Massage Therapy Canada

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The Other Side of the Table: Spring 2004

How’s the weather? Any plans for dinner? What’s new? The answers slowly become a blur when I’ve entered the stage in my massage treatment that I call “massage brain” and my massage therapist calls “massage mumble.” What ever you call it, it mathes it dibblecut to tink and talk.


September 24, 2009
By Cathie Dunkey

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How’s the weather? Any plans for dinner? What’s new? The answers slowly become a blur when I’ve entered the stage in my massage treatment that I call “massage brain” and my massage therapist calls “massage mumble.” What ever you call it, it mathes it dibblecut to tink and talk.

My lips become gelatine-like. My mind can’t access personal data and my conversation is inundated with long periods of silence as I attempt to word-find. As every one of my brain cells fires blanks, I listen while my Massage Therapist carries on her side of the conversation. I feel conscious and alert, but all I can muster up is a less than enthusiastic “uh huh.” When I do speak, the mords get wixed.

I’ve temporarily surrendered to “Mathage Bwain.” I’ve experienced this enough times to realize that the effect is temporary. Embarrassing, yes, but my ability to recall my husband’s name and the ages of my children will return in due time. Important people in my life become “what’s-his-face, whosit, thing, and you know.”

“Uh huh.” I emerge from my treatment. I’d like to go straight home to my Epsom salt bath. Otherwise, how would I explain the sheet and table imprints on my cheeks, dishevelled hair and that glossy look in my eyes. If anyone asks, I’ll tell the truth – it’s jut da stage in my treamen called “Daze Face.”

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