Facing Death Daily

On Celebrating with and through Pain:

I met my very best friend in the entire world, Tracy, when we started in graduate school at the same time at the University of South Carolina, in August 1997. I won’t go into the unpleasant details, but my time there was not the happiest period of my life.

Things did improve, though, and I made friends both in school and in the city. Not the least of them being Tracy.

One of the first things we created was “Tracy and Sally Face Death Daily!” This statement refers to the fact that we were always barely dodging some form of automobile-related death. As our friend Jason said: Tracy knows traffic laws, and chooses to ignore them. Sally isn’t aware that traffic laws exist.

Beyond all of the unpleasantness of my first time around in graduate school, she became the sister I never had. She and I had our good times and bad, and we made it through all of them. We lived together for four years, and when we made the decision to live separately, it was honestly like we got a divorce. But, like all good couples who are wonderful together, but who are just not meant to live in the same residence, we came back together later and are stronger than ever.

She was there for me through my mother’s illness and death; she was the maid of honor at my wedding (and she even gave a toast, under duress; I'm looking down her dress in the next photo);

and she was there when I was almost arrested for the illegal transportation of an easel.

She is the only person who can dole out tough love to me, even though my husband attempts it. When he does it, it manifests as him yelling at me and me telling him to stop being mean. Then he apologizes, and I go back to doing whatever self-destructive or ill-advised thing I was doing before, because he’s afraid to stop me. She, on the other hand, can talk me down out of any tree.

For our 10^th anniversary, she told me that we were going to re-create our first bonding experience: we spent the Saturday before Labor Day in Charleston, SC. The first time she and I hung out, it was on the Saturday before Labor Day, in Charleston, in 1997. There were other people there, but one of them I prefer not to speak to, another I’d like to see but can’t find, and the other I’d rather never see again. 

But I digress.

For our 10th anniversary, though, we were going to go to Charleston for a whole weekend. We were going to stay in a nice hotel, and we were going to eat nice meals, and we were going to shop.

Most importantly, there was a spa in our hotel, the venerable Francis Marion, and we were going to do Spa Things.

Most of that went well. We ate a delicious dinner at Slightly North Of Broad (S.N.O.B.); we shopped on King Street; we wandered around the city.

And we did Spa Things.

We each had two procedures: we each got some sort of wrap, both of which went well.

And Tracy got a scalp massage. And I got a hot stone massage. Those didn’t go as well.

I’d never had a hot stone massage before, but I was entranced by the idea: warm, smooth stones are placed in strategic places on your back, thereby turning your muscles to butter, and making you feel nice and relaxed. Sounds lovely, right?

I’ve since been told by others that what I experienced was not normal. And if it is normal, then I’m pretty sure it was created by the Marquis de Sade. And even he found it uncomfortable.

The first three rocks the guy put on my back were blisteringly hot. And I do mean “blisteringly.” They left gigantic rock-shaped blisters on my tailbone and lower spine. When he put the first one on, I really did think it was going to melt through to the towel I was lying on. I gasped, wincing through tears, “That’s really hot.” He said, “They’re supposed to be.” Next Phoenix-in-August asphalt sphere, please!

By the time he’d gotten to the end, my nerve endings had shorted out and I’d reached this strange sort of pain-induced nirvana, so it actually felt good. When the wrap began, I just went to sleep. I now understand that I was probably in shock.

I came out, a bit dazed and wide-eyed, in this uncomfortably euphoric state, and found Tracy paying, and looking annoyed.

Sally: How’d it go?

Tracy: Fine. Let’s go.

Sally: Okay . . .

Out on the street, she turned to me and fumed:

Tracy: I can’t believe I got a scalp massage!

Sally: Why?

Tracy: I basically just paid someone $45 to rub my head for 10 minutes. With oil. So now my hair’s dirty, and I need to take another shower.

Sally: Okay.

Tracy: Are you okay?

Sally: Yeah. My butt sort of hurts.

Tracy: What did you have done, exactly?

Sally: Hot stone massage. Does my back look okay?

Tracy: Holy shit! That’s blistering!

Sally: Oh. Let’s go eat.

Tracy: Are you okay?

Sally: Yeah. (I wasn’t.)

So this Labor Day, for our 15^th anniversary, we’re Facing Death Daily again, in Spa form. We couldn’t make it back to Charleston this year, so instead we’re going to the Charleston of Northern Virginia: Old Town Alexandria.

Go ahead and start sending flowers to the burn ward at Inova Alexandria.