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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Power of touch soothes life”s many aches

Cheryl-Anne Millsap The Spokesman-Review

Down with a nasty stomach virus, my daughter was tired and unhappy. She turned her miserable little face up to mine and said, “Just pet me, Mama.”

When she doesn’t feel well she likes me to brush my hand across her forehead, sweeping the hair out of her eyes. When I pet her this way she relaxes, closes her eyes, and drifts off to sleep.

She has learned that there are times when the only thing that can make you feel better is the touch of someone who loves you. It is comforting and soothing, and in some ways healing.

The summer my grandmother lay in the hospital, slipping away from us, I spent weeks at her side. I chatted and cheered her, kept her room tidy, and arranged flowers in the vase on her table. We talked, some, about what was ahead, and we shed a few tears, but only a few. And a cold, heavy ache settled deep into the center of me.

One late August afternoon as the hot, golden, sun streamed into the sterile room, my grandfather sat in the chair beside her bed reading the evening paper and I sat at her feet, rubbing her hip and legs trying to ease her discomfort. No one spoke.

The room was quiet and very warm.

Drawn by the need for something I couldn’t define, I moved slowly, like a wounded animal seeking solace, across the bed and folded myself into the space behind her legs. Spooned against my grandmother, soothed by the warmth of her body against my back, I relaxed. And I felt her relax as well. Then, something deep inside me opened and a river of tears slipped down my cheeks soaking the thin flannel blanket.

My grandfather reached out and placed his big, work-roughened, hand on the back of my head. I felt his fingers move in my hair as I curled, still and silent, weeping against my grandmother. For a few long minutes we were connected, still together, warm and alive, sharing the only thing we had left to give: comfort.

Some weeks later my grandfather died suddenly, his weak heart no match for the pain of losing the woman he had loved for half a century. A little more than a month after that, she was gone, leaving me with only the memory of time spent with them.

I would remember that day in the hospital when my children were small and I was so tired. So very tired. Sometimes in the sleepiest part of the late afternoon, I would turn on the television, lie down on the couch, and invite the children to crawl into the “nest.”

The nest was the space between the back of my legs and the sofa, and when the children were there they were contained and safe. I could doze, snatching a few precious minutes of rest, knowing that if one of them escaped I would feel it. Usually, lulled by the warmth or the soothing voice of Mr. Rogers, they sat still. Once in a while they would fall asleep, draped over one another like puppies in a basket.

Like any young mother I was consumed by the needs of the little ones in my care. I was the sheltering place that protected them. But the feel of those little bodies so close to mine reassured me and brought me peace.

I had learned that it is possible to take comfort even as I give it.

My daughter recovered quickly and was back at school in a few days, but I was still sluggish and groggy from the lack of sleep.

By bedtime I was impatient and irritable, anxious to get her into bed so I could collapse in my own.

As I tucked her in, and gave her one last kiss, she reached up and placed her hand on my face.

“Do you want me to pet you?” she asked

I did.