Today I did my first two-hour massage. I'm happy to report that, despite searing low back pain, I did very well.

At the student clinic, we have an interesting cross-section of humanity for clients. We have nicknames for them which I will use here; it's one of those black humor survival things. It also preserves their rights under HIPAA.

Some frequent Fliers at our clinic are Mr. Smoketoomuch (exudes nicotine from every pore), Mr. Moaner (everything is apparently feeling way too good), Candy Man (an elderly man who brings a bag of candy for us every time he visits), Ms. Chatty (enough said. No, really!) and Grieving Grandma.

I got GG today. She's been coming to the clinic for years, through two school name changes. She needs you to acknowledge this. Her baby granddaughter was murdered a year ago. She also needs you to know this. Last week she talked about it while receiving her massage, and was spoken to by our supervisor, which pissed her off. Our supervisor acknowledged that yes, sometimes we might have an emotional release during massage, however, we usually don't divulge details, or try to engage the therapist, or continue in a voice that is bothering other clients. (Our massages are done in a large room with only hospital curtains to separate the spaces.)

Forewarned is forearmed. I had time to plan a strategy. First, I warmed the table with a Fomentek, a large, flat plastic bag filled with 160-degree water. Then I reviewed her chart to see what her typical aches and pains were, and how previous students had treated them. I made a list of possible techniques I could use. I planned to nurture the shit out of her.

I succeeded.

We talked for a bit about her symptoms, and she said, in a quiet voice, "my 16-month-old granddaughter was murdered." I said, "I'm sorry to hear that. (beat) I notice you listed low back pain. Where would you say that is, on a scale of one to ten?" and we moved right along. Don't think me dysfunctionally dispassionate: she has been coming to clinic for a year, trading on this emotional currency and looking for sympathy. She's stuck, and while it is a shitty place to be stuck, I can't unstick her. I can only work out a very small part of the somatic pains she is clinging to in her grief.

I made sure to outline my plan for our two hours together: no deep pressure work, rather moderate pressure but plenty of time spent in each area. A little myofascial release to get the tissues loosened. Warm packs for her belly, low back, and neck. A cooling flax eye pillow for her eyes.

She didn't say anything more for two whole hours except to answer my brief questions about the pressure.

Hallelujah. All is well in clinic land. Until next time, when, who knows, I could get Mr. Smoketoomuch.