 years took a different approach. “Let’s manage it with care and see how it goes. No rush,” he reassured me, instantly lifting my spirits. 

During my radiation therapy, my elder son suggested stretching exercises, posture corrections, and trying Ayurvedic massage. Although the massage center was just a few streets away, I hesitated, fearing my muscles might weaken due to my ADT treatment. 

After much deliberation, I met the Ayurvedic doctor 45 days ago. He recommended five days of specific massages followed by monthly sessions. Even then, it took me another month to muster the courage to proceed. 

Finally, I went to the center with a quarter of a mind to give it a try. The masseur promised to go easy, and for 45 minutes, I experienced vigorous massage that was paradoxically soothing. With what felt like two liters of oil on my body—just kidding—I slipped home like a fish, needing an auto to take me just three streets away due to heavy traffic. 

That night, I slept deeply. My muscles were sore the next day, so I skipped a session. When I returned, the pressure increased slightly, but it was bearable. 

During the fourth session, the regular masseur was on leave, and a senior one took over. His pressure was intense—sometimes painful, but strangely relaxing. I found myself saying, “Apply more pressure; the pain feels good.” My calf muscles and back were stiff, but not in an uncomfortable way. 

In the final session, the masseur worked for over 90 minutes. With remarkable sensitivity, he pinpointed areas of compression without needing an MRI, relying only on touch. The deep massage left my limbs feeling free, and although some soreness lingered, it was not unpleasant. 

Now, I wonder: Why did I ignore this native treatment for so many years? 

Contd. 372. The Wagon Warrior