Sexy Lining

Posted by on Jun 24, 2015 in Your Sexy Self

Sexy Lining

I try to find the sexy lining in every cloud.

But I am having a really hard time with this one: stomach cancer is raging like a deadly hurricane through my father’s body, reducing the robust 200- pound man of my childhood to a mere 130 pounds.  As soon as I arrive to my parent’s home in Michigan and see him convalescing in his Lazy boy chair, I notice how the weight reduction has made his smile that much bigger, despite the fact that he is being racked with hiccups that have been plaguing him for over a week, making it impossible for him and my mother to sleep at night.

I drop to my knees and take his feet in my hands hoping that if ever my craniosacral training is going to help someone, it is now.  We end up transitioning him to the couch so I can get my hands around his diaphragm.   As I work, my gaze is drawn backwards towards the fireplace mantle.  There, partially hidden behind stacks of paperbacks, get well cards and photos is a statue of the Virgin Mary, standing like she had in every house we ever lived, her arms open and extended downward, small pink flowers decorating the inside of her robe. The pull is so powerful that I actually stop working on my father, walk over and get her.

mary photo

“She wanted to be closer,” I say in explanation as I set her on the table next to the couch.

My father gives me a half smile and nods before he goes back to concentrating on the yogic breathing technique I just taught him.  I cradle his ribcage back between my hands, dust off my Hail Mary and silently chant it.  Eventually the hiccups stop and he drifts off to sleep.

The next morning I am down the road at my sister’s treehouse of a home that is all windows and tucked into a forest of towering hardwoods.  Before she left to take her son to school, my 11- year-old nephew programed her I-pad to a pop music station that is blasting through their sound system.  As soon as they pull out of the driveway, I turn down the volume and try to crack the I-pad’s four digit security code to access some music more suited to my mood, the mood of a woman who must come to terms with the fact that her father is dying no matter how hard she wishes she could heal him.

I try every numeral sequence that I think my sister would think of with no luck.  The only time I’ve subjected myself to pop music was when I was living in Oregon and I would wake up at 5:30 am and pedal through the winter rain to a Zumba class, the best antidepressant I could find for the Seasonal Affect Disorder that plagued me there.

My hips remember the pop vibe and before I know it I am cranking the volume back up and dancing to that long ago choreography that had the ability to sweat my sadness right through my pores.

There is nothing sexy about cancer, not one single thing but I find myself shaking my bootie and twerking with everything I’ve got. When I shimmy my breasts, I shake everything loose from my heart.  I am dripping with sweat and tears as I reach up to the trees. They grab my hand and spin me once, twice, three times and I am dizzy with the absurdity/necessity of dirty dancing at a time like this.

The music stops.  So do I.  And in that stillness I feel the earth, the trees and the flutter of something huge.

My sexy lining.

sexy lining photo me

2 Comments

  1. I love your post. I hope to dance tonight!

    Re: your father — We are created through embodied connection and sex. Awareness of death can help us appreciate and celebrate our bodies. Death is transformation – leaving one’s physical being for non physical but like birth it can be messy and very challenging…. thinking of you at this time and sending you blessings.

    • Hey Jude, cool insight: “Awareness of death can help us appreciate and celebrate our bodies”. I hadn’t thought of that, all I knew is that I was pulled into a very physical sensual dance that seemed so incongruous with the circumstances but yet felt so right. Astute assessment.

      And yes, death like birth, painful and challenging but it had its moments of beauty and transcendence. He cared for me as an infant and my entire like. It was an honor to return the love and help him for a change. I was humbled by how willing and graceful he was to accept it. Very cool man. And now instead of talking to him a few times a year on his birthday or Father’s day or Christmas, I talk to him everyday.

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